So, I got drunk. I wrote what I felt, and then I tried to read it again when I was sober. Here's my best bet:
We're having some weather around these parts. When I say weather, I mean wind. But my cigarettes, they're weather-y -- they taste like they used to: smokey, tobacco-y I'm [...] but maybe it's the text from the one woman I love. Things seem real again. She's the only girl I could see myself spending my life with. She's [...] this is fucked up and I used to be able to read the words of my soul but I will never be able to read these words again. [...] writing these [...] used to be able hope. I hope can read these words when I'm sober. Life is a highway. How do I go back to the time when all my cigarettes tasted so good/bad? This is what life is supposed to be. With [...] the cigarettes [...] I don't think happiness is supposed to be a past-file. Life is planned. I don't think she will ever love me like I love her. I'm writing this in the dark. I hope I can read this in the light, because this! This is the moment.
Thursday 29 October 2009
Monday 26 October 2009
Boss-Man
I'm pretty sure I have the best boss ever. He bought me a car after three months with the company so I wouldn't have to take the bus. He kissed me on the forehead on my birthday and told me I have "many more years to destroy my body." He (and my other boss) bought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers on my birthday. Whenever he can see that I'm stressing out, he asks how I'm doing. And just now? He saw that dazed look on my face again and asked.
See, I had just (a moment before) realized that I'm twenty-two and still living with my folks, without any real idea of when I'm leaving. And hey, even if I do get into grad school (there's a whole 'nother set of anxieties) and go next fall, what about when I'm done there? No marketable skills really come of a master's degree in history -- and then I'll be twenty-FOUR and living with my parents.
So the Boss-Man, he asks, and I tell him and, without a pause, he says, "if there's anything we can do to help you, let me know." And not in that insincere way a lot of people would say that -- he meant, "if you need help finding a place and making rent, let's talk." I mean, this guy, he doesn't just SAY things, he DOES things. He gets thing done. And he's wonderful.
Yeah, I'm living at home at the age of twenty-two and I'm scared and feel a bit useless and I'm spending too much time and money on my addictions and my self-loathing is through the roof and people breathe too close to me, but I have an incredible boss. And he's very nice to look at, too.
See, I had just (a moment before) realized that I'm twenty-two and still living with my folks, without any real idea of when I'm leaving. And hey, even if I do get into grad school (there's a whole 'nother set of anxieties) and go next fall, what about when I'm done there? No marketable skills really come of a master's degree in history -- and then I'll be twenty-FOUR and living with my parents.
So the Boss-Man, he asks, and I tell him and, without a pause, he says, "if there's anything we can do to help you, let me know." And not in that insincere way a lot of people would say that -- he meant, "if you need help finding a place and making rent, let's talk." I mean, this guy, he doesn't just SAY things, he DOES things. He gets thing done. And he's wonderful.
Yeah, I'm living at home at the age of twenty-two and I'm scared and feel a bit useless and I'm spending too much time and money on my addictions and my self-loathing is through the roof and people breathe too close to me, but I have an incredible boss. And he's very nice to look at, too.
Wednesday 21 October 2009
Saturday 3 October 2009
Open Letter to Rachel Shulamit
Dear Baby Frankiel,
You are so cute. All your nicknames are so cute (especially the ones I came up with -- Sully? I mean, your name is Shulamit and you were born just when Pilot Sully landed the plane in the Hudson!). I mean, even when you squawk and squeal, you are cute, so that's saying something. I'm even OK when you cry (most of the time) and I willing to help comfort you (all of the time). But. Dude. All I ask is that you NOT cry and squawk and scream right when I come home from work. I just want a fifteen minute window between parking my car and hearing your shouts.
Please?
Please.
After that, my ears are all yours. Because I love you and you are incredibly cute. I mean, the way that you don't care when you spit up mushed bananas all over your chest and shirt? So adorable (and kinda gross). The way you pet my face when you're tired? Heart-breakingly cute. Even when you pull my hair or earrings or nose -- I mean, as far as I can tell, you have monopolized the Cute Market. Even when you cry in the middle of the night, fine, that's not cute, but I can handle that.
But those fifteen minutes.
Because otherwise, dude, you lose serious Cute Points.
Love,
Rina
PS No matter what your parents say, I'm not "Doda Rina" or "Auntie Rina." Just "Rina." If I'm going to be the Cool Aunt (and I AM -- have you seen my facial piercings? My tattoo?) then I'm just "Rina" to you.
PPS YOU ARE SO CUTE I COULD CRY AND SOMETIMES I DO AND THEN MY OVARIES CRY AND DEAR CHRIST YOU'RE LUCKY I DON'T HAVE A BOY IN MY LIFE BECAUSE I AM TO YOUNG TO GIVE YOU A COUSIN.
You are so cute. All your nicknames are so cute (especially the ones I came up with -- Sully? I mean, your name is Shulamit and you were born just when Pilot Sully landed the plane in the Hudson!). I mean, even when you squawk and squeal, you are cute, so that's saying something. I'm even OK when you cry (most of the time) and I willing to help comfort you (all of the time). But. Dude. All I ask is that you NOT cry and squawk and scream right when I come home from work. I just want a fifteen minute window between parking my car and hearing your shouts.
Please?
Please.
After that, my ears are all yours. Because I love you and you are incredibly cute. I mean, the way that you don't care when you spit up mushed bananas all over your chest and shirt? So adorable (and kinda gross). The way you pet my face when you're tired? Heart-breakingly cute. Even when you pull my hair or earrings or nose -- I mean, as far as I can tell, you have monopolized the Cute Market. Even when you cry in the middle of the night, fine, that's not cute, but I can handle that.
But those fifteen minutes.
Because otherwise, dude, you lose serious Cute Points.
Love,
Rina
PS No matter what your parents say, I'm not "Doda Rina" or "Auntie Rina." Just "Rina." If I'm going to be the Cool Aunt (and I AM -- have you seen my facial piercings? My tattoo?) then I'm just "Rina" to you.
PPS YOU ARE SO CUTE I COULD CRY AND SOMETIMES I DO AND THEN MY OVARIES CRY AND DEAR CHRIST YOU'RE LUCKY I DON'T HAVE A BOY IN MY LIFE BECAUSE I AM TO YOUNG TO GIVE YOU A COUSIN.
Live People Anonymous
At a recent meeting in my brain:
"Hi, my name is Life and I dry up and flake off in little bits when you least expect it, leaving you staring in wonder at me and the little flakey mess I deposit around your home and office. I also love long walks at the beach (where I will dry up and drift away on the ocean breeze) and fluffy puppies (who will grow old and decrepit and die far too soon -- but don't worry, you will die, too)."
"Hi, Life!"
"Hi, my name is Life and I dry up and flake off in little bits when you least expect it, leaving you staring in wonder at me and the little flakey mess I deposit around your home and office. I also love long walks at the beach (where I will dry up and drift away on the ocean breeze) and fluffy puppies (who will grow old and decrepit and die far too soon -- but don't worry, you will die, too)."
"Hi, Life!"
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