today i read, from inside of the cap of a beverage which i did not consume, a six word synopsis of an author’s life.
my response is simple, as clearly, this woman thought of me when she wrote those words, imagined how i might react, hoped she might impress me, linger in my thoughts as she did. to her i rebut:
satisfied with only six hidden words?
i’ve made a list of all of the aspects of you that i’d like to linger.
that said. baby, you can leave.
i don’t need your hard eyes, your hard words, or your hard times.
i don’t want your easy answers, your easy walk, or your easy out.
but i’m keeping some, baby.
i’ll take the curve in the corner. i’ll take the last breath, the one that lets me go. the sound of satisfaction, of satiation, of successful surrender.
i’ll take the moment between love and anger, where we were both so happy, and i’ll finally have room for all of my things.
because baby, you won’t be here.
she was all.
make sure you tell him what you want and you won’t lose.
and i was like.
but being real is more about where it goes and how it feels than what you choose.
and he came in.
said he was there for more and i should understand.
and she was all.
takes a good boy to grow into a good man.
and i was like.
can’t believe you’re trynah school me on this shit.
and he came in.
talmbout. i’ll be me and please believe you’ll deal with it.
and she was all.
told you twice and then again to let him go.
and i was like.
i’m getting old, i don’t have time to take it slow.
and he came in.
and then he left.
and now i know.
Well hello there. I’m Chris and I look forward to living with you.
I’m an ideal cohabitator for myriad reasons (which i’ll get into, no doubt) but number one would have to be my signature joke. It goes a little something like this:
*Snagglefaced gremlinlike hugeman enters mall parking lot, stealing the attention of everyone not only in it’s path, but also within a 52 yard radius.
*no one knows what to say. there’s a lot of awkward silence. you can hear julie’s stomach growling because she’s hungry, and also because she’s angry about sandwich theft. just in general.
Chris: “oh man, that snaggleface is pretty hot, huh guys?”
*cue laughter.
You might think this joke is simple, but it isn’t. it’s all about the delivery. and people love that. which brings up another reason that i’m great to live with. i love getting food delivered to the house. not limited to pizza. and also thai food when the time is right. i might even let you watch me eat it. which is a great perk. that other guy brought up his cooking skills (which sounded like lies laced with bullshit, laced with a bunch of exaggerating, laced with cocaine), but it’s only fair that i fill you in on how i’m actually an ace pizza tosser and cheese distributor, to boot. i mean. for fucksakes i’m italian! and i’m pretty good at heating up bean things. for snacks, or as meal replacements when the time is right.
The other MAJOR PLUS to having me as a roommate would have to be my haircut. it’s top notch, would win out in a haircut contest, and often has the ladies swoonin when they ride by. on bicycles or just on foot. I was voted nicest eyes three years running in the Berne-Westerloo School District. ain’t nobody fuckin with my baby blue-ishes. and do you like a housemate that knows how to listen? Well, maybe you need a boyfriend and not a housemate, so maybe you should be on match dot com and not on craigslist, or in the personals and not the housing wanted section. we good?
you ever catch a notion that you might be able to work it all out if you could just pause long enough to get behind yourself and observe exactly whatever the fuck it is that’s going on in your life? i’ve got that notion. imma slow it all down. and i’ll retrace my steps and collect every last heart-crumb that i’ve spread from here to the shushwap lake, and like a tall lady version of hansel, i’ll find my way home. because when you’re at home, you’re like zero years old and your sense of direction hasn’t developed yet (shit, it may never develop) and afterward, it’s only a feeling that you’ll recognize and catch glimpses and shadows and whisps and whispers of for the rest of your life. unless you’ve been diligent enough to shed pieces of yourself- abandoned strategically as you’ve grown- waiting, for that moment of clarity. wherein you’re able to stop while the rest of it keeps moving. and look back and begin to rebuild.
probably spend more time thinking about the way words sound than the content of my sentences. it’s the matter they’re made up of. my words are an ink blot test and what they mean to you is way more telling as to the person you are than whatever the fuck i said. i’m just a canvas, these are just shapes. its not that i have good intentions, i just don’t intend at all. so let me be, would you. because without all of this, without you, without him. i’d have nothing to fill my brain with but elegant ellipses and hard i sounds. you’re part of the diaspora, doesn’t matter how the fuck you pronounce it.
unless you really are one, mastering an art is only a matter of figuring out the medium. for example. and don’t tell anyone this…
maybe i forgot about how to love. or maybe i forgot about how to care. or maybe it was a moment that i spent alone and didn’t feel that way. like the other one, my completer, was me. sometimes the ones that are new to english are better at it. sometimes the ones that are off the deep end are better swimmers. you can’t be on point all of the time, or you’ll end up bleeding, you’ll end up drained. i used to dream about beat poetry. i used to imagine myself free. from my own fear, my own judgments, my hang ups. i worked with my hands, i slept with the sun. but you forget. you forget the spark. you forget the fire. or you burn. you smolder. maybe it turns you on to be at the end of your abilities. maybe you’re extreme in a way that i’ll never really want to be. but i’m so full up with maybes that again, i’ve forgotten the spark. and i’m staring at the screen wondering how i can be more like somebody who knows what they want. rather than somebody looking for it. while i’ve forgotten what it is.
no one found that funny. because really, really, that isn’t funny. like not even a little bit. it’s crass and unkind and not ok.
ok?
it’s also like a week before valentines day and i’m feeling like a full-blown rage-aholic, which is weird for me, as my normal emotional spectrum runs from silly to ecstatic, and then back to content (sometimes a little bit empathetic and or embarrassed) also, there are other words ending in ‘-aholic’ that are more commonly used in the circles i sleep in (awesome-aholic comes to mind first). so what i’m saying is, i’m pissed and it’s weird. and i blame… the internet? cause what in the fuck else am i gonna blame? not the weather, the weather has been amazing. not god, because that’d be sacreligious, and definitely not my friends or family, because those fuckers are awesome. so yeah- internet, i’m coming for you. be afraid, i’ve got tactics.
i’m gonna start by boycotting the internet(yeah, that will happen) and then i’m going to encourage others to boycott (i’ll do this by starting a group on face book and having all of my friends join, and post the group on their home pages, and maybe even on twitter). and then i’m going to present an alternative. which will be reality. real life, fuckers. what- does the internet- have on your everyday reallness? and by this time, the movement will have gotten so huge that all the bloggers will be covering it, but there will be issues because no one will be logging onto the internet to read what they’re saying, and communication will be forced to contain itself to living rooms, and park benches, and the airwaves between cellular phones. basigee, we’ll be fucked. and i’ll be responsible. just because of some misdirected hormonal imbalance most likely brought on by the additives in the milk, or, maybe the chemicals i forgot to wash off the apple i had for snack. iono.
anyway.
i was going to title this post
“i hope all of your crushes end in abortions”
because that’s pretty much the most evil thing i can possibly imagine to wish on a person. and i’m trynah vent at my computer, via this post, when really i should probably be sitting myself down for a chat about “boundaries” and “when lettuce is considered ‘fresh’” and “loving myself” and maybe even touch on “priorities as they relate to the jersey shore, tanning beds, and family values” .
….that went well.
ever get the feeling that you’re forgetting how to spell?
or read?
happens to me more than i’m comfortable admitting. so- not that often. ever had one of your favorite restaurants ruined by a ghost? i have. i used to dig this one bbq place. their mac n cheese was killer, but iller. and one time, i took this dude i was seeing that was from out of town there for dinner. we locked our lover eyes over beef ribs and talked about life for a few hours-made a memory. a few weeks later, i found out that that was just how he looked at ladies. even ladies with front bum and bad eyeliner. i haven’t been back to that spot to this day. i’ve passed by, probably 6 hundred times and the thought of the taste of the tangy sauce is stored right next to the thought of the taste of bullshit and betrayal. and that shit’s not delicious. and that is how a ghost ruined a restaurant for me.
on that note. i want to talk about memories. and ghosts. and feelings. some more. i’ve been talking about feelings a lot lately because it’s vagina season. meaning it’s the holidays and most vaginae are in full bloom (we’ll pretend that’s a joke you don’t get- but fyi, doesn’t make any sense to me at all, just typed it and thought better of deleting, aight). so yeah, it’s the holidays, and you’re supposed to be kicking it with your family and your wife and your newborn baby jesus, and your farm animal pets. which include lambs (definitely) and goats (most likely). and you’re supposed to be filled with cheer, cause it’s that time of year, and you’re supposed to be spending and giving, and overeating, and have red cheeks. well. i’ve always got red cheeks. however, i’m not very good at presents (if you’re bored sometime ask harls about the “i heart snow” hat – it was a WIN), and i over-spend and gluttonize all year long (it’s part of being “generation Q” – the generation raised on and inspired by Dave Matthew’s 1999 banger “Too Much”). but christmastime (gentile, guilty.) is jam motherfucking packed with memory ghosts. you smell gingerbread and you’re like wholllllly fuck i just got a bible for christmas. you taste eggnog and you’re like seriously, how did those wooden reindeer get on the porch without anyone leaving, the room? including uncle david? seriously, it’s been 22 years and you can tell us. you know? you’re all-out infiltrated by a shitstorm of awkward lifelegends and traditions that are yours. stories that you’ve lived, and re-lived, and talked about in therapy. and then they want you to sing.
and i’m just like. i know we’re on the west coast. i know we’re in california. but please
let it snow, let it snow, let it snow
or at least explain the patches of snow riddled throughout the streets of SOMA. because i don’t actually believe in ghosts.
fake swearing is kind of hilarious.
What the shit?! that’s hilarious too. talking about ‘swears’ also makes me laugh. and the word ‘fucktard’. it’s pretty funny.
It’s tuesday night and i’m posted up with my mac (PC blud!!!) in my lil’ apartamento reminiscing and shit. I saw inception last weekend. who didn’t, right? I had class after work today. (ha ha, yeah RIIIIIGHt i had class). I saw Macy Gray spin at Yoshi’s on Saturday and left early and kinda underwhelmed. I bet it was super awkward for her knowing how great i am at Macy Gray impressions. I guess she didn’t know that- but if she did, it woulda been awkward. for both of us.
I’m trying to re conceptualize my lifestyle one brick at a time and like, today i’m winning hella hard. i’ll give you an example.
I’ve invented a concept. I had help, but i’m taking full credit, cause i bear the majority of the scars. the concept is called ‘throwing down a new low’. It has to do with this one time when i mistook a skin condition for arm tattoos and was shed all over. then hated on. it was really bad. but i’m better off for it, because now, when life gets fucky i can reference that day (morning, really) and just be like ‘hey, today’s ok, this isn’t rock bottom, this isn’t even sea level, this is just an awkward plateau of oh-kayness and tomorrow might be better, might be worse, but it sure as hell won’t make me cry and then ask me to borrow nine hundred dollars’. As i said, it was really bad.
Am i the only one that thinks facebook is getting out of control? there’s something weird gong on in the right hand portion of my screen (again! and this time it doesn’t say ‘date black men’). It’s showcasing exerpts from my photo albums and asking me to tag friends. It’s fucky. especially because it will be all zoomed in on like an armpit or earlobe, and i don’t know most of my friends like that. or at least not all of them. Which reminds me. the other day i logged into the book from a friends computer up in tahoe and facebook ran me through an obstacle course of identification. they made me identify people from my friend list in tagged photos. to prove i was me. which is stoooooooops. considering that i don’t actually know 300-337 of the folks on my ‘friends’ list. most of em are party promoters and porn bots. and they’re hard to identify. nearly locked me out of that good good. could have been devastating.
ok. gnight.
