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This could quite possibly turn out to be the worst batch ever, so with that
, feel free to scroll though for possible exciting clue words like
sex, drugs, or rock and roll.
Should you choose to spend your 20 minutes elsewhere, the following suggestions may be helpful:
1. Watch first 20 minutes of
Law and Order
. Where else can you hear stellar/unintentionally hilarious dialogue like, "So, you like diddling grandmas?"
2. Go to the last 20 minutes of Church, it's like the highlight reel.
3. Sit in traffic.
4. Write your own 100words batch, you lazy freeloader.
There was a girl who started medical school with my class--Cordelia, I still remember--who dropped out within the first 3 months. She was smart, there was no doubt; she got there in the first place. But she dropped out to pursue an acting career in Los Angeles. I tool around IMDB to see if I can find her. Maybe she changed her name and is a starlet with no connection to her past. Maybe she fell in love, had babies, moved back to the Midwest. Maybe time hasn't passed for her. I think about her every so often.
I joined facebook again, despite happily plodding along the past 1.5 years without it. It's not really a good place to be, but it's so inexplicably entwined to social norms that I was actually viewed as suspicious for not being on it. "What are you hiding?" they'd ask. "You mean I have to call you to make plans? It'd be easier if you had facebook."
Not knowing the life course of these characters from my past, makes them less real (or more real) and I'd rather keep it that way.
I don't really want to know where Cordelia is.
Arianna Syphillton sighed heavily. Her heart, tunneled somewhere under her ample bosom, had been broken by the Duke; she feared she would never love again.
There was a knock at the chamber door. Oh my! She thought, I am ever so indecent. I must put on my billowy night-things if I am to receive a guest.
It was the Duke's brother, a handsome, swarthy fellow who went by the name Lothario. He was glistening with man-dew.
"M'Lady," he said. "I've brought what you've asked. Let us post pictures of the Duke's dick on the internet."
My implant chip was pulsating; The Conglomerate was close. I hide in the warehouse, metering each breath. There's one, maybe two Agents close. I can take them, I decide, and set my awesome futuristic weapon gadget thing to "decimate."
I emerge from behind the Physics-Heisenberg-E=MCsquared-Newton Doomsday device and point my weapon at the Agents. "Awesome catchphrase," I say, and they turn on me.
On of the Agents pulls of his helmet. It's Zorg, my ex, and he's probably angry that I had posted pictures of his sexual organ on the Super Interwebs.
"Of course!" Dr. Harvardgrad exclaimed. "The culprit can only be..." A shot rang out. Dr. Harvardgrad fell to the floor of the Conservatory, a pool of blood beneath him.
Sexy Reddress stood behind him, her pistol still smoking. Rich Old Lady clutched her pearls. "You killed the doctor, you whore!"
Sexy Reddress spoke: "The REAL culprit was the good Doctor Harvardgrad, who is known in the IT World as Doctor Hack-n-Sack. He was the one who posted pictures of my dick on the internet! And I think he killed a bunch of people too."
It was a misty Wyoming morning. I had my steed, I had my six-shooter. I had the finest 'shine in all of the Black Hills. It was a good day to die.
I ignored the pleas of the townsfolk.
Willy The-Middle-Aged! Taint nothin' in dem Hills worth your life, let the Slaughter House Gang! Let bygones be bygones! Let he without sin...! Sarsaparillas, two for a nickle!
The Slaughter House gang had come to my village. Women ran, children screamed. Wanted posters of my netheregions were posted in Sheriffs' offices from here to Saskatoon.
See, I'm rather sorry, as I have ensconced myself within the valleys of the couch cushions, flanked by a rather impressive blanket mountain. I said I'd come back to civilization when I grew tired of the scenery, but you must know that I've made a little home here. Communiqué is dependent on reception, so if I do not respond promptly to your calls, emails, text messages, knocks on doors, interventions, well-being checks, 72-hour holds, or strategically timed fire alarms, don't take it personally. Do not fret; I'm rather resourceful and self-sufficient, provided nothing is required of me.
"WHY I DO THIS"
I don't actually "write to know what I think", I write to know how to say it.
I write because I'm paradoxically an insufferable narcissist and insecure wobbly-kneed newborn deer. (Writing subdues and exploits both "endearing" personality defects.)
I write for the intoxicating feeling of the words rolling off my frontal cortex but apparently don't get high off of editing and revision.
(See: February 2012. See also: Plot holes, continuity errors, blatant disregard for verb tense, absence of prepositions, interchangeability of similarly sounding words despite actually knowing how to use them, i.e. their/there...)
I looked up the definition of
the other day, and I'm not quite sure what I thought it meant, but apparently it--roughly--means
something that makes no fucking sense
in the context of the preceding comment, and which is usually humorous. (The interwebs seemed to quote Ralph Wiggum a lot.)
Yeah, all I really wanted to say was that I looked up a word whose definition I've always skimmed over/had assumed/dismissed. It reminded me of that stupid comic strip, when comic strips were still run in newspapers, right next to the
Wizard of Id.
We walked all around the city, on the edge of the ocean, delighting in the warm weather for a New England March. Small puppies tugged on their leashes, begging their owners to run faster! jump! play! frolic! Lovers canoodled on blankets, runners stretched on the boardwalk, and small children did whatever it is that small children do.
You told me you missed me when I wasn't around, how when we met you saw me before I ever saw you. I instead told you about how last Saturday I spent an inordinate amount of time researching the Space Shuttle
Fun With Character Defects!
When I was 15, I was living in a shitty rust-belt river town; I hated it. I missed my old home. The people were a conservative, tight-knit, and generally assholes. I had carved out a patchwork of misfit friends--the closeted gay boyfriend, the alterna-girl dating men in their thirties, the girl who liked
. (I'm not sure where I fit in because I was gunning for valedictorian and pretty much limited badness to having half a can of Keystone Light at a party that I don't think I was even invited to.)
I was stuck, and it was suffocating. The minute I found out we were moving again, I went
. I dyed my gay friend's hair black in the laundry room, ran around the mall with Substance Girl and watched her shoplift, we stiffed the waiter at
, invited seniors from other schools to drink with us in the woods. We did marginally bad things.
The popular kids were suddenly
, and I approached them with so much swagger and bravado that before long I was drinking better beer, and in their houses instead of the woods.
It's easy to be fearless when the outcome doesn't matter.
Still, to this day, I work, play, and live best when I know I'm on my way out. I suppose this means I haven't matured enough [despite the decreased frequency of
, the fewer age-related milestones, the birthdays that start to go unnoticed (first by others, then by yourself)], or that I am a
gutless yellow-bellied pie slinger
I'm at an odd nexus, now, where I'm neither tied down nor readily able to leave. I don't have an "end-point" anymore, and I'm not sure who to be.
sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll sex drugs rock-n-roll
A 48% Sketchy Guy came up to me on the street and offered me a minneloa. "Come," he said, "to my home. They are like oranges with noses."
He led me to a cardboard box and beckoned me in. "We cannot stay long, as I share this box part-time with a The New Age Fry Guru Church." (I deduce from his ramblings that this is a small cult seeking spiritual satiety through Fries).
He spices his citrus with hot sauce and tells me a meandering story about how this led to his girlfriend kicking him out of the apartment.
"Tell me a story."
"Yeah, sure. What kind of story?"
"Well, I guess I don't know."
"One about princesses? Although I'm pretty sure you're not the type who wants to hear about that. Princesses that kick ass?"
"Uh, ok, you really don't have to do this, I just threw it out there..."
"No, really, I'll tell you a story."
"Aren't you busy? Is that your pager? Did your pager go off?"
"Nope. Besides, there's no one more important that I need to talk to than you."
"No, really, I'm sure there is. Listen, I should go."
You step into these women's lives, a pre-fabricated family for your short attention span. You get to
dad, which--something you have yet to learn--is very different than
. (You actually do what your own kids someday, but this would require a commitment beyond a gestational period.) You wanted offspring, you said, to mentor, to teach, to mold. You tell me this while slurring your words. You also believe having a nuclear family will make up for your own childhood's shortcomings.
Why don't you want kids?
Exactly what kind of case are you making?
'WHY I DON'T DO THIS'
is on TV, and I
just haven't seen it enough times.
(Because you can never see a deliciously snarky, shirtless Tony Stark enough times).
Because You are texting me, and I'm trying to decide if/how I want to respond.
Because twisting the ends of my hair into tiny knots of frustration ties up my hands.
Because I have nothing to say, not much, anymore, because I'm tired of hearing my own voice, in my head, out loud, and on the page.
Because none of this matters, will matter, or has mattered.
It's hard to write alone, even though it's a pretty solitary art. I don't mean that I need someone over my shoulder, or even in the next room. I just need to know that someone else is doing something similar and has the ability to reach out. (In college, I'd leave my Instant Messenger--remember that?--on in the background as I wrote a paper. It was the same with studying; I just needed to know that I wasn't the only one still up while everyone was asleep/partying).
I need to know why this is, and what this means.
Last month, I read two books on psychopaths/sociopaths (
The Sociopath Next Door, The Psychopath Test
). The idea is that highly functional, even successful people are likely carrying this psychiatric diagnosis, and that it is precisely these traits of a sociopath that propels them to such heights. I can't help myself now from diagnosing these people, in real life and fiction. Madonna. Carrie Bradshaw. Pretty much every executive ever (real and fictional). Kanye West.
The author of the former warns against envy, instead imploring the readers to embrace the antithesis, to be
compassionate. They eventually lose, she argues.
The morning of your deployment, I hid notes in nooks of your packed belongings. I figured you'd find them somewhere over Pakistan. I figured you'd smile, and then pull them out occasionally as the six months dragged on.
Inside Joke! Another Inside Joke! Slightly Dirty Personal Memory! Random Drawing!
You found them early, though, and when I met you outside your barracks before the ceremony, you were holding back tears, lower lip quivering; two things I myself had been trying to swallow all day, two things I'd never seen you do. You hugged me, and cried hard. I haven't stopped.
I keep documenting these intensely personal experiences in hopes that committing them to
will somehow make them go away. But today it's actually making me feel like shit.
Roah or whoever you think you are this month, we don't want to read this depressing shit/ diary of a 14 year-old girl/ boring tripe. Get back to the topical pop-culture analysis, lukewarm witticisms, and
Earn your 100words keep.
I am the 100words squatter, the jobless woman-child living in its basement, perpetually in track pants and hoodies, eating cereal every meal.
These entries are like pulling teeth. I have a few more days ahead to cash out, and it's not looking good. Let's run this batch into the ground!
vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom vroom!
A friend of mine, a
, recently published a book of humorous memoirs. She's a very clever gal.
Zack and Miri Make a Porno.
My Kevin Smith viewing is now up to date.
Miranda Lambert was a reality show contestant before she was a "star." I should know things like this.
I've been watching a lot of
Xena: Warrior Princess
lately. Briefly considered the possibility that Xena is a psychopath, but then realized she may have a conscience, the absence of which is a prerequisite for sociopathy.
I am regrettably out of Diet Coke.
I spent St. Patrick's Day in an Irish bar, in a massively Irish city... sober. It was awkward until everyone else got drunk. I was with a group of people that I mostly didn't know before that evening, but as the night wore on, I found myself invited into many photo ops. We looked like old friends.
I also somehow found myself discussing Bucket Lists, and found several of my bar mates had actual lists, something that seemed vaguely odd to me. They pulled out their smart phones, and passed their lists to me, which contained relatively easy, obtainable goals.
Get married, have kids
said the list from the stealthily wealthy late 30's bachelor.
Meet a new person every day
, from the most optimistic pessimist I've met.
They encouraged me to formulate my own. They find it just as odd that I
have it written down.
I felt I should put down realistic goals but I know of a handful of do-able things that I know I probably won't do. I hate myself briefly for that.
Learn a new language.
Hike the Appalachian Trail.
Go to a really nerdy convention.
Go to China.
Become a Warrior Princess.
To avoid the
practice of repeating a word over and over again, I will string the day's event into a 100 words and call it a superior practice:
I'm sick. I coughed all night, and woke up long enough to decide to call out sick. The dog peed on the rug during the night, and I, feverish, spend the morning with a bucket of soap and water. I clean the bathroom, shower, cut my toenails, buff my soles. I go back to sleep after attempting to read a few pages of a book, intoxicated rather by Nyquil.
Shit. I'm becoming an old fart. I've been travelling the You Tube again, (Here's how it works: Someone mentioned Evanescence and I figure I haven't heard them in a while, so I go and listen; the suggestion bar pulls me a few more years back, to Garbage, and Letters to Cleo, and K's Choice and...) and this finds me at "Sick and Beautiful" by Artificial Joy Club. A one-hit wonder. And here's where the "old" comes in; I remember TAPING this song OFF OF THE RADIO, back in the day when you had to TAPE THINGS OFF THE RADIO.
Oh my God. I know now what I need to do.
I need to make a music video.
Somewhere between Snap! and House of Pain (classics!) I had this epiphany, and I quickly inventoried my shortcomings: No musical ability, video recording device requiring actual videos.
It can't be that hard, right? Any genre is technically do-able (Rap video? Thongs, cash money, Moscato; Indie Waif? Spartan, writhe a lot; Rock? Bulging neck veins, dark clothes; Pop? Fucked up outfits, randomness meant to be avante-garde.)
This needs to happen.
(Holy shit, is that
in Everlast's "White Trash Beautiful?")
I was holding off on the last entry, hoping that in the final days of March/early days of April would bring me some incredible insight/something worth typing.
They did not.
So I might as well write something not-worth-typing, to finish off the block, to plop the proverbial cherry on top of the March sundae (March being neither tasty nor sprinkle-fueled.)
It's cold, and rainy, and the summer temperatures we saw earlier in the month have gone conspicuously absent. I put on my coat, lock the ear buds, and head out to the real world job.
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