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DATE: 03/16/2008 23:07:31 / MOOD: bewildered

 

Love, Disenfranchised.

 

I know a firebrand desk-jockey

Who drinks whiskey half past noon-

Tic-tacs halfheartedly funding his nomination

As he preaches from his barstool with

Baby-kissing legislator’s lips.

 

I know a pencil-pushing politician

Who lobbies for favors, filibusters criticism,

Tells primary-colored lies- and looks

Wounded when I doubt my choice

Each and every time I pull his lever…

 

‘Cause what has he done for me lately?

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DATE: 03/16/2008 23:06:31 / MOOD: idiotic

 

“Last Respects”

 

            Cynthia was not one of my good friends. And I’d always thought her mother was a bit of a rabid bitch. However, the last time we ate lunch together (nearly seven months ago,) Cynthia had picked up the tab. So I thought- hell, I owe her, right? Besides, there was sure to be cookies and maybe hot cocoa. And it would be reassuring to Cynthia if she knew there was one person in the room who wasn’t there just to make sure the old hag was really, truly, officially maggot-food.

I’ve always hated funeral homes. The smell, the lighting, the furniture- Hushed, sobbing voices that make me grit my teeth and beg some almighty deity to strike me dead. At least then I’d be the one in the box, and I wouldn’t have to listen to all of that sentimental gushing. It’s almost like the sound of all the wailing enters my ear, and then spends the rest of the day rattling around inside my brain. Sometimes it feels like the noise is louder, bumping through my skull, than in the rooms and hallways. I guess it’s because the floor of my brain lacks a hideous carpet.

            Immediately, as I entered the white doors with smudgy, “I’ve-wiped-my-mascara-laden-sopping-wet-eyes-with-my-finger&rd quo; prints on the frame, I knew I must have miscalculated something. Even before I got to the room at the end of the hallway, I could hear wailing- dying cat, fire siren wailing, with elephants trumpeting their sniffly noses for effect.

            Maybe Cynthia’s mother wasn’t an absolute cunt-rag. Maybe she’d only acted like that around me. Had she despised my very existence all this time, and I’d never known? What could I have possible done to offend that putrid, acidic mass?

            I picked up my pace, as if somehow these questions would be resolved by Cynthia’s mother once I reached her- completely and conveniently forgetting about the fact that she’d rarely opened her mouth in my presence during life. Unless of course she was spewing excrement or spitting rusty nails in my general direction.

            The hallway was very long. I began to regret the pint of Ben and Jerry’s I’d had that morning for breakfast. I only wasted a couple of moments on this thought, however. After all, it’s so very hard to regret chocolate chip cookie dough, or brownie batter. Or “Phish Food.” I wonder if it was Ben or Jerry who thought it would be clever to name ice-cream flavors after bands. Either way, they’re both pricks.

            They say obesity is an epidemic, in America. I personally think that food is the epidemic. All we need now is a sudden outbreak of self-control. Unfortunately for me, I’m resistant to cultural diseases. Like going to the gym. Sometimes I’m so disgusted by this phemonema that I almost forget to be amused by the fact that these people try their hardest to look good. And yet, they’re still assholes. Every last one of them.

            Finally, I reached the room at the end of the hallway. The moment I set foot in the door, I was immediately accosted by a miniscule, balding, troll-like old man in a dusty suit. He hugged me around the waist, soaking my blouse with tears and snot. I tried to protest, to pull away, but he peered up at me with red, puffy eyes through his cracked, dirty spectacles, and sniveled-

            “Allison! Oh Allison. I’m so glad you came. He would’ve wanted to see you.”

            I opened my mouth to tell this doddering old geezer that my name certainly isn’t Allison, but the room had gone completely silent. I could hear pins and tears and dignities being dropped all over the damn room, it was so silent. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was staring at me. So, I let the little freak lead me to the coffin in the back of the room.

Kneeling beside the coffin, bawling her eyes out, was this twig of a girl with her nappy red hair in pigtails. This little fluffball didn’t even know enough to wear black to a funeral! She was dressed completely in white, with streaks of mascara running down her face. She was throwing herself all over the corpse, kissing it all over. She was practically tonguing the damn thing! I silently decided that I’d rather be alive if being dead meant being molested by a crazy chick who doesn’t even know what color to wear when people kick the fuckin’ bucket.

After a few moments of me standing there, with this dusty little pixie at my elbow, the batty-pigtailed-chick finally backed off the corpse enough so that I could see the guy’s face. And let me tell you- he was HOT. I mean, this guy was drop-dead sexy. No pun intended. So, I just stared at him. I mean, I was mesmerized. You know, the way deer are when they’re standing on the highway, right before you slam on the breaks? But then you lose control of the car and you end up spinning out of control so instead of having a head-on collision with the deer, the thing ends up getting splattered all over the passenger side of your SUV? Like that.

Right about then, I noticed that the girl with the pigtails was talking to me. I’d be so stunned by the dead guy’s good looks that I hadn’t even noticed that she’d moved. Or that she was talking. She had this high, whiny voice. It was literally the most obnoxious sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. How did you know Steve?” she sniffed, while all of the other drippy-nosed partygoers looked on with a hungry kind of curiosity.

“Oh shit,” I blurted out in response, “His name was Steve? That’s a fuckin’ ugly name!”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard a more grating silence. In retrospect, that was probably not the most tactful thing to say, but I was still dazed, y’know? Probably a lot like the way that deer is still just a bit dazed, even after it’s been splattered all over a Chevy, but right before it actually dies.

Actually, the crazy-ass chick with the pigtails looked a bit like a dazed deer, too. She was staring at me as if I’d busted through the ceiling in a space ship with a cooky accent and demands to be taken to the president, or something. She had enormous eyes, almost like she was possessed. In fact, she might’ve been, the way her mouth was slack and hanging open. There might’ve even been some drool, but that could’ve probably been attributed to her make-out session with the sexy dead guy.

Anyways, I was very obviously in the wrong place, and there wasn’t much else going on, so I disentangled myself from the mini-troll, grabbed some cookies, and left.

A couple of minutes later, I finally found the room that Cynthia’s bog-witch had been chucked into. It was literally the furthest room from the main entrance. Other than Cynthia, there were only two people in the room- Cynthia’s younger brother, and nephew. Both of them were bawling.

Cynthia’s eyes were puffy, too. She pulled me in a bear-hug that would’ve been enough to crush any man to death. No wonder she’s single.

“Amanda,” she sniffed at me, staining my arms with her mascara-tinted fingertips, “I almost thought you weren’t coming.”

“Yeah, Cynth,” I said, looking around the room casually. The old hag was definitely dead- she was in a box in the corner. And the hot chocolate machine was right next to her little shrunken head. I gave Cynthia a long, slow, sincere smile.

“I’d better go pay my respects, and all.”

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DATE: 03/16/2008 23:05:12 / MOOD: disappointed

 

“Anne Marie”

            Twenty years ago, Anne Marie’s hair was copper-orange. Now it’s a dull, dusty gray, the color that coats every surface of her cramped apartment. One mismatched, overstuffed room in a complex in downtown Rochester displays her entire life. Her furniture is old and worn, and all of it was abandoned on the front lawns and curbs of total strangers. The couch and armchair are hideous- relics from the days when fabric prints covered in ugly brown flowers were the hot new design.

            Her bed is small, and always made, with a dark purple comforter and yellowed sheets.  It’s placed in the corner, exactly opposite the small kitchenette and miniscule bathroom. The one small, cracked, dirty window doesn’t let in much light, even on the rare days of sunshine. Anne Marie doesn’t need sunshine, though. She’s found her own light to hang on the dull gray, dusty walls of her apartment- the whole place practically drips with crucifixes.

            The image of Christ, hung on the cross, is intensely comforting to Anne Marie. It’s nice to be reminded that someone has suffered more than she has.

            Every morning, she wakes up at six AM, and rolls herself out of bed. The first thing she does kiss the nickel cross that she hangs around her neck- her only piece of jewelry. She dresses herself in mismatched, stained clothes that were purchased in the Salvation Army, or acquired from donation boxes at Saint Matthew’s church. She spends several minutes working the tangles out of her long, iron-colored hair, using her fingers and an old comb with most of the teeth missing. Sometimes she wakes up early to take a shower, but more often she leaves her apartment unwashed, and makes her way to the seven o’clock mass at St. Matthew’s.

            Anne Marie has neither a car, nor bus fare, so she makes the forty-five minute walk every morning, teetering this way and that like some kind of precarious penguin waddling down the sidewalk. Most people assume, at first glance, that she must be well-off, considering her girth, but the simple fact is that healthy food is an expense that Anne Marie can never afford. She fills her fridge twice a month on her welfare check, and spends almost all of her time at church. Perhaps she was just genetically disposed to being overweight.

A closer look at her unwashed hair, and the stains on her clothes would suggest the truth. One sad, sincere smile with gaping holes where teeth used to be would proclaim it: “Life is hard, but we are never alone!”

She spends her entire life in church. Sometimes, while sitting there, staring up at the icons, displaying the life of Christ, she wonders if she’ll turn into a stone statue, like the images of saints that line the dark room. She wonders if she would be allowed to guard this holy place with all of the other stone images. She wonders if she has prayed long enough.

She wonders what all of the other people who sit in church with her think about, while they are sitting there. The building has such a contemplative silence. Do they think about the rest of their day? Mentally plan their shopping lists, or the errands they need to run? Do they use their thoughts to distract themselves from everything they’ve ever regretted? Or do they, like Anne Marie, meditate on their mistakes as they sit in the dark church, on the cold, uncomfortable pews?

Anne Marie spends all her time thinking. She doesn’t like to talk much- not anymore. When she was younger, before her sin, Anne Marie’s friends would tease that she never stopped talking, never came up for air. She used to love attention. She was sweet, and popular. But, twenty years later, where did all of those friends go? Anne Marie spent remarkably little time wondering about them. They were probably paying their baby-sitters, or baking bread, or working their nine-to-fives. They were probably busy being mothers.

Anne Marie spends some of her time thinking about what it would’ve been like to be a mother. She tries not to think about it too often, because it always makes her cry. It’s not enough to be pregnant and to give birth. That, Anne Marie has decided, is not being a mother. Being a mother is more involved. Being a mother is breastfeeding and changing diapers. Being a mother is afternoons at a local playground, and paper-bag lunches. Being a mother is more than the phantom fetus that she feels kicking at her insides while she tries to sleep.

Mostly, though, Anne Marie spends her days walking to church, and home again. The hallway leading to her apartment smells of mildew and overdue rent. The faded paint peels away from the water-logged walls. Both of the numbers proclaiming Anne Marie’s apartment have rusted and fallen off. The knocker has long since fallen apart; likewise, the doorbell hasn’t worked since the year it was installed. Anne Marie never bothered to fix any of these things. She had no use for them, because no one ever came to visit her.

Therefore you can imagine her surprise when one day, after years of the same daily routine, Anne Marie returned home from church in the late afternoon to discover that there was a girl sitting on her doorstep. She looked to be about twenty years old. Everything about her was dark. She was wearing a dark dress with some kind of corset, and a great deal of dark jewelry. The piece of jewelry that stood out most to Anne Marie was the large silver pentacle that hung around the girl’s neck. The girl wore dark boots that came up to her knees and seemed to be covered in buckles that didn’t look like they served any actual purpose. The inch of bare skin between the hem of the girl’s skirt and her boots was a glaring white. She was already very pale, almost sickly, and that look was enhanced in her face by the dark eye makeup she wore. The girl’s hair was mostly black, except for an inch of roots, which were a gleaming copper-orange.

The girl looked up at Anne Marie, and Anne Marie stared back at the girl. They drank in each other’s presences. The girl played with one of her many rings. Anne Marie clutched the nickel cross around her neck until her knuckles turned white. Slowly, the girl stood, never once taking her bright green eyes off of Anne Marie’s face. Those eyes were almost hypnotic- they were the same color and shape of a pair of eyes that Anne Marie had once been desperately in love with, back when she was a girl.

“Are you Ms. Anne Marie McNaleson?” the girl asked. Her voice was as dark as her appearance, low and musky.

“Yes, my child,” Anne Marie replied warily, “Who might you be?” Her voice sounded as if it was dusty from lack of use.

“Well, uh…” The girl turned a silver claddagh ring around and around on the ring finger of her left hand. She shifted her weight nervously. She had not expected this encounter to be quite so awkward, nor had she expected Anne Marie to be quite so large, or old, or unwashed. She stared at her buckle-covered boots for a few moments, and then looked back up at Anne Marie.

“My name is Jen. Jennifer. Jennifer Winton. May I come in?”

Anne Marie recognized the surname, but said nothing. She couldn’t find the words to make a short, polite excuse for the state of her apartment, or her life. Instead, she opened the door and ushered Jennifer inside, tottering over to a cupboard and taking out a cracked glass. She filled the glass with ice, and then with water, and set it down on an uneven end table near the sofa.

Jennifer, picking up on this wordless cue, sat down on the sofa and quickly began sipping the water. It tasted metallic, and was obviously from the tap, but she said nothing. Instead, she looked around the room, absorbing her surroundings with a tense resistance. Every time her eyes found a crucifix, they narrowed slightly, until she could barely see anything in the room and had to blink very hard to restore them to usefulness. She finished her drink quickly, because the water was bleeding out of the crack very slowly and soaking her hands as she held the glass.

“I don’t have a microwave,” Anne Marie said as she sat down next to Jennifer, holding a mug of water with a significantly larger crack, “So there’s no tea or coffee.” Jennifer nodded absent-mindedly. Anne Marie found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the pentacle hanging around the girl’s slender neck. She found herself thinking that Jennifer would probably be pretty if she wasn’t so dark and pale all at once. It confused the eyes.

“The… adoption agency said that you were living here. I just wanted to come by. To see you. To meet you, I mean,” Jennifer was surprised by sudden inability to articulate exactly what she meant. Her friends often told her that she was a great conversationalist- and teased her for talking incessantly.

“Would you like some bread? I can make you a sandwich, if you’d like,” Anne Marie stood up quickly, walking back to the kitchenette. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she looked at that girl, that creepy little gothic girl sitting on her sofa. She found herself wondering how it was possible to know someone without knowing them at all. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Did you want to meet me? Did you ever even think about it?” Jennifer could feel her eyes prickling with the threat of tears. Had the adoption agency somehow gotten the address wrong? They must’ve gotten the address wrong. And the name. They must’ve gotten the name wrong as well. This fat, smelly, toothless old woman couldn’t possibly be her birth mother. But at the same time, Jennifer knew that there hadn’t been any mistakes. Except her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Do you like peanut butter? I don’t have any jelly, but when I was a girl, I used to eat peanut butter sandwiches,” Anne Marie’s voice seemed to be shaking off the dust. It was lighter, airier, as if she was letting pieces of herself fall away with every sentence.

“I’m allergic to peanut butter, Mom,” Jennifer snapped. She wanted to be angry at the whole world for bringing her to this dark, cramped apartment, but she knew better than that. It was her own feet that carried her, and she had no one else to blame.

Anne Marie’s eyes drifted up slowly from the loaf of cheap, pre-sliced, store-brand bread on the counter. They proclaimed a sad truth: “Life is hard, and sometimes we’re completely alone.” There were a few moments of absolute silence. Finally, Anne Marie broke it with a small, tight-lipped smile.

“I’m sorry, my child. You must be mistaken. I’m not a mother.”

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DATE: 03/16/2008 23:01:24 / MOOD: drunk

 

“Vodka Night”

 

Answering the phone was my first mistake. The clock read exactly midnight. It was an unseasonably warm Saturday in late December. I was in my dorm, curled up in my bed, reading Dante’s Inferno and cuddling a teddy bear that had been a gift from one of my ex-boyfriends. I was wearing my red silk pajamas. I had a steaming cup of tea next to me on the desk. I was perfectly comfortable, and had no intention of moving for the rest of the night, except to turn out the light when I got too tired to read Dante.

            Then the phone rang.

            I don’t, for the life of me, know why I picked it up. The Caller ID warned me away from any action by proudly displaying the name “Franny,” my term of endearment for the pest commonly known as Mike. His first name, on his birth certificate, is Francis. I personally think it suits him, much more so than “Mike.” Mike sounds like a generic guy- won’t ask for directions, likes football, drinks beer, doesn’t do laundry. Francis sounds like a geeky snob- mixes drinks that even an alcoholic wouldn’t be able to recognize, squeezes Lord Byron quotes into conversation even when they don’t actually fit, and considers himself on par with the following- Zach Braff, Alexis Dennisoff, Neil Gaiman, and Batman. I am still completely unable to justify answering the phone.

            “Heeeeey, Jess,” the malignant tumor drawled in my ear, “What’s going on?”

            “I’m reading.” I was positive that my tone had sounded completely uninterested in anything he had to say.

            “Sweet. Cool. So, nothing. Come party with us. We’re down at Dave’s place, in the Quads.”

            “It’s freezing outside, moron. I’m staying in my room.”

            “It’s Saturday! And you haven’t partied with us in weeks. Stop being so lame.”

            I made a guttural noise to suggest that I really didn’t care whether or not he thought I was lame.

            “Come on, Jess. We never hang out anymore.”

            I bit my tongue, trying to think of other excuses for not wanting to drink with him. I could, for example, have brought up the fact that I only ever cried at parties if here was there. I could have also made an excuse about schoolwork, or needing to sleep. But, he was right, which was something I was not exactly inclined to admit on a frequent basis. I hadn’t partied with him in nearly a month- and it had been about that long since my last drink. I guess I could blame the stress and strain of homework for the travesty of acquiescence fell from my lips.

            “What are you guys drinking? I’m not getting out of bed for beer.”

            “Excellent! We’ve got rum, and there’s vodka in my apartment. Go up to my room and get it, and then come down and hang with us. We’re in one-thirty-four.”

            So, I hung up the phone, got dressed- a pair of jeans and a black hoodie were just enough for the occasion- and walked down to Francis’s apartment. The walk was nice- it was nearly fifty degrees outside, and I had drinking to look forward to. That’s just my nature- I’ll get out of bed at any time in the day or night for vodka. I blame it on heritage- my mom’s side is Russian.

            The vodka was easy enough to find, seeing as it was the only item in the freezer. Alcohol in hand, I strolled over to Dave’s dormitory. I could hear Francis’ obnoxious, nasal voice from all the way down the hall. He was talking loudly at whoever was in the room, about Hitler and Mussolini. I sighed to myself, smiling slightly. The most predictable thing about Franny is the way he keeps conversation centered around the things about which he is knowledgeable.

            “The party’s here,” I stated as I walked in the door, holding up the bottle of vodka for everyone to see. I really wasn’t kidding. I was standing in a roomful of guys- all freshmen, except for Franny. They were playing some videogame with that little Italian guy in the red trousers. I had walked into the very center of Lame-ville. I felt a sudden, intense regret- if I’d read more about Hell, I would’ve already memorized the lay of the land. As I stood, I was powerless against the forces of evil.  

            “ ‘Bout time you got here!” Francis smirked at me, running a hand through his messy, blonde hair. I smirked right back.

            “Aren’t you going to introduce me to all of your little friends?” I asked, casting an eye around the room. A couple of them were actually kind of attractive.

            “Oh, yeah. You know Dave, and then there’s Steve, Jim, Dan, Seth, Mike, JD, Tim,” he rattled off, pointing around the room. A chorus of dull “Hi”s and “Yo”s greeted me.

            “This is Ryan’s girlfriend,” Franny stated, gesturing to me grandly as if this introduction was perfect. I made a face, then turned away from Francis to address the other guys in the room.

            “But you can call me Jess, as I’m sure my parents didn’t see fit to name me ‘Ryan’s Girlfriend’ at birth.” That, and I didn’t really like being immediately associated with Ryan every time Franny introduced me to someone. We were in an open relationship at the time, not that that meant much to either Ryan or Francis. They were good friends. I’m sure Ryan had asked him to keep an eye on me.

            “Yeah, Jess is a lightweight,” Francis scoffed, handing me the bottle of rum, “So she’ll probably only be conscious for a little while before she completely passes out. Or starts crying.”

            I took a swig from the bottle of rum.

            “Oh yeah? I bet I can hold more than you. Seriously. How many shots do you think I can do? Gimmie a number!” 

            “Come on, Jess. Be serious.” Franny was shifting his weight nervously, but his tone was anything but serious. “We don’t even have a shotglass.”

            “Like I give two flying fucks. Don’t challenge me unless you can deal with me stepping up to the plate, kay? Unless you’re just scared that I’ll show you up.”

            A challenge to face a challenge. Always the best way to get what you want out of “Mike.” Especially when he’s hanging out with his buddies.

            “Fine. Fine! I bet you can’t hold eight,” Francis shot back, a slow grin emerging on that ridiculously pompous face of his.

            “Great,” I said, eager to make him look like a fool in front of his friends, “Hand me the vodka.”

            Francis’s mouth went slack.

            “The vodka? I thought you were drinking rum. The vodka’s 90 proof. And we don’t have a chaser, or anything.”

            “We’ve got popcorn,” offered Dave, who hadn’t even taken his eyes off of the television screen. It was actually an amusing sight- a big cartoon gorilla was throwing barrels at the little Italian guy in the red trousers, and Dave kept physically dodging out of the way, as if the barrels were going to pop out of the screen and bash him in the face.

            “Popcorn? Excellent!” I laughed, “That’ll be fine.”

            Francis frowned. For a moment, I thought I could see a glimpse of him becoming practical, generic “Mike.”

            “You’re gonna regret this, Jess,” he warned, reaching across himself to pick up the bottle of vodka. He furrowed his eyebrows at me, as if in one last attempt to make me back out of my own challenge.

            “Franny,” I smiled, reaching to take the bottle from him, eager to bring it to my lips and let my nose curl under the noxious smell, “I live with no regrets.”

*

            She snatched the bottle right out of my hand, twisted off the cap, and chugged a solid three shots. I think my eyes grew to the size of dinner plates as I watched her mouth and nose twist into several different shapes before finally settling back down.

            “That was definitely at least three shots, Jess,” I said, reaching to take the bottle from her. She snatched it up against her chest, cradling it like it was a child, and hissing at me like a pole cat.

            “NO! It was ONE shot and this is mine until I have mooooore!” she whinnied, then proceeded to chug another three shots at least, from the bottle. I could’ve washed my hands of her at that point, I know it. It was already fairly obvious that she wasn’t going to last very long- not at the rate she was going. But, in a way, I was responsible for her. I was the one that invited her to join us. So I wrestled the bottle from her grasp and kicked back a shot or two of my own.

            We went on like that for hours- the shot-by-shot analysis only really consisting of her flinging violent insults at me, and me parrying them with startling skill. It was a lot easier than you’d expect. Jess doesn’t think on her feet very well, and she’s even less prone to intelligence when she’s drinking.

            Sometimes when Jess is around I find it difficult to remember why I ever actually endeavor to spend time with her. However, after she’d had “five” shots that totaled approximately fifteen shots, and had gone down in flames (cursing and screaming) in twelve separate games of Donkey Kong, the question of why I enjoy her presence was a little less enigmatic. Despite the fact that she is an offensive, quarrelsome, vulgar shrew, she’s extremely entertaining to watch. Sometimes she reminds me of monkeys in the zoo- chaotic and primal, with the innate desire to fling poo, and absolutely no idea that she’s hilarious. Especially when she’s drunk.

            “And another thing,” she slurred at me, brandishing a finger, “I’ve got a better memory than you.”

            “Jess, I’m a History major. You absolutely do not have a better memory than I do,” I grinned, charming and dashing in my serenity.

            “Oh? Oh. Oh! Oh-kay,” she said, searching for her thoughts with more than a little bit of trouble, “Okay! The prologue to Romeo and Juliet, on the count of three. One… two…”

            She trailed off, staring at the ceiling. I couldn’t help but laugh outright. Fortunately, she was too drunk to notice.

            “Three?” I suggested, grinning to the other guys in the room. They were all busy watching Dave absolutely destroy Jim at Frogger to pay much attention, so I turned my attention back to Jess.

            Now, here’s the thing you need to understand about Jess. She has a terrible memory. She constantly forgets really important things, like meetings, schedules and assignments. In the course of conversation, she often forgets very simple, rudimentary words like “spoon” or “door” and replaces them with “thing.” Sometimes, when you can’t understand what she’s trying to describe, she’ll use intensely descriptive sentences like “The thing that you use to do stuff,” in order to elucidate her meaning. This girl’s memory was the perfect argument against smoking marijuana. Even if she wasn’t lying, and she really hasn’t ever smoked weed, she speaks as though she’s been blazed from birth.

            But there she was, drunk out of her mind, flawlessly repeating the prologue from William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet. When she’d finished, I couldn’t help but applaud.

            “Wow. That was pretty impressive,” I said, smiling and patting her on the head. I ruffled her hair a little bit, because I know that she hates it when I do that. She batted my hand away like an awkward, clumsy kitten. Her grin lit up her face as bright as a jack-o-lantern.

            “Oh! Oh-kay. Oh-KAY! Now it’s your turn. Anything from Shakespeare,” she squealed, leaning all the way back in her chair and letting her head fall back as well. She stared up at the ceiling and giggled as I cleared my throat.

            “Okay. I’m doing Hamlet,” I said.

            “Suits you,” she snickered, “Hamlet was the first emo-kid. If Gertrude had given him some Zoloft, everything would’ve been all better.”

            I ignored her interruption. Jess loved to call people “Emo,” after the recent trend that involved effeminate boys dressing in girl’s clothes, wearing makeup, and singing about depression and getting dumped. Instead, I started in on the “To be, or not to be” speech, which is probably one of my favorite soliloquies in all of William Shakespeare’s works.

            “To be, or not to be- that is the question. Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to sufer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream-“

            “No, idiot,” Jess interrupted again, “You missed it. You missed a part. Skipped it. Skipped right over it.” She was giggling again. “Hopscotch! Skipped over “a thousand natural shocks” and consummation. Or something.”

            I was irritated, of course. I hadn’t missed a part, and she’d completely thrown off my rhythm. I was about to tell her so, but then I noticed that she wasn’t really paying attention. In fact, she had her eyes closed, and was holding her head, muttering something. I moved closer to her, putting my hands on her shoulders.

            “Jess? Jess, are you okay?”

            “I gots… gots a spinning room. It’s spinning. Making me really dizzy.”

            I could see exactly where this was going. Last time Jess had talked about the room spinning, she’d ended up asleep in my bed, snoring like a freight train. The next morning I had to call Ryan and explain the situation before she did, because she was bound to tell him that I’d made advances on her. Which, by the way, is absolutely untrue. Ryan is a close friend of mine. I would never betray him like that. As it is, I spend a lot of time with Jess at his request, making sure that she keeps herself out of trouble.

            It’s a fair concern. Jess is very prone to getting into trouble.

            “Jess, it’s time to go home now,” I said, shaking her very slightly to get her attention. After a few moments, she finally opened her eyes and looked at me. Her green eyes were just barely focusing. I grimaced, letting go of her shoulders and grabbing her by the waist in an attempt to get her to stand. It worked for a few moments, until I relaxed my support of her, and her legs collapsed in beneath her.

            “I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she repeated in a hushed voice, standing on her own and stumbling towards the door, “Time to go home. Home. Home.”

            I turned and said goodbye to the guys, then rushed out into the hallway after her. She pushed me away, stumbling towards the exit and muttering things that I couldn’t understand, or even really hear.

            “Jess. Jess! I am walking you home.” I was practically shouting. It is so difficult to get that girl’s attention when she’s drunk.

            “No. I’m fine. I’m fine. Go play with the little Italian guy,” she said, suddenly staggering sideways and banging into the wall. I laughed, putting an arm around her shoulder.

            “Don’t argue with me. I’m walking you home.”  

            Jess leaned into me, and we headed back up to her dormitory. It was a warm night, and the stars were bright. The sky was starting to lighten. It would be sunrise by the time I made it back to my apartment. We walked in silence almost the entire way there, until we were nearly to the door of her building. Then, she turned to me, her eyes a bit more focused now, and laughed.

            “What?” I asked, not entirely devoid of curiosity. Her laugh subsided into a cheery smile.

            “Nothing much,” she said, punching me in the shoulder playfully, “Just that I guess I don’t completely hate you.”

            “Oh, excellent,” I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm that she probably didn’t pick up on, “We’re making progress.”

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:57:02 / MOOD: dizzy

 

"Moving Day"

 

   "This is just like a dream," Emma said suddenly, breaking the contemplative silence of the room. She brought her head up off of Jason's chest, looking into his deep brown eyes. They laid together, the soft glow of the computer screen illuminating the nothingness of their surroundings. All they had was the mattress they rested on, broadband internet access, and each other. Emma held her gaze on Jason's eyes.

 

   "This is just like a dream," she repeated, "and I'll wake up as soon as I get to the good part."

 

   Jason cocked his head to the side, staring back into Emma's bright blue eyes. His gaze wandered down her brown hair, across her cheek, to her lips.

 

   "And what happens in this dream?" he questioned lazily, glancing back up to those surprising eyes. Emma's cheeks burned at the question.

 

   "I think..."

 

   She leaned in closer to him, her words carefully marching from her mouth.

 

   "I think, in this dream, I kiss you."

 

   And she did, nervous, trembling, his moustache tickling her lips and his long, elegant hand pressed against her back. They kissed, giggled and rolled until Emma was pinned beneath him and their lips finally parted. Emma searched his brown eyes for something desperately needed... but not present to be found. She inhaled sharply.

 

   "Jay, this is wrong."

 

   "It is, isn't it..."

 

   "Not yet. Not tonight. This is too..."

 

   "Sudden?"

 

   Emma gazed at him, her voice and eyes steady.

 

   "No... too important. You're too important to be another..."

 

   Jason nodded. They lapsed into silence once more, illuminated by the steady glow of the computer screen.

 

   "Jay. You're not mad at me, are you?" Emma's soft voice crept up, ambushing the silence. Jason sternly shook his head. 

 

   "I've been waiting for you to say that to someone, Em."

 

   "You just wish I had said it to someone else."

 

   "Well... yes. No. I'm just proud of you."

 

   "You shouldn't be proud. It was easy, with you." Emma's voice held a tone of indignance.

 

   "Easy with me? Why? Am I not worth a notch on your bedpost?"

 

   "That's not it at all, Jay."

 

   "Well then, why-"

 

   "Because I love you!"

 

   The words charged forward, each syllable a reckless soldier rushing into No Man's Land. Emma was surprised - Jason was not. He hugged her tightly, a faint smile caressing his lips. Tears stung Emma's eyes, and Jason responded to them without seeing them.

 

   "I'm proud of you, Em. I always knew you had this strength."

 

   Emma hugged him silently, clinging, before resting back against the lonely mattress and staring up into his face. One of her hands absent-mindedly toyed with his long black hair. She caught this hand, and, scolding it mentally, put it to rest above her head.

 

   "Jason." Her voice was deliberate and calm, as if the lone survivor of the furious battle.

 

   "Do you think you'll ever love me?"

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:55:10 / MOOD: in love

 

Sonnet 2/13

 

Smirking, you stare me down from the height of

Your pillows at the head of your warm bed.

My cheek upon your chest turns shades of mauve

As replies rattle ‘round inside my head.

“Nice? Oh!” you say, “A word to kill a man!”

But I’m, of course, inclined to disagree.

My lips parted- my tongue, in turn, began

To tell you that your kindness seduced me.

My voice stops at my lips, my words too dense

To touch this fragile shimmering moment.

So I instead lap up the sweet silence

Hoping you’ll see the secret my smile meant-

    That you would silence my thoughts if you’d bless

    My lips with your ‘abhorrent’ gentleness.

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:53:53 / MOOD: content

 

Reading From Memory

 

Lips caress lyrical

Images and phrases

As we lie in the dark,

 

Tongues only teasing

The very edges of the meaning

In the verses we utter.

 

Your voice throbs

With the potent poetry

Spilling forth from your mouth

 

And I watch you

Hot and thoughtless

Breath bated in wonder

 

Because I’ve suddenly

Found myself listening

Instead of waiting to talk-

 

Absorbed in the resonant

Sound of your musical voice

Swimming in syntax.

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:48:35 / MOOD: content

The Shopping Adventures of Girlboy and Girldoll

 

 

 

 

 

 

Girlboy and Girldoll

Stand sidebyside in a vast

Department-mall-shop:

 

 

 

 

Girlboy’s eyes longingly fondle

Rows-aisles-racks of

Loose pants

      Collared shirts

                     Silk ties

 

 

 

 

Girldoll gasps an airy giggleworry

Yanking Girlboy’s arm, frantic with

Short skirts

         Tight tees

                   Pointy shoes

 

 

 

 

Girlboy shrugs; Unconvinced by

Perfumelace pinkruffle womanhood-

Girldoll silently condemns. This strange ungirl

 

 

 

 

Must be a lesbiman—for what female

Wouldn’t want to be shackled by high heels and

Strangled by a strand of pearls?

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:46:47 / MOOD: content

Autumn Dance

 

 

The wind lifts his wispy hand

In invitation

The maple tosses her hair

In consideration

Before bowing low to him

In acceptance

Tossing her leafy skirts to join

The dance

 

He spins her ‘round, her skirts all in

A whirl

As the bright pieces of autumn cloth

Unfurl

I watch the scene, my eyes glazed in

A trance

This playful love, this untamed

Autumn dance

 

Their music, of rustling grass and

Chirping birds

Sings out a love too true and real

For words

As she dances, her skirts sweeping

The dew

My mind wanders to longing thoughts

Of you

 

I picture you, my partner, offering me

Your hand

As he, the playful wind, strikes up

The band

We’re dancing through my thoughts, but it’s

Plain to see

I’m lonely in my joy- you’re so very

Far from me

 

I watch the wind, as he dances

With glee

So in love with his partner, that

Maple tree

Whose red and yellow skirts reflect

The fire

Of my body’s passionate

Desire

 

My legs long for the freedom, and

The chance

To match your movement, step by step

In dance

Without my partner, but so in love,

I smiled

And stood to join this dance, wanton

and wild.

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:43:30 / MOOD: content

 

Dusk

 

Waves on a beach in the South of England

On a calm yet chilly evening in late autumn

Drift across the ocean

To lap gentle at the shores of my American thoughts

 

Darkness murmurs through telephone lines

Floating back through five lonely hours

To tell me that

You've missed the sound of my Northeastern accent

 

You breathe the rhythm of the Atlantic

Across the surface of my hungry ear-

More, please, more!

The honeyed darkness of your voice slakes my mind's lust

 

But your shadowy laugh leaves me still wanting

The touch of your fingertips and the gaze of your eyes...

My lips tremble,

Longing to shout up all the words of this chaotic affection:

 

"You are the warmth and flicker of firelight, love!

You are the sky at dusk, embracing the night!"

My starlit voice

Dances across the water that separates us, and into your arms.

 

Perhaps your kiss will soothe me... not to silence,

But to a softer, calmer declaration of devotion

As the dusk of your voice

Lulls me into sweet, sparkling, peaceful sleep

View Entry

DATE: 03/16/2008 22:42:27 / MOOD: angry

 

Academia

 

The dull, constant ache of

Curiosity

Drives me forward,

Forcing me into crevices,

Behind desks,

Into the binding of books,

Cramming me right into

The margins of the pages.

 

I suppose there are thousands of us

Academics,

Stuffed into libraries,

Right up on the bookshelves

In alphabetical order, followed by

Aeschylus, Aristophanes, Aristotle…

 

We stare out of cramped cedar,

Rows and rows of us,

Eyes misty in an endless haze

From all the years of requisite questions-

How? When? Where? Why?  

Until the questions themselves become

Our personal, lofty, elitist burden.

 

Slowly our voices take on the

Uniform nasal drone of our predecessors.

Steadily we fail to delight

In the answers scattered across

Our musty, lamp-lit graveyards.

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DATE: 03/16/2008 22:30:38 / MOOD: angry

 

Snow

 

The breeze blows a cold wind against my cheek

As pure white particles of absolute infinity

Sparkle around me in the frigid air

 

I reach out with eager hands

capturing tiny architectural marvels in my mittens

Studying their minute geometry

As their intricate patterns reflect light

 

By my overzealous breath

They melt into formless water

Death has never been so beautiful

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