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Ms. Peach to You
Three times today I've written an entry, copied-and-pasted it into a word processor, and had it come out as exactly 100 words. Isn't that just neat?
Yeah, so anyway. My back is killing me. I think that I need a chiropractor. This is probably a direct or indirect result of my job, since I'm always bending over (get your mind out of the gutter, you disgusting reader, not like THAT) to bus tables, or pick something up, or anything along those lines. I think that when I become famous and buy my gorgeous, gigantic mansion, I'm going to hire a personal masseuse.
I love casually eavesdropping on people. It's truly an interesting pursuit. I'll just be sitting there, minding my own business -- and something will catch my ear (either a loud string of vulgarities, or a soft, meaningful-sounding discussion). So I'll lean back just a centimeter or two closer to the person(s) that I'm listening to, and wait to be astounded. Let me tell you, I'm usually not disappointed. You'd be surprised at all the things you can learn about a person simply by listening to them interact with others. Someone you thought you knew will suddenly become a perfect stranger.
Jealousy is the worst emotion. It's too bad that I suffer so acutely from it. It's terrible, the way that I watch my boyfriend's every move, waiting for a girl to bat her eyes at him. I feel ridiculous just writing this entry about it. I fight with myself all the time, wondering does it really matter? and should I be reacting this way? Not that I get angry with him, or anything. It's not his fault that other girls do that. I do tease him about it, though, just enough so that he knows I know. Sly, aren't I?
I had an amazing experience last night, one that I would never have thought possible for someone like me to have. It felt…good, really, terribly good, sitting there in that room, surrounded by my peers, listening to everyone speak so frankly and with such passion. I'm not used to intimate conversation in a group…it's almost impossible to find. It was refreshing. I meant every word that I said, too, when I contributed to the conversation. I'm proud of myself…but that doesn't mean I'm not scared. Yes -- that certainly does not mean that I'm absolutely terrified out of my mind.
Tonight was (DJ-ism) phenomenal. I’ve haven’t had such fun in a very long time. Still, even after it’s all over and people I don’t even know are congratulating me, it feels like a dream. Queen of Queens – me? Was this supposed to happen? There’s something so intoxicating about being onstage. I’m speechless…this couldn’t have come at a more opportune time. Can’t believe it, blown away; things are being affirmed that were before only distant threads of thought. Crazy. And here I am, in the forefront of it all, with a crown on my head and a robe around my shoulders.
Tonight you came to see me at work, and I was very busy. Still, you stood up by the hostess station and waited patiently for the few moments we could speak to come: time stops; there is only us. I am entranced by your willingness to be with me at all costs. Without thinking, I reached to unzip your jacket; I've never seen such a reaction. Your eyes lit up, widened -- a smile touched the corners of your mouth -- I could hear the words that you weren't saying. You've got a secret smile, and you use it only for me.
I thought a lot today about changing my 100 Words username. I had a conversation with another friend of mine, who used to do 100 Words as well; he told me that using his real name was getting him into trouble, and he’d decided that “it simply isn’t worth it.” Really made me think, he did. So I began the process of changing my name – and stopped. Wouldn’t it be lovely if life was that simple? Screw up, make some people angry, and just change your name: quit accepting responsibility for your own actions. I couldn’t do it. Still Brittany.
She is a reminder of the way I used to be. It's so ironic, really, how she bears even my name; sitting beside her, hearing her speak during morning rides to school, is like pressing my cheek against a window to the past. I'm listening to myself, to the way I could have turned out...and I don't like it. And I'm happy that I don't like it. It would be so simple for me to slide back into the old life; I can feel the pull of ex-me, the temptation, whispering hotly in my ear. No. I choose God.
I opened the book of 2002 Nation's Greatest Short Stories and flipped through. The first three pages were laughter - like this:
Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
And that, I thought, is great writing? Okay. I can be great, too.
Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
Last night I ate nearly an entire box of chocolates. After they were almost all gone, I felt disgusting. Earlier that day, I'd eaten some broccoli; that was it. Then that stupid chocolate. So anyway, I went online, looking for weight-loss help -- and found things you wouldn't believe. Pro-anorexia, pro-bulimia websites. Ana and Mia are our best friends, they said. Thinspirational pictures, tips to hide your secret. I'm looking, staring, recoiling. 99 percent of me: "Those poor girls. How tragic, how disheartening, how terrible. Wish I could do something, help somehow.
1 percent of me (secret insecurity): "...try it?"
Good job. You make me hate me. I’m glad. You’re such a wonderful influence, really. Sometimes after I have a conversation with you, I feel physically ill. I’m sick of being yelled at. I don’t care if I’ve been bad. Honestly. I don’t care at all. As a matter of fact, I hope that I’ve been horrible – it’s something to aspire to, if you are a gleaming beacon of goodness. Exemplify this. Yeah, that’s right. Scream at me so I can scream back – then slap me in the face, tell me I’m disrespectful. I will laugh, laugh, laugh at you.
I will miss reading your words. They were a window to you – someone complex and delicate, somehow; your mind never ceased to amaze me. Your girlfriend told me that you’d quit, said your family was getting angry with you. I mulled over that one for a while...your family, angry about reality, angry about your feelings. Really says something about how communication actually works these days (namely: it doesn’t). You must, at all times, please everyone with your actions – be unfailingly polite – hold that bitter tongue and stifle those naughty thoughts. I’m sorry to see your vocal cords being severed.
Eloquence is underrated. Bring me a black dress, a diamond necklace; I want a ballroom, I want to dance the flamenco. I can see it...the tall columns, the glass floor, the violins singing with angry fervency. I will wear high heels that wrap my ankles and the world will grow silent when I begin. You will be there, too. You will cut in when others’ glances grow too heated, and carry me away with a grace you don’t think you possess. I will let you take me; they’ll all watch us go, infinite jealousy scrawled in endless sets of eyes.
12:34 AM. I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting. I've become philosophical. I’ve spent a lifetime waiting. That is quite a broad statement, but a fact nonetheless. I wait for little things - to see your screenname online. I wait for big things - to be sincerely loved. I’m waiting.
12:37 AM. One: You aren’t online. Two: I wonder still about two. I move from waiting to hoping. Perhaps all hope springs from a wait, like this one. You still aren’t online, and I'm wondering how much longer I’m going to have to wait and hope – how much longer you’re going to make me.
So I’m watching this music video on MTV today, of a song that I enjoyed hearing on the radio. And all of a sudden...BAM, there’s two girls sucking face right up in the camera. I just sort of...sat there, a little stunned. It’s funny – a few years ago, I probably would have been appalled, or terribly confused. I don’t really know how to feel right now. I think that pop culture is shoving this whole lesbian thing up into everyone’s faces, and I’m not sure why. Cool, you’re a lesbian. Yeah. And I’m supposed to care about this why?
That last entry of mine, about lesbians, is still on my mind. Dude, I’m not homophobic by any stretch – I have several gay friends. I love gay men...they’re great to talk to. I know homophobic people, though. I think my boyfriend might be one of them (a homophobe, not a homo). He told me about this thing of his the other day, “terminal heterocity.” It’s too confusing and ridiculous for me to explain in the rest of this entry, so I’ll just leave you all to wonder. ::snicker::
I’m left to ponder what it was I accomplished in this entry.....?
a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a girl lost, that’s me.
Okay, folks, it’s confession time. Don’t get too riled up, now, there’s nothing terribly nasty involved. So, I’m supposed to be grounded, right? Let me tell you, being grounded bites the big one. There’s nothing I can do without going behind my father’s back (which I really don’t enjoy doing at all). Every stupid, minuscule decision in my universe becomes 100x amplified: TO LIE, OR NOT TO LIE? Being grounded is like being set up for failure. Studies on seclusion with babies conclude that it’s unhealthy to be cut off from life. So I can equate lying with surviving? Interesting.
Do I have to scream to get your attention? My heart is open, I’ve laid myself bare; can’t you see that? I want you to be near me, I need to believe in this, in you. Is this my fault? Am I just not listening hard enough? Perhaps my logical, overanalytical mind is getting in the way of something. Mentally, I’m doing jumping jacks, wearing bright clothing, waving my hands in front of your face. This is not subtle. I am NOT being subtle. This is your invitation, on the silver platter I call myself: Figure me out. I’m ready.
Shaking my head, I wonder what she’s done to you. We pass in the hall...you were once so full of animation, so fearless, so...something you aren’t right now. You’re wearing something terribly unlike the person you used to be, and I shrug, sigh. Then I pause and think about myself. The striking hypocrisy of my thought hits me, a sledgehammer into an eggshell. For a brief moment, I simply want to cry. Who am I? Did I and will I ever know? Nothing is making the answer any more apparent, nothing that has happened (or - moment of cynicism - will).
The perfect metaphor.
A lone card lying on a table. The seven of spades. Black. Unassuming (elegant, but unassuming nonetheless). One could pick it up, if and, necessarily, ONLY if, it was useful.
The magician enters in a flourish of brilliance, an extravagant wave of glitter, air of mystery about him like a perfume. The card, of course, takes no notice, as it is inanimate. He sweeps it from the table with a gaudy gesture, speaks to it and the audience, poses for pictures that aren’t being taken.
A snap of long fingers: the card is the Queen of diamonds.
Did a bad thing, a bad bad thing.
Not sorry, not not sorry.
With a single click I create ripples in your world; small ones...but they’ll grow, that being the nature of ripples. My mind is racing, and I can think of nothing but sating this awful hunger...imagine, pop, six, squish, (omit the uh-uh), Cicero, Lipshitz. The six merry murderesses, in their performance of the cell block tango. I always did love the tango. And you're afraid, reading this, wondering what to make of it. I'll tell you.
Nothing, nothing, nothing,
because words are nothing but play weaponry.
it’s almost over
ready to rip these shackles from my ankles
tear the ties that bind
little do you
accomplished nothing for you
and yet, for me
don’t know what, a hairbreadth from caring
does not matter now, this close,
tell me of that dream and i will tell you i don’t care
i will tell you
don’t know what, you’re a hairbreadth from
run away, now, little lost puppy, run
away like you always have.
did i here impart no lesson?
a stupid pupil
can’t teach the old dog
When you dedicate your life to something, you expect to be rewarded for that dedication. Speech since the seventh grade; varsity team since my freshman year. I am state champion, prose. I am division leader, prose. Am I going to States in prose? Take a stab at it, bucko. Yep, that's right -- big, fat, healthy NO. I am so angry right now. I want to break something. I am so angry. My hands are shaking. Keep my cool...keep it. I will be state champion in DI. Suck on that, sweetheart. I will. Swallow my pride: I'll prove her right.
I have come to the irrefutable conclusion that I am in love with “this”. There is absolutely no other explanation for the infinite series of half-coincidences that I have experienced since first entertaining the thought. I think you’re in love with “it”, too. You don’t know that, though, because you’re blinded by “something”. “It” is placed in an odd situation…“it” is left to wonder – do the half-coincidences exist in the universe of “this”, too? There cannot be a different, more mundane reason that “this” is on my mind. Always. All the time. Right now. And these stupid, frustrating, omnipresent half-coincidences.
Alkishdf aieraslkdnflk wdijg woijthg. That's what I hear when you speak. My friends and I have told numerous (heartless) jokes about you, too. Enter the Media, sit down at a computer - and quickly as burn-pain you are there. It begins. Lksdfowiehr, lkjdfierhe ksdhgit. Ohsdtht. I hsodfjherk hgkdsowkh hfdjhtsh.
Feeling like committing homicide.
Akhdfhw, thsdkhwlejhr, tieh, hgsdkljhfsdjfh; sldkhfit hsdfihth dckghtu ch ghet lskdhg, you continue, droning on, an incessant buzz. I rescued a friend of mine from you, once. You had really been on a roll that day. Read my lips: I'm not joking up in this phat piece - NOBODY CARES.
I am astounded by your lack of anything which even remotely approaches intelligence. True intelligence, I mean – not book-smarts. Within the past few days, you have afforded me example after example of your hilarious stupidity. I want to tell you to be quiet. I wonder how it is that your friends – the ones you spend non-school time with – put up with you. (I know I’m being mean. I’m spouting off. If you [reader, not subject] don’t like it, don’t read it.) There you go again, the garbage plentiful on your tongue, saying something completely irrelevant and defending its nonexistent relevancy.
Today, for the first time in a long time, I thought about you. I was in my car, on my way to Elm Grove, and BAM – there you were. And I’m proud of myself, because I don’t miss you at all. I thought about the good times. I thought about the bad times. I thought about...everything. And I’ve come to realize that you were supposed to have happened to me. Everything does happen for a reason. I learned volumes from the experience of you. Not missing you, I know I do still hate you. But now it’s all right.
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