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"Did you just call Jesus a
Maybe I've crossed a line. I'm not sure, because my friend is pretty unflappable, having lived a hard life as an addict and an even harder life as ex-addict. But his incredulous inflection made me counter with my own question: "Yes?"
"It's Sunday. Why would you say that?"
"C'mon, if you saw him at a party, all hippie granola, telling you what to do, wouldn't you think that?"
"Dude makes water into wine. He would be, ahem, a GOD at a party."
"Not your party," I say, and palm his AA coin.
*Dusts off Entries From Unpublished Batches Past*
(On September 2? It's going to be a long month.)
At the local bookstore, I lean close into the bookshelves, feigning poor eyesight. I instead inhale deep for that faint mixture of pulp and binding glue and must. There's no one around, so I do this unabashedly. My level of giddiness is out of proportion, perhaps, to the stimulus, but I miss pouring over the books’ dust jackets, looking at the authors’ photos for fine lines or pretension. I miss reading the inside flaps for telling plot spoilers.
Suck it, Kindle.
Alice spent a number of years in a Mental Institution throughout her teens. Her blonde locks were shorn when she was emancipated, and a slick coat of black now frames her blue eyes; eyes that spoke to a different time and treachery that no little girl should endure.
I sit in her loft now, watching her leisurely smoke a roach, and trying not to appear over-eager, despite a million questions flitting about my head. She's got a deep gash on her inner thigh, and I start there.
"That's from the first time I tried to escape Wonderland," she said.
I'm eating my feelings. And my food choices reflect my conflicted emotions: Hiker's Edge(TM) Trail Mix (sweet but salty), Twizzlers (braided and tortuous knots of chewy confusion), Cheez-It DUOZ (self-righteousness and entitlement to not one but two different kinds of cracker in one box), ginger ale (merely a gastric palliative measure). Nevermind the three mimosas and the avacado, tomato, and white cheddar omelet I had for breakfast. That's just the formula for unadulterated masochism right there.
It just wouldn't be a 100-words month if I didn't have a self-absorbed analysis of what I was eating.
A Sexy Entry About Kumquats
She's asked you to forgo the chocolate-covered strawberries, the peaches. She's asked you to bring over a dozen kumquats, and you're a little scared. (But also a little intrigued.) You wrack your brain on the way, computing all the possible perverted permutations of a kumquat kink. You imagine that someone's going to get pelted.
Or, perhaps most frighteningly, you'll end up watching
movies, with mashed kumquat extract smeared over your pores, as she cries and wonders why
won't call her back, and how lucky she is to have
as a friend.
since i've moved, i have had déjà vu every day, without fail. sometimes multiple times. duration and frequency have increased, and i fear, like i do each time i get the hiccups, that this time it won't end, it will keep on going, and that there will be no cure. and it's not entirely disconcerting, it's just... odd. and i obsess. what does it mean? i consult mythology and science: precognition. impending sainthood. glitch in the matrix. psychosocial reconditioning. seizure prodrome. brain tumor.
i tell my coworkers, and they shrug and go about their day.
just as i predicted.
For about a month I wore a skeleton key around my neck. (It went with everything). It invited serious inquiry and drunken discussion: "What's the KEY for?"
"I have a lot of skeletons in my closet."
"It's the key to my heart."
"It's the key to the skeletons in my heart."
"I have a lot of things that need unlocking."
I got tired of trying to come up with witty replies.
"I bought it from Spencer's when I was 17 and disgruntled, and somehow it was a sign of nonconformity. I'm wearing it now for pretty much the same reason."
"...where the perpetrator(s) of a crime come into contact with the scene, they will both bring something into the scene and leave with something from the scene. Every contact leaves a trace."
I'm chewing on this theory at work today, thinking about how easily/tragically it could be spun into an After-School Special 100-Words Entry.
"See, Little Jimmy, you DO matter. RECYCLE!"
"Tammy, every time you get frisky with the quarterback, he takes a little bit of who you are."
"Register to Vote, Make A Difference!"
"Pick up after your goddamn dog in the park."
There's something that's been on my mind, and it's a bit difficult to write about (Indeed, I was about 72 words in before benching it; poor execution, no flair. I don't want to write it and you wouldn't want to read it).
So, instead, I give you
The Second Most-Pressing Issue on R. Ro's Mind:
Hooray for Netflix On-Demand streaming. It's allowed me to inhale seasons 5 through 7 of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
on a quicker timeframe than the broadcast LOGO reruns was affording me.
I take issue with the finale: WHO FIGHTS THE APOCALYPSE IN HEELS??
i toy with the idea of going hiking tomorrow. i actually toy with it often but lack the resolve to follow through. there is an entirely new mountain range in my backyard, and the early morning air reminds me of how much i loved it, and how much i miss it.
but i've atrophied. my thighs, once solid and powerful, are thin and stringy. it's awkward, when people point out how lithe they appear. how can i accept this as a complement, when even my walk-up produces a burn? i've traded in my work horse for a show horse.
One of these days, 100,000 words in the future, the writer's block that comes with the little blue entry box for "11" in the month of September will dissipate, and you'll be able to enter the details of your day; who you called, what you ate, confessions about that month's Heartbreaker. You'll go to bed, and on the 12th you'll have a nagging feeling that you forgot about something. (Did you leave the iron on?)
You won't stare at a blank textbox, wondering what you can say that won't sound contrite, or contrived, or clichéd. You decide on:
All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love. All is full of love.
We're in the lab, watching little vials pass through machine, ethanol contents vaporized, then pulverized into neat little chromatographic spikes. We begin discussing A&E's
; I confess I like watching the show with a glass of wine, and trying to guess who's going to relapse.
The tech shakes her head. "No, no," she says, "you want to watch
. That's where it's at." I've apparently missed the episode where the hoarded items were cats, with several gone missing under the couch. The mental image makes me laugh, and I feel worse about this then playing guessing games with others' sobriety.
Realize, for a moment, that it's
that you're doing
. That the Path Not Taken is actually the Path You Took, that the What Could Have Beens are the What Are's; that the life you're leading was actually supposed to happen. You've consciously, actively made systematic decisions at every mile-marker along the way, without undue influence or providence or Manifest Destiny.
Congratulations. You're not a fuck-up, you're not a social pariah, your parents don't resent you, your job isn't out to crush your soul, and each day doesn't suck.
Are you scared, or relieved?
i ask him, what color are these eyes? a light brown?
he replies: "if i were to call them anything, it wouldn't be a light brown."
i'm not calling them hazel.
i don't believe in hazel.
"how do you not believe in 'hazel'?"
i mean, as a color, it's not a real color in my crayon box. so what color are these eyes?
greenish blue-brown? tan-green?
he shrugs, and locks his gaze. "that's all you, call them whatever you want."
i say i need a reference point.
"well, mine are brown."
(i know, i've noticed.)
Despite belonging to the same incestuous artistic circles, Hakan Valentine and stuntkid never crossed paths until Alice threw them both into the bedroom during a pharm party and locked the door. She and other party clients opened the door periodically to toss random items their way: a creepy doll with vestibular-ocular issues, a box of macaroni and cheese. The working theory was that proximity, pressure, and a shitload of PCP would produce Louve-worthy art, when in reality, Hakan sat on the window sill, played Minesweeper on her phone, and stuntkid crawled into bed, fell asleep, and snored loudly.
Red had outgrown her days as a child star. She was now fronting an eponymously named band; she and her mates would play dank Northwestern clubs, with the names of grunge giants of yore etched into nooks and crannies backstage.
They had a small following, split down the middle between those too young to remember (they were the most fanatic), and those who were old enough to curbside her in the ladies' room: "Can you record your catchphrase for my voicemail?" (To which she smiled, pitching her girlish voice into "But GRANDMA, what big TEETH you have! ...Leave a message.")
I've been fairly vigilant with the actually-writing-100-words-on-the-day-i'm-supposed-to-thing (new territory, and yet,
the very basis of this site
). but for the past three days I've had no epiphanies, no daily musings, catalysts. Nothing. NOTHING. The only permeating thought, playing like a skipping record through my inner monologue?
I'm so fucking tired. I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.I'm so fucking tired.
Cleaning up after a
-facilitated disaster in my kitchen, I notice, in the trashcan, the wire basket that topped the cork . On the cap, a woman, Renaissance-style oil on canvas.
I remember her. After a less than bourgeois pre-game, the $80 bottle was de-corked, and I sat, in the corner at the time, entranced.
She was gorgeous.
In her place now, a robust woman, with an angry scowl and an even angrier forehead.
for a champagne bottle. And now I have less than 20 words to explain my night-
fuck you, dictionary.com word of the day.
you psychically and routinely encapsulate my previous day's activities in one succinct, usually archaic, and likely unpronounceable verb, or noun, or adjective. (there are often multiple definitions, and more often than not, those apply too.)
and fuck you too, pandora.
you frequently provide my life with an always apropos soundtrack, which straddles the schizophrenic four corners of caustic cock rock, electro-glam femme synth, psychedelic ambient space dub, and
angry girl music of the indie rock persuasion.
Today's day is brought to you by "imago" and "Crash and Burn Girl."
(I've always wanted to write old-school like that, just break out of prose and address whoever is holding the book.) Anyway,
Thank you for following me this month, as I dust off the neuroses and attempt the daily incantation here at 100words.com (now with 98% more sobriety!)
Or maybe you're not following me, and that's OK too, because you're probably doing something to contribute to mankind, the likes of which does not require knowledge of what I did or did not have for breakfast.
The point is, I write to know what I think.
Hakan sat with me all night. She was uncharacteristically calm--maybe even mellow--as she sipped her ice water, my head on her lap, and her fingers running through my hair.
You poor little lamb
, she'd say, as I dozed, every once in a while sleep-starting, as a dreamworld building jump or tumble down stairs convinced my legs they needed to prepare for impact, and twitched appropriately.
We said little, letting the late summer Southern crickets speak.
I felt better, enough, the next day to crack jokes, go to the gym, have a drink after work, and avoid her messages.
I'd like to kick Jonathan Franzen in the balls.
No specific reason. Just a general smarmy, haughtiness that permeates his novels (the ones I've attempted), interviews, and magazine covers. He looks and smells like a knock-off David Foster Wallace.
(I thought that rant would take at least 100 words, but here we are. And Mr. Franzen, I intend no real corporeal harm, it's just a metaphoric, hyperbolic way to say I don't like your writing style and I think the media is servicing you like a rock star when you should be lucky to get
Weekend Ramblings (now with 80% less punctuation!):
i've found myself in a youtube timewarp, clicking on one video after another until 2AM, and i'm bleary eyed, crazy. i started with carrie underwood; i find myself inexplicably attracted to her, in an idealistic kind of way, with the idolisation a young girl has for her first barbie doll. i don't want to fall for this, though: the classic blonde with symmetrical face, appropriate measurements; the hint of sexy under the show of chastity. the cookie-cutter cultural catch. the girl every red-blooded american boy wants to take home to mom.
we'd be friends, probably, not because we got along but because i'd tag along to the mall, hanging on her every word, taking her random comments as doctrine; buying that plush pink powder because it looks good on her, not because it will look good on me. she'd dump me in the food court around noon, taking off with jimmy in his camero, and i'd be sitting there with my orange julius, thinking about
how fucking rad she is.
but then, i'd grow up, go to college, and have a new circle of friends with weird piercings and fiery tattoos.
they’d have cool jobs at tech companies where their cubicles have beanbag chairs and minifridges stocked with ironic foodstuffs like red stripe and slim jims. she, however, would be 23, working on a divorce, or so i would assume; we wouldn't have kept in contact.
and i would forget that she was the epitome of beautiful, because somewhere along the way i learned my round nose and broad shoulders were coveted
they were different; that i was coveted,
i was not her.
but sometimes, at night, during those increasingly rare moments... i pray that she's fat again.
Exciting Evening Activities Forever Immortalized Because I Can't Think of Anything of Worth to Write About:
-Shoved rotten whole pickles and tomatoes in the garbage disposal, fulfilling a juvenile curiosity to see how much it could take.
-Packed for business trip, dumped entire closet into 2' x 3' luggage.
-Made an iTunes playlist entitled "I (heart) Miley Cyrus: Music For Your Inner 14-Year-Old Girl".
-Chugged vitamins to stay oncoming malaise.
-Carried on conversation over text message that really should have taken place over the phone.
-Thought about the previous weekend. Played on repeat since the morning. Smiled stupidly.
i am backlogged two days, and it's creating some anxiety. what did i do on these days? what should i have documented? those little flits, or random comments, or quote-worthy, flippant remarks from the circles i travel in, and love. they amuse me, and i often subversively infuse entries with almost true stories. i may even use a real name (or not). my waking life, and work, doesn't parallel the mainstream, and the stories (the STORIES!) are always new; "guess what i did today!" is never going to be the same as the day previous. i love this game.
Quickest Entry EVER:
Quantity, over quality. I'm trying to cash out September before I go wireless-less for a few days. The tremors will start, I'm sure, in the 12-24 post-cessation, with an anxious need to find out who dumped whom in Hollywood, (did LiLo violate probation?), did I get that email? (No, the OTHER one), 100words (staring at that blank cube and vomiting into the void), detaching, for a while, to go live that other life, the real one, the Batman (or would it be Bruce Wayne?) life, where I wear couture.
waiting for enterprise to pick me up. watching "i didn't know i was pregnant", eating DUOZ. watching it rain. and rain. and rain. discovered watch glowed in the dark. surfed the usual sites. wondered if too many shoes were packed. picked up towels off the floor (correction: kicked towels into the corner with my foot). googled "the kiss", so many variations than the gustav klimt i knew. texted J, and K, and M, (i have no "L" in my life?) thought about texting you. decided to smell your ballcap instead. you text me, i smile, and bury my nose deeper.
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