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This is perfunctory. I have no more love for writing, a neglected site, my ramblings, and beautiful words scarred by sloppy use in a mundane narrative.
This batch is to win a bet, the prize yet to be determined, but will likely have to do with ego.
Writing, I use you only for sport now. I will text Reading when we are out to dinner and lie about it. I will tell you you're pretty but then casually mention you need to trim a few words. I will toss you out of bed the next morning, when I have won.
Over the summer I read a lot. In between apartments (again), I was staying with friends, outside the city. They had a deck, and a yard, and I reveled in the greenery, something that I realized had been severely deficient in my urban life.
I read until dusk many nights, went to bed, woke for work, and repeated this for about a month. The simplicity was magnificent.
I'd feed the squirrels nuts, and each day they'd come around, their shadow falling on the pages of my book, the outline of their tiny heads with pointy ears looking comically like Batman.
Because of the insanity that is parking in the city, I still park behind my old apartment when I go to work (The parking space outlasted the actual lease).
It's weird to drive into the city now only to go back to my old place. I feel like I am some high school graduate who keeps going back to her old school.
I see my old neighbors walking their dogs, taking in their groceries. I miss them in an abstract way. I watch them as a ghost, hoping they don't see me, hoping my presence doesn't disturb their orderly timeline.
An Open Letter To Gentlemen of the Dating World:
Gentlemen, it has come to my attention, after having entered your sphere again after a substantial sabbatical, that there is a curious new trend afoot.
When playing "Twenty Questions" (either literally or figuratively), should I answer in a favorable way to your queries of "Do you like reality TV? (no) or "Are you a Patriots fan?" (NO), please do not respond with any variation of "Phew, I was worried."
Things you should legitimately be "worried" about:
Dexterity with knives, prior convictions, unfortunate tattoo placement, proclivity for wearing pajamas to Wal-Mart.
Many of the books I've read recently have been memoirs by very talented, albeit "nobody" writers. Though they all have very different styles/themes, I feel there is a common memoir checklist:
*Must have had traumatic childhood. No exceptions.
*The introduction of a favored pet follows the rule of Chekhov's gun: A pet introduced in the first act must be dispatched, preferably traumatically, by the second act.
*Must have developed some form of addiction. Degree of severity is flexible.
*Resolution/acceptance of lifelong strife must be reached by final chapter. Failure to do so results in decreased reader/critic empathy.
I have a fierce dislike for Country music, though last year I tried to embrace it so that I wouldn't be that douche that says "I like everything but Country."
I still have a distaste for all but a few artists, none of whom wholly embrace the country tropes.
It is those select few that scratch an itch when all my other genres won't.
Backdrop for a rainy, fall Sunday, dark since dawn. Equal parts comfort and wallow. (There has to be a word out there--probably German--that sums that up.)
Drink a little drink smoke a little smoke...
100 Words Agenda
Welcome, and new person(s) introduction, with appropriate Content Warning.
Cover last month's minutes:
WTF. Just. WTF. Was that.
Vote on the necessity of continuing at 100 words, versus:
Stopping the charade.
October progess, though not groundbreaking, is robust. Good work, team.
Discuss that time I had to explain what a "circlejerk" was to my mother, first the literal definition, then the metaphorical one to which I was originally referring.
Someone needs to bring Scotch to the next batch. Everyone misses Scotch.
Schedule Next Batch:
The highlight of my day was throwing an impromptu dance party in my colleague's office whilst he was taking an important call. I was flanked by a ten and six year old, two spry little girls who, on their day off, had tagged along with their mother (who was elsewhere in the office and probably working harder than I).
It was thirty seconds of uncoordinated, music-less lawn-mowers, Roger Rabbits, and Moonwalks. I'd like to think I did my part to contribute to an unofficial Take Your Daughter to Work Day.
The two-thirty meeting on creating an electronic record was wanting.
I've spoken before about my adolescent infatuation with Tiny Toon Adventures (it seems that 1992 is my own Proverbial November 12, 1955*).
Since upgrading my cable, I get to watch it again on the Hub network. Normally I wouldn't recommend revisiting beloved childhood miscellany at the risk of tainting beloved memories by way of Adult Glasses (see also: The Indian in the Cupboard).
It has held up pretty well; just as witty as I remember, and I'm proud to report that I grew up to be a slightly less gregarious Babs Bunny.
*C'mon, do I even need to footnote this anymore?
Writing Prompt Speed Round!
Name a time you had an argument, and came up with the perfect response hours later. Write that response.
Write a "State of the Year" address to yourself.
Well, congrats on flooring it to 33. You'll be there in no time, provided you don't hit the median.
Your life without a computer, what would it look like?
If you could go back for your Masters, what would it be?
We are never ever ever getting back together.
Talk about your closest friend.
Is it weird that I read this as "closet" friend?
i will win this bet even if it means i have to repeat the same sentence over and over again i will win this bet even if it means i have to repeat the same sentence over and over again i will win this bet even if it means i have to repeat the same sentence over and over again i will win this bet even if it means i have to repeat the same sentence over and over again i will win this bet even if it means i have to repeat the same sentence over and over again
what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately what have you done for me lately (oooooooh yeah!)
Annie somehow made it into our circle of friends despite the fact that she had a habit of punching us in the arm a little too hard. Her bouts of little girl violence did nothing to deter us from a sleep-over at her house.
It was huge, and nestled in the woods, and is somehow reminiscent of Frank Lloyd Wright's Falling Water house in my diseased memory.
I commented on the enormity as my mom dropped me off, and she cautioned not to make a big deal of it. So of course I did, and Annie punched me in the arm.
that I looked at your Facebook page, but if I had, I would notice that your cover picture was one that I took, on a hike, three years ago. I'm not saying you haven't done anything since, but you'd probably have another picture there instead, taken by--I'm not saying you have a girlfriend--your current girlfriend.
I looked at your profile because I got a hang-up call from our old area code, but if I did it was probably because that call that was/was not you was quite the stomach punch.
I spent a better part of my teenhood rallying against the likes of boy bands and teen queens.
Look at them,
Their bubblegum music is derivative, their style manufactured. I am so above this.
I'd inhale from a clove and my like-minded friends would nod over their lattes.
Age has afforded me the appreciation of mindlessness. It hadn't occurred to me that not all pleasurable or worthwhile things had to be deep, or tortuous.
I have been reduced to my basest desires and it is delicious.
YOU ARE NOW NOW ROCKING WITH WIL.I.AM AND BRITNEY, BITCH.
I have no more writer friends anymore. Oh, I have friends who
--one, even, who wrote a book--but given that this is not their prime concern in life, I don't really consider them "writers".
I miss my old Twin State writer friends, the ones whose subsistence and sanity relied on daily word-on-page. Those who wrote through pain, sobriety (and inebriation), creative block, financial constraints, personal drama, bad reviews and rejection letters. The ones who would humor me, listen to quaint 100 word snippets, and let me pretend for a while that I was one of them.
Regrettable places I've cried:
1. In front of a psychic
2. In the bathtub, fully clothed, listening to Lyle Lovett (see also: bathroom floor, mine and others')
3. In a Barnes and Noble
4. In my car. Too many times to count.
5. In a doctor's office (see also: at the Vet's office)
6. In the movie theater, watching Toy Story 3
7. At a concert (I can't remember which one, but it probably wouldn't be a stretch to guess Tori Amos)
8. In my dad's workshop (before AND after I accidentally rammed his car)
9. In front of my enemies.
So remember that
you wanted? That
that you thought would solve all your problems? If you could just get that one
that you pined over, fantasized about, deconstructed to exhaustion? The
that you ALWAYS brought up in conversation, noticed from space? That
that would whisk you away from your tower, where you sat for years, growing out your hair and staring off to the horizon? Of course you remember that
(How could you not?) Well, that
is crawling up the side of the castle, but it isn't here for you.
EYE am no longer going to be self conscious about devoting a hundred or so words to talk about MAI self. This is MAI hundred words, the time of day where EYE get to focus on MAI mind vomit, humors, or trivialities, and if AYE want to squander MAI solitary--NAY, neglected--corner of the interwebs, then so be it. AYE will not be offended if EWE decide to skim it, or lose patience, or wonder why EYE am so incredibly focused on MAI self. It is only in the interstitial space of the day that AYE get this chance.
So this is where you, READER, accurately deduce that I've not kept the 100 words bargain and am in fact, quite behind. I've exhausted the word repeat, the random stinging-along-of-words, cribbing of movie quotes, random observations, "deep thoughts" that will be reviewed in a few years time and discovered to be merely emo adolescent musings: unrefined, childish, amateur.
: Yes, Past Self, and Water is Wet. (Pats Past Self on the head)
I HATE YOU! You're only here because mom says it's Christian Duty! (slams door, puts Miley Cyrus on 11, cries into pillow).
i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied! i lied!
Perhaps writing entries for days long past are the closest thing to time travel that this C-minus physics writer can get. (I've grown weary of my sociopath obsession and have instead moved on to more manageable fixations).
I know things now that I wouldn't have known then, and whereas I can claim basic factual superiority (Red Sox win! Celebrities choose dubious Halloween costumes! World doesn't end!) I can't really say I'm any wiser. So whereas I could place a bet on the Sox using
Gray's Sports Almanac
, I couldn't really tell you if that was a good idea or not.
...And I don't want to talk about what I did this day, or others, anyway. I don't want to look back at this batch, and remember the details of what I had for dinner, or the self-consciousness of being the only female in a room full of more senior old white males.
I don't want to remember the bad things, but I also don't want to remember the good things. Because when I re-read those, too, I will do so ad nauseam, wearing the memory down to the threads like an overused cassette tape.
...And I cannot talk about work, which is a big part of my life. Not like I want to. Too much is lost in translation, when trying to protect anonymity, mine or others. (It would read like a declassified government document, all the fun parts blacked out.)
So I cannot truly talk about the present, in entries past, so I talk about the past, in past entries. (That's some
bullshit right there.)
I suppose I can talk about the past and present perfect, or perfect continuous. I can be so bold and naive as to talk about the future.
This is why I lament my lack of musical ability. TRULY shitty words can be strung together and made beautiful with the right voice, or right instrument, and even, yes, even auto-tune.
Writing... Black type on white paper. No fluff. (In the original incarnation, no hyperlinks, emoticons, .gifs, thumbnails.) There's no real room for finesse; either you get it right, or you fail miserably. No grey. And these days I have neither the resolve, nor the patience to prune anything that slips from these fingers.
Yo, that's fucking deep.
I often wonder what would happen if I gave up on writing, entirely. (For even when I don't write, I think about it).
For a long time I thought I would
if I didn't spin my writing into something substantial*
Could I be nourished on my job, or my family, or my loves alone? Could I forget, truly forget, writing, and free up that ounce of dedication to bolster one of the others?
What, ultimately did I want from it? "To know what I think?" (An oft used and now seemingly trite response).
*"Substantial" never really clearly defined.
I used to get some pleasure out of the wordplay alone, correctly identifying the most appropriate word for a feeling. (My vocabulary now has been distilled down to mostly swear words and a few ten dollar words on heavy rotation).
I used to enjoy sharing, disseminating my words to others (Now I carve words into a cave wall on the internet, a pastime known to none.)
Now I write about writing, a masterbatory activity that even legitimate writers have been known to partake. I do not know what this is doing for me, or for you, but perhaps we will need a cigarette after.
See, the last few days are a little hard to close out, since all I can think about is personal stuff, and the last thing I want to do is write about it. There's a lot of self-censoring over here, so why don't I just topically list the reasons why I
1. She's a stupid twenty-year-old. Ah, those were the days.
2. People, she actually has natural talent (acting skills and twerking excluded)
3. She let the shitstorm of VMA twerk-gate roll of her back, whilst Robin Thicke remains sleazier than ever.
I said if you really want to get to know someone, go through their DVR, to which he promptly grabbed the remote and flipped through to the menu, all the while holding the remote just our of reach of my grab.
The first few saved programs were normal enough, but this quickly deteriorated. "'Killer Ken and Barbie'? 'Versace: Behind the Headlines'? 'Miley: The Movement?' Are you a serial killer?"
"I certainly can understand your reasoning, but I assure you I'm not."
"'Deleted programs'? This ought to be good."
I pulled the plug. NO ONE must know I watched 'Oprah Lifeclass'.
Hey! It's almost* November, everyone! Time for NaNoWriMo!
What's everyone writing about, huh? Finishing up memoirs? Writing the Great American Novel? Cashing in on the Soft Core Supernatural wave? Hey, good for you.
Three thousand words a day, that's kind of writing a batch in one night, right? That must be hard, especially when real life/pesky job/pesky kids/intellectually dissecting popular culture implications of fourth wave pseudo-feminist gluteal vibratory mechanisms/staring at a wall gets in the way.
Good for all of you. I wish you the best of luck in your
*It's actually November 5th.
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