Friday, July 29, 2005
I know what you're thinking. "You silly woman, he wouldn't kick you out for such a simple misstep." But wait, there's more! There's FOOD in my trash. Apple cores, banana peels, a yogurt cup or two, a take-out container. And when the old man comes in to turn off the fan (as he feels it is his right to do), he will see the food remains and boil with anger. Why? Because he's anal retentive. He has forbidden me eight or nine times to eat in my room, and I brazenly continue.
And then, gentle readers, he will see the cup and spoon I used to make oatmeal this morning. HIS cup and spoon. Still dirty with the oatmeal made in my CONTRABAND MICROWAVE! This is not just slovenly behavior; this is an INSULT TO HIS VERY WAY OF LIFE!
I've tested his patience often enough. He's threatened removal. This will do it, I am certain.
Moving won't be easy. Finding a place to sleep is the easy part. I have enough friends with couches. However, I'll have to find a place to store my stuff until the end of August.
The worst part is, he won't give me my deposit back. All because I forgot to turn off the fan.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Comment away.
For me, good sensations have an upper limit. I've felt extreme pleasure before - pleasure so intense, that nothing could possibly improve it. And I loved every second of it. But never once during that moment did I ask myself, "Can I handle this?" There was no test of mettle. And once the pleasure subsided, it was a long fall down to baseline. Normal didn't seem quite so good any more. All in all, the experience left me somewhat deflated.
I have yet to find a limit to how much pain I can experience. No matter how much I'm hurting, the level of pain can always be increased. Like abysmal ocean trench. No one has seen the bottom and returned. I want to see how far I can dive before the pressure makes me turn back. Joyfully, I tattoo the most tender sections of my flesh, shove metal through the cartilagenous protrusions of my face, swallow chile peppers, lift things that weigh more than I do, hold my breath until i pass out, walk barefoot on gravel, hang up-side down, spin in office chairs, push on my bruises, pick my scabs, and squeeze my paper cuts all in the name of curiousity.
"Can I handle it?" I wonder, as the tattoo gun drags over my solar plexus. I can. I almost can't, but I can. I do. I love being able to say that, remembering the pain and knowing that I made it through on my own strength. And when it's over, baseline feels better than ever. How I love the sweetness of contrast!
Note: to those who feel it is their Christian (or heathen) duty to protect me, I'm not talking about self-injurous activities. I'm talking about good old fashioned, "that smarts," rub-a-little-dirt-in-it discomfort. Sensation seeking, not self-mutilation. I'm not THAT crazy.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Come on, let's see whatcha got. Flex that wit.
First off, Conversations About Famous People. Take a bunch of random celebrity photographs, add some fresh, biting commentary, and you get some funny shit. Definately a must-see for anyone who likes a little girls'-bathroom-gossip-style teasing in the morning.
Next on our tour, we find a soy product with the rib-sticking goodness of human flesh: Hufu! What's this? The boss is coming over for dinner? Better tell the missus to pick up some Hufu classic strips. Enchant his discriminating palate with the exotic flavors of an Aztec human sacrifice - without once worrying about latent prions!
Had enough suicide girls? Well, then you've probably turned gay. But if a change of pace is what you're after, stop on by the Dark Pin-up Girls Livejournal. It's worth a ganderin' any day of the week.
Last but not least, Attu Sees All. Do the words "hilarious web portal" mean anything to you?
Friday, July 22, 2005
Yesterday, I removed my first weirdo from the library. Towards the end of my shift, a woman came into the arc and told me that there was a man eating lunch at the microfilm machines. She had mentioned to him that eating wasn't allowed in the library, but he wouldn't listen. Since I am an employee, she asked me to go out there and enforce the eating rules.
I expected to find a snotty teenager sneaking candy bars out of his back pack. Instead, I found a tall black man, wearing a helmet, with his shirt turned backwards, eating corn-dog after corn-dog from a white paper sack. When I politely informed him about the eating rules, he flew off the handle. "YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I'M A GROWN MAN! I don't necessarily have a problem with YOU, girl. But I have a problem with THAT WOMAN OVER THERE (pointing to the woman who told me that he was out there).
Without hesitation, I called the cops. Even after they had cuffed him, he wouldn't stop kicking and shouting. The cops eventually dragged him out, and asked me for a statement.
So, long story short, as soon as I get off work, I have to call up Wash U police department and file a police report.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
I went out to dinner with my academic advisor and a few others tonight. Dr. K. made his way around the table: "How's your summer going? How's your boyfriend? How's your girlfriend? How's your brother? How's your boyfriend? Where does he work? Larkin, how is your . . . friend doing?"
"Oh, you mean my LOVER? He's doing great."
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
But I'm only 19, right? Give my writing career some time? Meh. I dunno. Sad to say, I crave both perfection and instant gratification. I'll never be happy because I'm not rich, famous, and flawless right this second. Fuck!
My latest work is really something else. People are either going to love it, or hate it. Usually I show a whole buncha people my work in progress, but this is different. This story is a cross between a winning lotto ticket and that whore in Atlantic City who had the same first name as your Grandmother.
First off, it's the longest thing I've ever written. I'm not even done with it yet and just broke 20 pages! Usually I'm the queen of mayhem 2,000 words or less. Second, most of its sentences are fragments. Third, the story contains a significant ammount of dialogue but NO QUOTATION MARKS. Fourth, it has over two-dozen characters introduced one by one in the form of the guest-list for a party.
What can I say? Shades of As I Lay Dying, perhaps? *Sigh* Inevitably, one becomes the thing she hates most.
Larkner
Monday, July 18, 2005
Behold the latest addition to my tattoo collection - the savage-looking tribal around my navel. Damned thing took 2 hours to etch into my flesh. Lemme tell you, it weren't no picnic.
My stomach has always been a vulnerable place. I've always self-concious about it to the point of extreme neuroticism, but covering it in tattoos helps me get over it. I am protected now. Nothing can get through those severe black lines. Nothing.
(For the record, the one around my hips and lower belly is about 9 months old, and the two on my chest are slightly over one year old)
Saturday, July 16, 2005
What I really want (and what I assume many women want without knowing it) is the ability to dominate a visual frame. Look at the fucking model. She's the center of attention. She's the supporting foundation for a work of art (i.e. the fashion and the photograph). I want to be appreciated like that. I want Dolce and Gabanna, or Ralph Lauren, or Calvin Klein to cover me in expensive fabric. I want to be placed in center stage with my hair done and my make-up scrutinized and 2 lackeys who do nothing but get me more vitamin water and gauloise cigarettes.
Here's the tricky part: I'm smarter than the fucking model. I'm probably a hell of a lot sweeter in person. And chances are that I'm a lot more talented and creative than she is overall. So what's the main difference between us?
She's thin. Really thin. And tall - 6'0" to be exact. She's a coathanger.
Oh.
Is that all? Maybe I should lose 50lbs.
Or not.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
AAAAHHHGG! Enough of this boarding house bullshit! Summer can't end too quickly.
I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm finicky and agist, set against the poor old fellow from the beginning. But you're fucking wrong.
For example:
- In the middle of the night, he leaves massive bowel movements in the toilet. Every morning, when I wake up for work, I have a lovely surprise waiting for me to flush! Here's the kicker: mysteriously, the toilet seat is always up! I don't want to know . . .
- He writes his name on his consumable possessions (food, shampoo, and the like). But instead of writing his whole name, or his initials, he simply writes the first four letters of his first name - PATR - in a staggering, childlike scrawl. I mean, I haven't seen print like that since kindergarten.
- He walks around in his underwear and an untied bathrobe.
- He frequently asks me if I have seen his socks.
- When I sat down to dinner tonight, he plunked down in the next chair and asked if he could join me. I curtly nodded the affirmative. He edged closer. "The worst thing about being a bachelor," he murmured, "is eating alone."
- He sleeps on the floor of his office on a blanket.
- He saves EVERYTHING. And I mean everything. Every scrap of food, every shred of paper, every fleck of foil. He has an entire cupboard of glass jars filled with dried mint leaves from his garden. Some of the jars have dates from 1996 written on the side.
- The house smells like old man.
etc, etc, etc, forever and ever.
MOMMY! Make the bad man stop!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Rarely does a movie give me the fuckin' chills like this one did. Somehow, the movie maintained a wire-taught filiment of suspense for two hours straight. It NEVER let up. Alien had more comic relief than War of The Worlds!
Katie? What are you doing here? I swear to god, Kate, this isn't what it looks like. She . . . she's my niece.
Never one to lose his cool, Tom waits for the alien's appearance, and the resulting mass panic, to cop a feel.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
"i don't know who da fuck u talkin about, u need to keep yo shit on yo own friends blog, stupid mohfucka, i ain't did shit to yo ass, so shut da fuck up and stay off my friends blog, dumbass."
That's right, Orangello. You haven't "done shit to my ass." However, your friend's ass is a different story.
and you one to talk about somebody blog sucks, yours fuckin stinks, i smell you through the computer, stupid whore, fuck u and yo pussy ass blog.
This person is obviously a homosexual. Note the frequent references to anal penetration.
bitch, yo blog, wat the fuck is wrong wit u, wat da hell is yo blog suppose to represent, NOTHIN that's what, yo ass got a lot of nerve comin on my friends blog and talkin shit, u stay on yo blog and have fun wit yoself, oh wait u already do that.
Ize rep'reesent da East Sahiiiiiiide! . . . . . Oh wait. No, no, I don't.
Keep yo shit to urself! WE don't give a fuck bout what you have to say. My friend wants you to suck his dick..........
Suck his dick? Oh yes, that's right. He wants me to do it because he just found out that you caught herpes from your uncle.
BITCH ASS HOE.
I know. ^_^
Saturday, July 09, 2005
Pixie came back from the fish-sitter in a horrible state. The sitter had grossly overfed her. Her water was opaque with rancid food and excrament. Pixie herself appeared nearly dead - listless, filmy, and drab. Her stomach was so bloated, I feared she would rupture at any moment. With tears in my eyes, I ran to the bathroom and changed the water in her tank. But I was too late.
The horrible water conditions had given her a bacterial infection called dropsy. Dropsy is very difficult to treat, especially in its later stages. Fluid and pus cause the fish's abdomen to swell until the fish either bursts or starves to death. If the fish expands to the point that its scales stand out like a pine-cone, it has fallen beyond recovery and should be euthanized.
I could not save Pixie. The medicine I bought had no effect but to prolong her agony. I knew she was a goner the minute I saw her. But I tried anyway. Selfishly, I tried. I didn't want to lose her. She was my friend. I thought maybe I could save her. I thought that maybe I could undo my reckless decision to leave her in the hands of my housemates. DAMN THE EYES OF BOTH OF THEM.
I put her in the freezer. I put her in the freezer in a cup of water and let her go slowly off to sleep. She needed peace. I couldn't watch her in pain anymore, struggling against her painfully engorged belly.
I love you, Pixie. Rest well.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
His family welcomed Crazy Matt and I as extra children. I could not have asked for kinder hospitality. I also had the opportunity to meet Alan's extended family at a fourth of July barbeque at his aunt's house. Highlights: dancing to "Mr. Roboto" and "Du Hast," playing badmitten with Crazy Matt and one of Alan's younger cousins, eating a lot of corn bread (my fave), throwing napkins in the fire, answering many questions about my blue hair. Fun stuff.
Alas, Alan and I didn't get to see the Umphrey's Magee concert we'd been anticipating. It rained on the day of the event. Alan, fearing that his wheelchair would get stuck in the mud, decided to stay home. Noble creature that I am, I stayed home with him to keep him company.
Later, we found out that the venue had not been muddy at all. Yet none of Alan's friends had thought to call him and bid him to come out. Some pals, eh? The proposed After-Party was a bust, too. Everyone was too drunk to socialize.
Alan is gone, but I can still smell him on my hairbrush. I still taste him under my fingernails. He's stuck under my eyelid and imprinted on the skin of my back. It will fade too soon.
I said BEHOLD, goddamn you!
Anyhow, let me tell you a story about a man named Rado. He used to come into the Arc (the Wash U computer lab at which I am employed) every single day and ask me to log him into one of the back computers. The one with the high-speed scanner. I had the last shift this past Friday night. Usually I have everyone kicked out by ten minutes to close, but Rado wouldn't go. He was trying frantically to save his precious Chinese Literature dissertation, but had run out of disc space. Egad. To speed things up, I lent him a memory stick I'd recovered from the Arc lost and found. After watching the progress bar creep towards 100% for a few minutes, we began to chat.
I asked him where he was from. Slovakia, he told me. He'd been in the U.S. for some time on foreign exchange. "But the one part of American student life I never found," he said, "are these parties I always hear about." I gave him my number.
That night, I trotted over to my friend A ---'s penthouse dorm for an evening of civilized skylarking. We took to the balcony with a bottle of riesling. Some hours later, as I was meditating on the blue plumes of smoke seething from A ---'s cloved cigarette, Rado called.
It didn't matter that he was frightfully late. His conversation, though treacherously snarled with accent, kept us entertained. He told us a bit about his homeland. (Apparently they have mandatory physical education at his native university. America could use some of that!) We made him speak Slovakian. We listened to music and joked and played until god-knows-what-hour, and then snuck into Dauten (another dorm) so that A --- could exhibit his piano playing. Rado and I listened to the piano for some time. We danced an awkward waltz and discussed philosophy.
Before Rado left, he gave me a picture of a gecko in a wooden frame. "This is the animal I most identify myself with," he said. I showed him my totem tattoos - a pair of petroglyphic geckos under my breasts. Synchronicity never fails to amuse me.
He sent me a text message today, saying that he got home safe and sound. And now I have a new pen pal.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
So yeah, it's going to be a while. Like, Tuesday. Kapish? Thanks for checking in. Please don't forget me!
Oh GOD Jesus CHRIST don't fucking leave me! I'll give you gold! And nudie shots! Or something.
