now everybody's doing it
enjoy the show
Friday, May 30, 2003
So, as you might have guessed, having a webcam is weird. Really freaky. I've been living on camera pretty much non-stop for about two weeks now...and it's all kinds of fucked up.
First of all, I'm all hyperaware. Of how I look, what I'm doing, how I'm sitting. (In fact, just now, I discovered the desktop cam was running and turned it off--too weird to have someone watching over my shoulder, more or less, while I write.) It's pretty surreal to know some stranger just heard you cough. I feel like I live in a zoo or something.
I've been turning the camera off more and more frequently in order to fully relax. There is no real calm when you think someone might be looking in on you. That said, you quickly get used to the feeling.
I've had some interesting responses from folks about it. No harm was intended, but the word narcissist came up. And there are certainly shades of truth to that. But, honestly, it is more an experiment. It is interesting to note how I behave when two or five people are keeping tabs. It is not altogether different, but certainly somewhat staged. I'm always a little nervous.
And, naturally, I wonder about the people who have the screen open. This camera feed is more or less live, streaming video. No one has to refresh to see a new image. If someone I knew had a similar set-up I would most definitely be tuning in from time to time.
The aspect of being watched, I think, is the element I am most fascinated with. As a film buff, I've spent so many hours watching the orchestrated lives of fictional characters. I've delved into what it means to be a voyeur. Studied Laura Mulvey's theory of The Gaze. I am intrigued by people--I love to watch them as much or more than anyone--and being the watched is a unique and inverse experience. No doubt it fulfills in me a hint of a fetish--in my kinks I tend to be more submissive than dominant. (Good lord, too much information...)
I suspect, though, I won't be leaving it on as often in the future. I am already turning it off for stretches at a time so that I can, ya know. Be me. For instance, when someone I know has the cam URL calls, I wonder if they are watching me not take their call. (No big surprise, but I often screen my calls.) I can't discreetly opt not to answer when I think they might be watching me snub them. And the desktop cam is entirely too Big Brother for my liking. Someone I emailed said they saw me draft the piece--an unsettling experience for us both. So, I doubt I'll be running that thing very much either. If I find some great hentai or midget porn, though, I'll fire that bad boy up for ya.
In the time it took to write this entry I've turned the desktop cam off, muted the sound, then finally, shut the whole thing down. It is bizarre being seen by an anonymous someone you might know (and very well), but might not, but you can't quite tell since IP addresses aren't always indicative of permanent residence. That doesn't mean I'm not always trying to discover who is watching the broadcast; it's a game of sorts. It is easy to idenitify some of the viewers, to whom I've written notes and held them to camera. Other times, it's a complete mystery.
And I suppose that is sort of why I've tolerated the cam being on all this time. It is a big mystery. One of the things I love most.
I'm just not sure how long this mystery will keep my attention.
why i feel like butt
Wednesday, May 28, 2003
Photos from last night's rescheduled Cinco de Mayo party. Discuss
particulars of the potty
Big, pervy bugs most certainly don't get to watch.
While in the shower, I noted for the 10th time that my shampoo says it's for dry, frizzy or rebellious hair. Dry? Check. Frizzy? My hair takes frizzy to new heights. (For real.) But rebellious? I don't think so. Every time I'm bathing I wonder why my hair isn't more punk rock. Why it isn't black? Why doesn't it chain smoke and skip classes? Why doesn't my hair flip off it's mom and listen to Marilyn Manson? Dammit, I want my currently pansy-ass hair to be without a cause.
Maybe then I could justify spending six whole dollars on soap to cleanse my dead parts. (Doesn't it weird you out that your hair is dead?)
And then, after my shower, I was brushing my teeth (which are growing concurrently yellower with my increased coffee consumption) and the little cap I was using to hold the very last piece of prescription anti-anxiety medication (for which I have no prescription) I'd been saving for just the right time fell into the sink that was filled with water and aqua spit bubbles. I watched in horror as it evaporated before my wide eyes.
Seriously. No good.
You are now free to move about the cabin.
(Oh, and I owe you mail. Just thought you should know that I know that.)
I met her in 4th grade when I moved to Ashland City. Mom signed us up for this after-school care program--day care basically, for grade schoolers--and she was there the first day I arrived.
I met Leslie that day, too. More like me, Leslie was funny, but in a zany sort of way, and crude (we started a Booger Club)--we remained friends until graduation. So did Carrie and I. I forget which girl invited me to play a game of HORSE that afternoon, but someone threw me the basketball and friendships blossomed instantly as we thwacked the ball on the pavement, not really speaking.
We girls spent many an hour at that house that served as the child care facility. They made us drink powdered milk, which now the mere mention of makes me want to wretch. We ate peanut butter and celery for snacks. I wrote plays about princesses and cast my playmates in the roles, opting to direct and create the set. Carrie always wanted to be the lead princess and no one had the wherewithall to tell her no.
Carrie was a real piece of work. Men were captivated by her because she sort of oozed sex. She had big boobs, heavy-petting makeout sessions and drawers full of makeup long before the rest of us. She owned a white leather skirt. In middle school.
Carrie was the sort of girl who patterned her behavior after the snobbiest, most arrogant, white, rich girls from television and film. She was that insecure. She told us all her father was to buy her a Mercedes convertible for her 16th birthday. Her father who left her and her mother long ago, left messages on their answering machine calling Carrie's mom a "dried-up cunt rag bitch." Carrie got a convertible at 17 or so, but her mom bought it and it was teal and a Chevy or something.
Carrie was the captain of the cheerleading squad. But, you already knew that. She always had her big, red-painted mouth wide-fucking open, bouncing her head, exaggerating every. single. gesture. Before home games the squad would decorate the field house, the enormous, expensive building near the football field that served as a really elaborate locker room. Football is big in Tennessee. We'd inevitably still be decorating when the boys got in from practice, which meant Carrie wore her tightest, shiniest biker shorts that day, paired with a skinny halter top. Full hair and makeup blazing. Perched on a ladder, ass out, hanging a poster.
Naturally, all 80 of those guys ate it up. Everyone wanted to sleep with Carrie (or claimed to already have), but few wanted to date her. Her nickname for a bit was Niagra Falls. Feel free to deduce from that what you will.
She competed in beauty pageants regularly, and sometimes won them. She was just the right type. Not so pretty up close, but from far away a real stunner. An ex-boyfriend of her's once described her appearance as such: "If you cover up half her face in a picture, you think, 'Wow, hot girl.' If you cover up the other side, same thing. Take the hand away to reveal the whole face? Uhh! Something ain't right." He was right, and Carrie compensated with gobs of mascara that clumped her lashes like those of a post-shift hooker. Lipstick permanently streaked her big, white teeth. Once she was in the Miss Teen Tennessee Pageant and for a week she wore high heels and ankle weights to school. So that people would ask her about it, and she could tell them she was prepping for the pageant. Subtlety wasn't one of her finer attributes.
In fact, she had very few. I'm curious as to why we remained close for so many years. Once she made me listen to Bryan Adams' "Anything I Do (I Do it for You)" on repeat on her mint green jam box all fucking night long. I awoke one time and turned it off, at which time she snapped awake and barked for me to turn it back on. She bossed me around a lot. But, she let me wear that leather skirt one time, though I never made it out of the house with it on.
I skipped my seven year reunion (who has a seven year reunion?) last fall--I couldn't think of anyone I'd want to see.
I forgot about Carrie.
minty fresh and single
Guy 1 - That dumb bastard put Listerine in a bong.
Guy 2 - What the fuck for?
Guy 1 - 'Cause he's a dumb fuck with no job.
Guy 2 - And no girl.
I sense there is a great story there.
stream of consciousness, or just writing
That state softball tournament in the mud. In Johnson City. It rained for a solid weekend. Our uniforms, our shoes, our gloves--forever stiffened by wet red clay--all of it ruined. Girls at bat would run out of their shoes, the cleats mired deep in the muck. A ball hit, no matter how hard, would hit the ground and stick solid. Walking, much less running was labored. We had never been so excited to lose a game.
A case of instant karma at 16 or so. My sister and her best friend Emily rounded up all the neighborhood kids to look in on my boyfriend and I quickly rounding third base. We must have startled them because they ran fast away. My sister sprained her ankle during her getaway.
Games of Life with the babysitter the summer after 4th grade. The babysitter was the daughter of my 4th grade teacher. That was a surreal and scary summer. One that fills my gut with wild nervousness when I look back on it.
Mr. Angevine, my Latin teacher (on whom I had a very tiny crush), who is now dead. I just found out. He's been dead over two years now. Heart problems, I think. The man, I swear, had two brains. You know those people you meet who retain, it seems, nearly everything they've ever taken in. That kind of guy. A real pervert, too. He told us wonderfully lascivious tales of Roman orgies. His lectures were fascinating. Sometimes he wore a toga to school for no reason at all. Otherwise a bow tie--a real snob. I can't believe he's fucking dead. I spent the night at his house once. With his daughter. Her mother, his wife, was my English teacher as well. Their house was a mess. A lot. I'm talking pretty trashed. Pizza boxes everywhere. Stuff coming out of every which way. Mr. and Mrs. Angevine had seperate bedrooms. It was weird seeing him at school after seeing his bedroom, his box of Triscuits on top of the bureau, near therandom roll of toilet paper.
One time I stole a car. Or rather, I was an accomplice to the theft. My boyfriend Robin had his learner's permit. And keys to his dad's sedan. And we had to get to our friend Aaron's place just 5 miles away, and in a hurry. (I forget now for what.) So, he just took the car. And I went with him. I remember, sitting beside him in that car--the first time he'd driven me anywhere--riding down the looping, backwoods road thinking that I'd love him forever. So far, I was right.
I remember my first adult boyfriend, Cameron. He was 24, I was barely 18. I hardly remember that girl at all. I would stay with him in Murfreesboro some nights, though I went to school over 90 minutes away. I'd drive back and forth, several times a week, often on little sleep. Once, I'd set my alarm too early inadvertantly, but didn't realize it until I'd gotten in my car. I saw that I had an hour still before I had to leave and desperately needed every minute of rest I could. I asked him if he'd mind if I came back to bed and he said that, yeah, he did. He wouldn't let me in the house so I slept in my car for an hour in the cold.
One Sunday coming home from church I really aimed high, and rather than asking to go to McDonald's or the park, I asked if we could spend the afternoon at Opryland. Mom gave the pat "We'll ask your Dad" answer. I'd already begun selecting coloring books in my head and then, for no good reason at all, we packed up a lunch and took off to the amusement park. Just because I asked. That was a pretty great day.
I'm ready to remember today tomorrow, so I'm off to bed.
I lugged my camera around on my day off Tuesday. (The pictures are boring, but the picture taking was fun.)
advice, free for the taking
-Smile. Fake it if you have to. (Trust me, she probably is.) You don't have to beam stupidly all night, but when trying to get her attention, a smile means you're likely ten times cooler than the rest of those jokers. A smile in a sea of faces is a welcome sight, and she wants to wait on you. Not the asshole screaming "Hey!" in the service well.
-Stay out of the service well. That area is where the drinks for the entire restaurant are made, and where the wait staff comes to retrieve them. This is a hot area. The bartender making the service well drinks is BUSY. A lot. At any given time she has 5 or more drinks in her head, 3 servers breathing down her neck since the Miller Lite keg blew, and is no where near a register. You might get hurt over there, for real. If you can tell that the bartender in the service well is not busy, and is in fact just restocking around her or wiping down, it is entirely appropriate to approach her for a drink. If the other bartenders on staff are totally swamped. Otherwise, they can get you what you need faster. I promise.
-Listen. Nothing is more infuriating than answering your bartender with "Single malt scotch on the rocks" when she asks how you are.
-Don't ask for free drinks. If you follow this here advice, your chances of there being a few missing beers on your tab will skyrocket. Asking is a sure-fire way to get denied.
-"Thank you" is, and will forever be, free. Keep that in mind.
-Tip well the first round, and your subsequent rounds will come as often as you'd like them. Don't feel obligated to tip fat each time, but don't skimp neither, chump.
-If you don't mind, request she use the same glass for subsequent rounds. Washing dishes sucks ASS, and it is what bartenders spend 50% of their time doing.
-Convey patience. Patience shown a busy bartender is gold. If nothing else it remings the weeded bartender that, "It's cool. Slow down. Don't freak the fuck out."
How to get a busy bartender not to like you:
-Wave your hand or fist in the air like your getting a cocktail is life or fucking death. Have some couth.
-If it is slammed, now is not a good time to try that Old Fashioned your grandmother's been drinking for years. It tastes like ass, I promise, and has to muddle fruit in a glass. Muddling takes all kinds of time, people.
-Order blender drinks. DON'T BE THAT GUY. Now, at a place like TGI Friday's where their specialty is frozen concoctions--have at it. They have ice making machine thingies that churn out 4-6 drinks at a time. The bar at the club sure as fuck doesn't. Pina colodas, frozen margaritas, strawberry daiquiris--all delicious, but drink them at home. At a real bar your going to get shitty liquor, if liquor at all--no matter what you ask for--because you won't taste the difference. You'll taste Slushie either way. Also, if you are a man, never order one of these "foo-foo" drinks for yourself. That will make you gay.
-Ask her if she can "hand shake" something for you later. Look, innocent flirtation is fine. But unless she makes the first move, that is as far as it should go. She's bending over in front of you because the sink is low and you're sitting behind it. No other reason, Randy Romeo.
-Start screaming about shit. Acting like a wild-ass retard is a surefire way to make her suddenly forget about your bourbon and coke.
Now go forth, and get your drink on.
i just put all the shit away!
retaining enough water to quench any-sized thirst
Heavy sighs are the order of the day.
I've been doing some movie watching. Saw A Mighty Wind and it was mighty funny. I imagine it will get steadily more hilarious with each viewing. As is the nature with Guest's mockumentaries. As you well know, assface.
Also saw The Matrix Reloaded. Which I have sundry opinions and theories about, and hope to compile them into a lengthy post very soon. Complete with spoilers. Go see it before then. And you should. I was highly entertained throughout (most) and got my 8 bucks worth for the first major fight scene (Neo vs. 100 Smiths) alone. And I don't even dig on fighting all that much. But that shit left me breathless.
Speaking of which. My father had his promotion ceremony yesterday morning in Nashville at 7:30. In the morning. Meaning a.m. I got back from the Matrix that same morning at 1:30 and made it to bed sometime after 2. I was less than happy. I was to spend the night with my sister in nearer to Nashville but elected to stay home and drive in in the morning. Bad idea. Things went, as they say, awry.
[This is where the narrative changes tense, but I am too lazy to fix it. I owe you one.]
I woke with just enough time to pull on something I'd prepared the night before and to touch on a bit of make-up and haul ass down the interstate. Except I prepared nothing the night before leaving me to scurry about in a mad fucking tizzy until I leave, 15 minutes late in what was, I must say, a sad, slapdash ensemble.
Amy woke up later than I did. We both agree on the phone we are desperately fighting bad moods. We also agree to meet at the gas station just off the exit rather than her apartment, but not before she asks, "Unless you want to just pull over on the side of the interstate and wait." I answered with a "FUCK NO!" and so the BP it was.
I was trying to change lanes in order to make her exit when she rang me again to ask "Where are you?," as if her question would somehow part the sea of traffic allowing me to get there faster. Screaming ensued.
After arriving and pleading with her to please not speed and leave me behind, I have no idea where I am going, that would be a disaster, she nodded and sped away.
And down the freeway, and down the highway, until we reach Trinity Lane, very near to our final destination. It's 7:40. We are already late and the morning traffic has begun to thicken considerably. This does not dissuade my sister, however, from HAULING ASS down the right-hand TURNING LANE, when, in reality, we needed to go straight through the light. To her credit, she was unaware it was a turning lane since she was too consumed with driving like Mario fucking Andretti. All too naturally, the light turns yellow at which time she pulls quickly into the correct lane, with plenty of room for her Honda and blows through the light.
I yell out some random profanity, look left to see if I speed way up and cut off the car beside me I can make it through the intersection. Maybe. My other option is to merge right, never to find my way again.
Like Trinity in that freeway scene (except I wasn't also fighting a guy), I floor the gas and cut the wheel left, barely making it through unscathed.
We arrive one wrong turn later at the Fire Academy place and I curse her relentlessly. She lets me.
Dad's ceremony was nice and we only missed the opening prayer. There were two more, so, fear not, I got my fill. I also got my fill of mustaches. Man, do firemen work the mustaches. More than any other profession I think. My father's had one since I can remember. Do you know that they say you can never trust a man with just a mustache. Well, they do. (See the stache for yourself: 1, 2, 3, 4)
Okay. I'm going to go run myself silly and hope the endorphins will overpower this big gray cloud I've got following me around. I haven't had a good run-and-cry in a while. Those are, believe me, refreshing.
give it up
Her (what must be a) 4-year-old said, "Mom. Quit trying."
Watch enraptured as I stare blankly at the monitor for hours at a stretch! Be enticed my me inadvertant nose picking! You'll be thrilled by the picture on my wall as I spend 8 hours away at work!
This is more excitement than you deserve.
lessons in micro-living
Which is basically a really pimp-ass, oversized dorm room. It's carpeted, plushly, and has these gigantic, anti-bellum windows that open onto the streets of historic downtown Murfreesboro. Four shelves built right into the wall between the windows serve as a lovely bookcase. The ceilings are high, the building itself is cool and unusual (there are but a few apartments in the building, which features a giant winding staircase, a huge wall-sized mirror (that mirror sends me scurrying back inside pretty often to change would-be fashion horrors), carpeted hallways and gigantic Through The Looking Glass doorways.
The rent includes utilities, which meant saving money on pricey deposits as well, so I snapped the place up and signed a 12-month lease.
I'm very happy with my place and really revel in living alone. But abiding in such a small space as a grown-ass 25-year-old woman can be extremely trying. Firstly, I have no tub. I REPEAT: I have no tub. Did I mention I spend 35-40 hours a week on my feet, bent over sinks hand-washing martini glasses, carrying trays loaded with big, honking steaks? YEAH. I come home from work sometimes, sit down, and immediately my muscles sort of shut down. They are tight, my back throbs and nothing feels better than a hot, hot bath sprinkled with soothing salts. I am so very, very a bath kind of girl, and being without one is my biggest sacrifice. I had to learn how to shave my legs standing up. Still haven't perfected that newly-acquired skill. Judging by the spared, half-inch-long blonde sprout on my left knee, not at all.
I think I must have been too busy eyeballing the windows to notice the half-fridge. He certainly didn't point it out as a feature when showing the place. Having just a dorm-style fridge is a bitch beyond all description. I can't fucking freeze water. I can't have ice. The thing can only hold 3 beers! I can freeze next to nothing (there is room for 3 frozen meals--maybe). Also, oven doesn't work. Which is fine, since I can't cook for shit anyway, but you can clearly see how my meal options are depleting before your eyes. I stock my kitchenette with non-perishables, peanut butter, bread, cold cuts, hummus, veggies, fruit (jarred and fresh), nuts, pint-sized milk, cheese, a box or 2 of cereal and that is it. Everything is, sadly, ready to eat (besides stuff that goes into the microwave). Which makes dieting impossible. It's SO MUCH easier to just go buy some take-out, bring it back here, and that is just what I did for many months. But the cost became too great, as did the circumference of my thighs, so I've gone to eating lunch-box type food 24/7. I treat myself to dinner out once a week.
The sink is teeny-tiny too, which makes doing dishes very difficult. Especially if you don't do them immediately. Which I NEVER do. So, I learned very quickly to invest in disposable dinnerware, which I use most all the time. I know it is wasteful, I know! But I recycle, which is another pain in the ass in this efficency, but the least I can do for using plastic spoons EVERY DAY.
Which leads to another huge drawback to living in this lil'-ass space. If I come home from work, kick off my shoes, throw down my apron and drop my purse onto the couch the place looks messy. It is extremely easy to dirty up a place this small, since any single thing out of place is plainly evident. Not good for the sloppy-at-heart. Not that I'm all anal about it, since I live alone, but the dimensions of this room force me to be tidier than I would normally be--so, I'll count that as an exercise in postive reform.
And I have to be so damn secretive. If I have a visitor, which I rarely do, I have to be sure that things not meant for non-Brittney eyeballs are put away. Got to stash the hot pink vibrator in the pillowcase, hide the water pipe behind videos and stash the dead babies in the closet. And there isn't so much space for things. In an apartment this small it is important everything has an assigned spot or the area will become overrun by stuff. The toaster lives on top of the microwave, the yoga mat in the corner behind the lamp, the t.v. on top of the dresser, the DVD player on the window ledge. I have to make use of all available space since any non-essential furniture is out of the question. Undoubtedly, this has prevented me from buying extraneous, unnecessary stuff, and for that I am grateful.
This sizeable, 19" monitor serves as a companion to the windows that frame it--a third eye, if you will, into the world. I fear if, at times, these walls didn't close around me that I might never leave my house. This place gives me a bit of cabin fever, which is a good thing, since I run the risk of hibernating indoors for weeks at a time.
And I think this place serves me well as a writer. There is little room to do anything besides read or write, and I find this space particularly condusive to creative output.
As much as I love my little apartment, though, I have never looked more forward to leaving anything in my whole life.
Dear Very Hott Reader of Mine,
I found it easier to write when I was playing Puppetmaster 2. Ernie and the way-cooler-than-the-contestants Peanut Gallery assigned topics nearly daily to players. I need my own personal Peanut Gallery, and this is where you come in. (Sometimes I feel like a rapper with all the participation I require of you. "Raise your hands in the air! Raise the roof! Raise it!!" A reader is just that, and shouldn't be asked to put forth any further effort. But, I'm aces at the lazy, and this--I'm getting to what "this" is--can also be considered Hand-Tailoring Your Web Experience, so I'll just march full-steam ahead with the plan, good sense be damned.)
I was hoping you could assign a topic. Or briefly mention what you, faithful, clever, devestatingly good-looking reader, like to read most on this here weblog. Just something to inspire. I've been plodding away at the screenplay (go me!) and I'm afraid this place is loosing it's...whatever it had. So, if you got any ideas, let me hear them (the discussion link below will work fine, or e-mail me if you're all shy and shit).
Thank you in advance for helping to save this sinking piece of shit weblog.
I have vowed, thanks to the lovely bouquet I was surpised with last week, to keep fresh flowers in my apartment at all times. They seem to do an upward number on my lips.
I'm starving and can't decide between chicken salad sandwich on mutli-grain bread or a fat Fuji apple with chunky peanut butter. Like you care.
I'm a big fan of the short story and I've read two very fine ones of late over at Ben's place. Steep some tea or grab a smoke and read "Legacy". Pour yourself a glass of wine and read "The Risk of Jealousy".
Chicken salad sandwich it is!
things about my mother
-Mother's Day, 2003
ride with me
it's sort of sweet, even
Favorite porn filename found on Kazaa today:
"Goddamn would you not put a ring on this hos finger or what??!!"
Ha! I'm so sold.
No longer. Those of you who've been kind enough to send me mixes, your reciprocation is on its way. Anyone else who wants My First Mix CD should drop me a line, and I'll mail you one also.
So long as you are patient. This could take a minute or more. But I promise to do it well.
fiction: he came to play
Today he arrived with his class at the local high school for an annual feild trip. The senior symphony, who'd just won a state-wide award for their talents, always did a gorgeous Christmas show every year, this year to be held at the school's new theatre, with plush, padded seating. The middle schoolers were content to be out of class, but apathetic about the outting. He had to quiet his kids three times before the curtain came up, but they were soon, surprisingly, intently watching the musicians.
And they were fanstastic. The senior symphony had a long tradition of excellence under the direction of Dr. Beaumont, who'd been conducting there 22 years. He was notoriously stern and erratic, and beloved by all who played under him, because he inspired in them passion. And forced them to try hard. He made them want to be badass and ballsy about it. These were some dynamic, nuanced and polished performers.
He recognized past students up on stage. Recalled many of them fondly, as these people were also, typically, the best academically as well. He remembered none more fondly than Ellie Frank.
And there she sat, first chair flute. Her hands cupped in her lap, instrument lying horizontally across it. She wore bright red lipstick on her tiny blossom of a mouth, and it certainly suited her. He wondered if she left lip prints on the silver mouthpiece of her woodwind. Her fishnet hosiery belied that taut bun she wore at her nape, and the lace of her bra showed clearly through the crisp, white shirt they were each required to wear. He remembered her budding hips beneath gym shorts, the way he hardened when she waved to him from the track below. She drew him a Valentine earlier that week, which he pinned to the board behind him for all to see. That was six years ago--she'd probably had sex by now. With some foul-smelling, math rock nerd who read her tales of a revolution. Someone who handled her with kid gloves. Kid gloves weren't what she needed.
One afternoon when she was 13--she smelled so much like citrus and clean, fresh from her shower--he pressed his lips to hers with a force he knew she would buckle under, and she did, and she kissed him back. And it was the single, most exhilerating moment of his lifetime.
He wouldn't find her after the show today. Surely she knew he was there, watching her from the back row, and she'd avoid him, likely, sliding out through the stage doors and into the green room to hide until he left.
Instead he made his way up front as the musicians plunged into what had to have been the finale, and found an empty seat, newly padded, and just beneath her. She noticed the movement below, and saw him there--eyes wild, teeth bared--and her she stopped her playing. Breathing escaped her. He watched the muscle in her exposed thigh tighten and her chest begin to heave and he was content just knowing she remembered.
tell me something
So, if you don't mind you say something.
it's pouring all of the sudden
the calm of my intent
There are things she'll do tonight that leave his hands hot and his lips cool and his facade ripped into strips.
There are places he will take her, squeals he will induce, but the trip she'll lead him on is one made of flesh and evolution and gaping.
None of the nineteen hundred thousand "tonadoes" I've been witness to--while a few were spectacular--were remotely threatening. Hardly ever. Really. Not near me anyway.
So, I never bother to take cover. Hell, the ex-boyfriend and I used to watch from the front porch; the light show, the wind whipping trees into a frenzy until their wild limbs snap. All to the sound of a dozen distant and different sirens, which drop off one by one.
I left a friend's house late last night, at 2 a.m., after an episode of the fastly waning Season 3 of "Six Feet Under." [Where the hell is Lisa? Is she gonna kill herself, ya think? And, 2 words: Billy. Tongue.] I remembered I hadn't yet emailed a client something she needed first thing this morning, so I left abruptly afterward. I took the stairs into what I expected to be rain, but was instead the sound of crazed, confused gusts of wind. Which sounds a lot like driving rain. The lightning was terrible and terrific. Long, thick bands of lightning that stretched to the ground. The sky's night clouds, so often unseen, were backlit by sheets of flashing deep purple--a hued illumination resulting from the numerous and distant flashes of light. The thunder that followed was deep and rumbling, and vibrated me in my sneakers.
On the drive home my car slid over the cement like an air hockey puck. I could feel--shit, hear the electricity in the air. And still not a drop of rain. I got scared and sped home, seeing no other vehicles on the road. My entire block lost electricity within ten minutes of me reaching my apartment, and that is when the real shit started to fly. I peeked out my two, HUGE windows to see the stop sign bending far over backwards and a beer bottle sort of fly down the street, and I figured the window might not be the best place for me. Then all at once there was murderous hailing and wind that sounded like the roar of a fleet of trucks, and I found myself crouched in the floor near the wall, hands and pillow over my head, covered by my comforter listening in awe as mother nature ravaged my neighborhood. I managed the bravery to look up out the window after roughly determining in my head that if the window shattered I was far enough away to avoid the shards, unless a cow hit it, and this wasn't Twister, so I looked. And it was white out. No shit. This dense, opaque whiteness that was all rain and hail and goddamn tornado. It lasted all of two minutes, then receded to sporadic rain and light hail. I fell asleep writing this entry last night by candlelight, the candles that I don't remember snuffing.
Somehow, I woke up at 6 a.m., after telling myself I needed to be up early to email the client who still hadn't gotten her file since I had no internet access. It amazes me when I am able to do that. And miraculously, a few minutes later the lights returned and I was able to get the message out in plenty of time.
I'm like the fucking postal service: come hell, high water, or freaking tornado, I deliver.
break ya fuckin' neck, bitches
Forget the Mountain Dew commercials. Try at least. Pretend he's not a sell-out and listen to "Break Ya Neck" and I dare you not to do exactly as he commands.
If only I could type as fast as he can flow.
ink free and proud
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