Monday, June 02, 2008

Reverence rhymes with awesome!

I recently heard a really smart sounding (nasally, stuttering and un-pretty) woman on NPR (Nationwide Public Radio, retard) talk about how reverent people are generally likeable. I’m not sure the context of her statement because I really only put NPR on in the background so that when I pull up to stoplights that hot attorney-looking (rich, tanned) dude driving a Lamborghini will be like, “Whoa, hot and socially aware: Boner City, USA!” (What he doesn’t know is I’ve got my iPod earbuds in and I’m jamming out to a sports mix I got from Nike.com when I got my Nike + system for my Nano. I don’t ever run, but the mix is still on my iPod. And I wear the shoes whenever any hot guy asks if I wanna go camping, which was like, once, and I’m so over that.) Anyway, I have no idea what this ugly woman was talking about, but it got me thinking: I’ve gotta be totally more reverent.

It was like this, super a-ha moment for me! I mean, that’s totally why people don’t like me. I know way too much shit to be thinking any one thing is super important. I mean, there was def a time when I thought God stuff was way cool, but not as much after high school when I had more important things to do than go to church lock-ins (make-out fests) at the YMCA. (BTW, Reverend Wilson was DEFINITELY not worth reverence. He had acne scars the size of moon craters. Good thing God loved him.) Anyway, I definitely wasn’t going to youth group it up after Robert Bradley Townshend, Jr. (my future husband) moved to Maine when his mom and dad got a divorce. (JK! Pete Wentz is my future husband. JK2! Ashlee Simpson is a hobag poser who contaminated him. I’m totally cool being single. For now. In 2 years I’ll be married and preggers. Gross, I’ll never get knocked up. Babies=parasites.)

Anyway, I am really into this idea of being reverent right now. It just makes things so much easier. To be honest, being anything is hard, but being reverent is the hardest! Spesh when you know better than to be a dork about some things. But I’m trying. Really, really hard.

I like to think I have reverence for myself being reverent, which, I hope, will make me 10 times more likeable than I already am.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Imperfectionism

"I am not good enough to be a perfectionist."

Thursday, February 28, 2008

The Severed Hand I Wish I Hadn't Seen: The Result of Which is My Nausea

He looked like a chef the way he waved it around in the air like a chicken breast that's halfway de-boned. It had already been drained of all blood and dredged in street dirt. All he needed was a frying pan and a stove.

His words were searing enough, "This is what you Americans have done!"

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Words

It does not make it true to say it out loud. It does not make it a lie either. But the brain can rest when you talk, when you say it. And in that resting place, after the adrenaline has worn off, lies the unguarded truth.

It isn't until you get up from a fall that you know you're going to be okay.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

"Broom The Smokes, Dude."

said the ad copywriter to the actor with the cigarette behind his ear.

"We don't want it in the next shot."

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Thud.

Its amazing how much privacy laying on the sidewalk affords you in a city like Chicago. You won't be bothered. No one will ask you if you need help. People will try not to stare.

You can lay there, staring at the sky, splayed out in an awkward position with a dusting of snow collecting on your already drenched winter coat, until you have to reach your throbbing arm into your coat pocket to get out your cell phone to call your husband to help you up.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

God Forbid Your House Be Dirty

Before the heavens and the earth came into existence, all was a chaos, unimaginably limitless and without definite shape or form. Eon followed eon: then, lo! out of this boundless, shapeless mass something light and warm rose up and formed. This was a House, in which materialized a place called Living Room. Next, Bathroom and Kitchen, followed by rooms called Bedroom and Playroom. These divine rooms are called The Home.

In the meantime what was heavy and opaque in the void gradually precipitated and became the Dirt, Grime and Germ, and it took a very short time before it condensed sufficiently to form a solid layer in The Home. In its earliest stages, Dirt, Grime and Germ may be said to have resembled oil floating, medusa-like, upon the surface of everything in The Home. Suddenly like the sprouting up of a reed, a group of humans arose. These were Husband and Wife.

Many children were thus born in succession, and so they increased in number as Dirt, Grime and Germ increased in number too. But as long as the world remained in a dirty, chaotic state, there was no happiness to be had. Whereupon, God summoned the two divine beings, Husband and Wife, and bade them to consolidate The Home into a sanitary place. "We bestow on you," God said, "this precious treasure home, with which to rule your own happiness, the disinfecting of which we command you to perform." So saying God handed them a cloth called Lysol Disinfecting Wipes, embellished with Microlock Fibers to help trap germy household messes. The couple received respectfully and ceremoniously the disinfectant wipes and then withdrew from the presence of God, ready to perform their august commission. Proceeding forthwith to the Bathroom, which lay between the Kitchen and Living Room, they stood awhile to gaze on that Dirt, Grime and Germ which lay below. What they beheld was a world not visible to the eye, but looking like a sea of filmy scum, exhaling the while an inexpressibly foul odor and possessing the ability to make all who touched it deathly ill. They were, at first, perplexed just how and where to start, but at length HUSBAND suggested to his companion that they should try the effect of cleaning up the film with their Wipes. So saying he wiped over the Bathroom surfaces. Then drawing it up, he examined it and observed the Dirt, Grime and Germ that immediately coagulated on the Lysol Disinfecting Wipe. Delighted at the result, the two descended forthwith from the Bathroom to reach the Kitchen. Thereupon the Husband turning to the left and the Wife to the right, each went round the Kitchen and cleaned up Dirt, Grime and Germ so that none of their raw chicken or eggs should make them sick. When they again met each other on the further side of the Kitchen Island, Wife, speaking first, exclaimed: "How delightful it is to see things so clean and disinfected!" To which Husband replied: "How I miss seeing the Football game!" After having spoken thus, the Husband said that it was not in order that woman should ask a man to clean. Nevertheless, she ordered him to disinfect the house. The Husband, now silent with anger, ascended to Heaven to confirm with God his wish. God said to them: "It is the Wife’s fault. It was not right and proper that the female not keep her home cleaner in the first place. She should have been using the entire line of Lysol All-Purpose Cleaners, Sanitizers and NeutraAir Sprays. And it is her profession to ensure that The Home is a safe and happy place. That is the reason you are so unhappy, Husband." The Husband and the Wife saw the truth of this divine suggestion, and made up their minds to rectify the error. So, returning to their Home again, they went once more to the Kitchen. This time Wife did the cleaning with the entire line of Lysol products, while Husband fixed himself a half-time snack "How happy I am," responded Wife, "that I should be able to make you happy while you relax in front of the football game!" This process was more appropriate and in accordance with the law of nature. After this, and with the help of Lysol products, The Home was healthy and left nothing to be desired.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Taking Responsibility for Another

I am so sorry. Sorry to have destroyed your memories, the relics of your childhood, your culture, an experience I had no right in judging. I am sorry to have sat back and watched from the comfort of my own home, too tired from a long day's work at my computer, too busy worrying about what I was going to wear to care to notice the details, the reality of my destruction, the very thorough job I did at obliterating everything that meant something to you. I am sorry to have then turned it off, my ability to see, to care.

I told myself that it was understandable, that to think of what I'd done, to know the scope of my destruction would be to never sleep again, or smile again without seeing it flash before my eyes, if at all. To care would have meant destroying myself.

And you would have done what I did--save yourself--right?

That doesn't matter.
That doesn't make it right.
To turn your back on another human being, on millions, is to...

I don't know. Its a crime.

But even guilt is something of which to be guilty. Misplaced, something to deflect the truth. Penance does not the past erase, the calculated neglect.

You are beautiful. And imperfect, capable of horrors beyond, I know. But you deserve a different hand. We all do. But in the end, the word "deserving" is nothing, means.

You of all will understand that.

Because, despite this, you are still left in the rubble of your past, your memories, your childhood relics.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

BAM-bi!

Out of the black of the night, we hit something which felt like a wall and made a sickening thud and crunch on the front of our car and then flew on top of our roof and rolled down the back of the car. All i saw was a flash of tan and a splatter of something all over the front of our windshield. My first instinct was that we were getting in a car accident, until i realized there were no cars in front of us. My second reaction was that we hit a person, a very tall, big person.

My stomach dropped. Chris let out a horrifying gasp that sounded like he was coming up for air after being tossed around by a pounding wave. I will not forget that sound. He later told me that he thought we had died.

We were zombies, zooming along in a ghost car.

We pulled off to the side of the road and slowly proceeded to the next exit, which was only about 300 yards away. That’s when i saw that the front left side of my car was completely gone, shattered off and mangled. Shattered an mangled, my brand-new-to-me car.

I just gave my father a check for it less than 48 hours ago.

We called the state police and they came and filed a report. The trooper had gone to the site of the collision, but the deer was nowhere to be seen.

She had walked away, leaving a splattering of unidentifiable liquid on my front windshield and bits of fur woven into in my front grill.

The lady at the rest stop kept saying, "Those suckers are
hearty. They always walk away! Go get yourself a hot chocolate.” I tried to politely refuse the hot chocolate, namely because I’m lactose intolerant, but after the sixth time she kindly offered, I didn’t have the heart or the energy to refuse.

We bought bungee cords to hold the rest of our bumper in place and got back on the road. On our way back on the highway, we saw four deer grazing in the median.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Character Sketch Damaged

The little coquette, she is so desperate to be loved. I would like to say that I don’t see the desperation in her eye. That would be easier. But I know her too well. Granted, she is good at decorating, at covering up her flaws. Her apartment, her body, her personality. Just as easily as she repaints that one yellowed wall in her rotting studio apartment, the wall that hides extensive water damage—painting a rebellious act without regard for the strict rules of her lease—she goes from a dark self-hatred to a blinding smile. She has studied the art of flattery and her acquaintances are, well, flattered by her seeming selflessness. But really, like that wall, like her clothes, like that smile, its just a deflection. If, perhaps, she spends enough time talking about you, if perhaps she looks cute, you won’t notice the extensive damage she’s done to herself, the ugliness those decorations hide.

He Was Wearing a Kermit the Frog T-Shirt.

I am so sleepy. Sleepy and warm, dancing in his arms. His long hair is tickling my face. I feel as though I am in a womb. It is dark. Muffled 80s music is dampened by my drowsiness. When I feel his lips come to mine, I snap awake at the realization that this is Landmark. A Real Big Deal. I mean, I’ve written about this moment in my diary, imagined how it would happen, fretted about my lack of experience. I freak out. The pressure is just too much. I don’t know how to kiss! I mean, how do you kiss?!? I pull away and remember that I am in my high school cafeteria. This place where I have spent what seems like my entire life seems so foreign to me now. There are strangers dancing in thrift store clothes. There is a boy with a collar and leash, playfully being spanked by another boy while they dance to “Blister in the Sun”. A greasy haired DJ is in his corner, lost to the beat. All that is familiar about this place is the vast expanse of sickly yellow tile and the folded up lunch tables that are sheltering us. And I am happy.