Archive for October, 2011

fun

Posted: October 31, 2011 in otiose

I changed a flat tire this morning
setting me back twenty minutes
late for work
and I’ll be riding on the spare until tomorrow morning
where I’ll get set back on my heels $350 for new tires.
Clearly overdue.

“If you liked your job, they wouldn’t call it work.”

I hate so many things about that adage that it’s nauseating.
Why are you speaking for me?
Who are they?
I actually like hard work, but I hate you.
If I could pay my bills, I wouldn’t get so irritated.

I sleep better when it’s cold.

A month ago, I would have cried about it.
She’s moving to the west coast.
He’s building a house two months after he said he’d come back.
They’re not going to help me, because they can’t.

They, in this instance, are my parents.

I suffered through a ten minute confrontation about why I don’t like Halloween.
I don’t think there’s a holiday that I do like anymore.
Juneteenth?
One person told me that I’m “denying all fun in this lifetime.”

Simply put, I don’t find most things enjoyable that the mass population has deemed fun.
I’m not going to apologize for that.
I don’t consider it a problem until I have to hear about how I should consider it a problem.
Fuck you.

Peers

Posted: October 29, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , , ,

“You wouldn’t be doing this if corporate America…”
and the rest washed out in a high pitched monotone.

You have no idea who I am…or why I do this.

You’ve grown your pretty blonde hair longer than you should
and put a sweatband through it
as if you’ve decided to mimic the 60s.

I once stumbled across a picture of my dad looking similar
although, he also sported facial hair
and witnessed what you romanticize while getting high.

The local college students stand outside the capitol building
smiling
planning for a holiday they should have grown out of a decade ago
but it’s reinvigorating to add sex and alcohol.
They stand in a huddle, none of them strangers.
They stand with hand scrawled signs telling me that I’m the 99%
but I bet they didn’t bother to look too hard into anyone
they may or may not have voted for a few weeks ago

Going down the party line on the ticket for a sticker.

I guess it’s better than the small mobs that used to accost me
for utilizing any woman’s health clinic.

Four square and a few tweets ago I ran into you
while I was working third shift.
You said you were attending the local community college to become a journalist
and I tried to hide my reaction.

Your hair was short then, and you were drunk.
I hope I never run into you again.

If you were Russian
Chechen
Georgian

even Turkish

but…you’re not.
It’s too far.
Your country is too closed
and I am the wrong sex
with the wrong vocabulary
and the wrong personality

to successfully use you to get
from point A
through you
to point B.

It’s so tempting, because you’re so much closer. You’re almost close enough. If you were from any stretch of the EU that distance would quickly close; but I know you want to own me, and you’re from that same fucking area where you could very easily

own me.

I can’t risk you getting what you want amidst a whole culture that will crush me if I’m surrounded. Hell, the subculture here is almost enough to suffocate me. It’s a sacrificial price that’s entirely too high.

I think you know that.
I think you’re smart.
I think…you’re barking up the wrong tree, and I don’t fully understand why.

I like this niche
for the most part
when talking is kept to a minimum.

I’ve been dealing with some heavy news that has reaffirmed for me that I’m not inclined towards family. I’m not maternal. I’m not warm and fuzzy. I’m not even particularly feminine.

It’s almost as if you want to break me.

It doesn’t make any sense.
Do you think I’m bluffing?
I honestly don’t understand.

What the fuck am I worth, broken?

You like my crippling honesty and my direct transparency.
You’re amused by my combative aggression and grinding stubbornness.

You.

Attempting to bait me–to bribe me–is unabashedly indicative that you’re smitten with the train wreck that I already am without halfassed patches and fixes, plaster and lipstick.

Well, it’s still flattering, but the stakes are set high if you really want to break me.

If you were Russian…even Turkish
but you’re not, and you’re not, and you’re not.

Just have a good time, and shut the fuck up.

By the way, if you want to know what nondenominational agnosticism is, you’re not going to find a prepackaged, sweet little answer here. I almost appreciate you looking it up somewhere other than wikipedia, but this is not a reputable spot, and I have no intentions of catering to that flawed presumption.

I don’t know the answer. I don’t care that much about the question.
That doesn’t mean I’m wishy washy. It doesn’t mean I hold the door open “just in case.”
It doesn’t mean I’m hypocritical or indecisive or misinformed.
I don’t identify with a group of values set under the heading of “nondenominational agnosticism.”
I’m not apathetic or merely twiddling my thumbs waiting on an air tight convincing argument one way or the other.

I’m sincerely sorry that the tag brings you to my vacuous rambling about poverty and emotional constipation, because that’s clearly not what you’re looking for.

Good luck.

My personal history tells me that I’m not the kind of girl that you can successfully take home to Mom as if to say, “Look what I can do!”

I’m not even the kind of girl that you can introduce to your friends.

Given this track record, I’m not sure why people propose marriage in the eerie glow that we’ll just run off in reckless abandon to live happily ever after.

I find that even more unappealing than meeting your mom.

I’m sorry. I am. I’m close to killing that part of me that wants a romanticized ideal that oddball me never bothered to properly construct in the first place. I’m just not cut to the right shape or size, and you can’t keep trying to shoe horn me into conservative heels or scatterbrained left flip flops.

It’s not compromise. It’s just impractical…and wrong.

I just want to love you for a while. Just until you change your mind about who you think I am compared to who you think I ought to be.

I can’t.

I can’t continue after the shift. For that, I’m sorry, and you can call me whatever you need to call me to make sense of it. I’m never quite what you’re looking for once you actually take the time to look at me.

It’s a personal failing on my part, and for the most part, I’m okay with that. It’s for the best concerning all involved.

Petty Internal Rivalry

Posted: October 17, 2011 in otiose
Tags: ,

I should be sleeping.
I work in a few hours.
Do you know what I’m doing instead?
First, let me tell you how it started.
It started, because I finished reading shit by an author you recommended when I couldn’t stand Thoreau anymore.

This is all your fault.

It progressed when I couldn’t remember how to spell that girl’s last name.
The one you said wrote better than me…over a decade ago?
Typing it into google brought me to a website featuring two amazing people I would love to forget.

Thanks. Thanks for that.

They…paint, if you want to call it that. I don’t. I’ll call it shit. I’m sure it will be very successful.
All shitty things are

very successful.

Somehow, this led me to another successful venture of a former associate’s entrepreneurial business stints.

This reminded me of the wonderful [Censored] I gleaned that information through the old-fashioned efficacy of Small Town, USA.

I know you couldn’t care less about these people. I personally hope for your sake that you don’t even fucking remember them, but I have to stomach the fact that they are my contemporaries. These are the people I am measured against. I am measured against them, and they come out leaps and bounds ahead of me.

They do not suck at life.
They are not horrible, wretched, festering balls of caustic failure such as myself.
Even if they are…even if they’re losers; hopeless, worthless pathetic wastes…they’re still better than me, because they haven’t resigned to it. They don’t know yet or haven’t acknowledged the possibility that it could be true. They’re still thriving, dreaming, ambitious creatures overflowing with vitality.

Fuck. My spirit was crushed when I was a kid, and I stopped fighting before I hit adulthood.
I’ve got nothing.

I can’t tell whether I’m jealous or disgusted. Am I dumbfounded or repulsed? Do I really hate them, or am I just so fucking downtrodden that…resentment isn’t even remotely satisfying anymore.

Clearly they deserve happiness where somehow I do not.

I need to be more drunk.
The revelation of the moment is that I am not drunk enough.
I cannot be drunk enough to make the world spin right!

Drink up.

Stop now.

Posted: October 15, 2011 in otiose
Tags: , , ,

You have to stop now.
Fucking listen to me for once.

Stop.

You’re smart.
Testing told you long ago, and everybody knows.
That’s not the problem.
You know.

You’re clever.
You’re driven.
You found him.

Stop.

I need you to stop now.
You’re being completely irrational.
It’s madness.
It’s sickening, methodical obsessive self-destruction.
You have to stop.

He’s an asshole, and you know that, too.
You know what happened.
You made a decision. It was the right decision.

It was right.
You were right.

Stop going back to it.
Stop going over it.

You have to stop.

Every time I move, a box or two goes missing.
I haven’t bothered to fully unpack in close to four years.
The cups are missing.
The records.
Somewhere, someone opened a box
or it still sits unopened
filled with nothing but pamphlets handed to me on the street.
For the past two days, I have been searching for a box containing nothing but clear, glass plates.

Have you seen it?

In good news, I found the bag containing the back speakers to my surround sound…so that’s nice…you know, now that I’m in the process of packing things up again.

I gave you an ultimatum.
I was serious.
You have four more days.

Don’t disappoint me.