Something Clever

I could say something like,

2009-11-17T23:09:00.000-08:00

I responded to your message. I thought about it for a whole week first, which was nearly impossible because my first reaction was to bike to your house and pound on your door. You probably wouldn't be home. You'd probably be studying in a coffee shop off of 45th or in the Library on campus. I had to wait a week, though, so I would know what to say if you did open the door. And then I'd have to know what to say if a girl was there.

I thought I could say something like, "Hey." And then I guessed I would go from there, depending on how you seemed to feel about me, and more specifically how you felt about me standing in front of your door. Uninvited, unannounced.

I thought I could say something like, "Hey, don't worry about it." I could say that in an e-mail, too, but I wont lie, I'd like to see your face. But I was thinking I'd say something like, "Don't worry about it," and laughingly add on, "I've sort of come to expect that from you," and, "but we're friends."

I thought I could say all that, and then also sort of say something else that showed I'd read your message. That I'd read it enough times to think I knew what you were really saying, and then also enough times for it to be possible that I thought I knew what you were really saying, when really all you were saying was what you'd said. What I'd add on would be something like, "We're friends. Forgiveness has never been an issue when it came to you ... and ... this." And what I'd really want to say is, "forgiving you is nothing compared to how hard it would be to trust you. Again. Or again. Or again. Or again. Or again. Or even again."

I thought I could not say any of that and just pound on your face and throat like I did on the door I somehow got you to open. I could say something like "Why would you fucking bother?!" And incase you thought that you'd really been doing this great thing, this really NICE thing for me, I'd explain myself with, "Why would you bother apologizing for ignoring me? And then tell me it was unintentional." Because really, "If you can ignore me for two months without noticing, how did I become significant enough to apologize to?" And also, "What am I supposed to say?" Because I'd want to know what you had expected me to say I'd ask, "did you want me to say something like, 'Hey, don't worry about it'?" You would just stand there staring at me the way you did every time I got upset. You'd never say anything, so I'd keep talking, and you'd keep not. So if I was standing there and you were saying nothing, like you would, I'd say, "Did you want me to say something like, 'I've sort of come to expect that from you, but we're friends'?" I'd keep going and you'd keep falling into yourself, "Did you expect me to say something like, 'forgiveness has never been an issue when it came to you ... and ... this'?" And what you'd probably be waiting for me to say is something more like, "forgiving you is nothing compared to how hard it would be to trust you. Again. Or again. Or again. Or again. Or again. Or even again.'" And after I could see it--like I did that morning I cried, and I told you I was crying because I knew I could never tell you anything, because if I did you would never talk to me again (and you didn't) even though you said that time would be different--after I could see that in your face, I think I could say some other stupid thing.

I think I could say, "remember that time?" You wouldn't know if you did, so I'd say, "that time when I left the bed to sleep alone on the couch in the morning. And when you came to get me I couldn't stop crying. You'd told me to put my arms around your neck the night before. You'd whispered it and I knew then, when I did as I was told, that you were going to make my life very hard, because I would be completely in love with you and you would be able to ignore me for two months, and again for another two months, and again ... for another two months ... and again ... for another two months ... and again ... for another two months. And all on accident."

And we'd both be inside ourselves, and we'd both be exhausted, and we'd both keep wondering why you ever bothered. And that's why I waited a week to respond to your message. And that's why it said nothing.

2009-05-31T11:09:00.000-07:00

He loved her body more than her and one night she felt it. She felt it in the way he threw her from side to side and she ran into the stoney dark. She ran panicked into nothing and finally found ground.

She dug her way through cement and earth, through the pipes and wires of time and all the men who put them there. She dug until dirt and bone and history filled her fingernails, and they filled until the nails pulled back from the skin and her bloody fingers scraped at soil unseen and unmolested for centuries. She dug until she came to the fiery, molten core of the earth and she laid her hands on the ball that held the planet together.

He feared for being alone more than he feared for her and he yelled into the hole. He yelled her name and he crouched naked by the hole.

She pressed herself against the furnace and her body that he'd loved so much more than her turned into flames and when he saw her blaze he filled in the hole and went back to his one bedroom apartment to watch a documentary on Benjamin Franklin and sleep.

Drunken gay editing

2009-05-27T18:10:00.000-07:00

I wasn't going to drink. I'm coming down with a cold so I wanted to keep the evening mellow. Tea. Shit like that. Maybe some Al Gore in bed. (By that I mean An Inconvenient Truth while swaddled in tissues). It didn't happen though, so one Savage Love podcast and one Gin and Tonic into my sister's research paper on archiving art I'm realizing, again, that I really suck at juggling. Also, that Al Gore and I are going to have to have a later-night rendezvous.

For instance, if booze was ... a watermelon, and editing was a peach, and homo podcasting was a bunch of grapes I would be in the middle of a soupy fruit salad. Oh God, all this Dan Savage is making me feel like that was a sub-conscience sex reference. But it wasn't. It was just a shitty analogy.

Admittedly, I'm not sure this relates to anything. Just what I'm doing tonight. Just ... listening to some homos ... drinkin some booze ... editing some graduate home work. Sadly, not mine.

Oh yeah ... Lexi, don't read this. I don't want you getting all nervous over my comments.

The Bills

2009-03-13T07:37:00.000-07:00

I met a boy while working on bicycles. One night we started kissing, and now he tortures me slowly, crushing things inside me that I didn't know still existed (namely, feelings). When he is crushing me in his bed (and it is always his bed) he crushes me like a boy standing on a pile of ants. So much bigger than the little things he doesn't care enough about to consider he's doing it. And when he is holding me there, and I am slowly suffocating, he believe he is holding nothing at all. He is not holding to hold me, but to hold something. It might surprise me if he remembered my name. I might be a pillow or extra bit of blanket.

If the army of ants wont die peacefully, he does not care enough to put them out of their antenna-jerking misery. He will walk away, leaving them to writhe. Should they be left long enough to hobble home, that child will seek them out. Missing a toy he noticed only by its absence. And in a temperamental fit, he will dedicate himself to luring the ants back out. Baiting the cripples with flakes of Chex cereal or drops of ice cream, he begs them to his bed. And one by one he crushes them between his scrawny fingers. And they pray he gets carpel tunnel.

The boy is Bill. I dated another Bill once in Academy. Or, rather, I did NOT date a Bill in Academy. He grabbed my thighs under the beige uniform skirt I wore in the yearbook office, but I did not date him. He got me flowers once, and I did not date him. We drove to Michigan, and I did not date him. He sang at me through floorboards, and I did not date him. So he dated his math tutor instead. And he insulted her and she loved him very much. And I imagine he octopused his tentacles around her and smashed her face into his chest so he couldn't see it, and maybe she knew that was as much as she was going to get, so after a while, she just stopped complaining.

Probably an Inaccurate Account of Events

2008-11-03T20:09:00.000-08:00

At 7 Jon hit a tree on his bike. It was small, like him, and he thought he could knock it down. He was in Nebraska and everything was flat except the trees crowding his neighbor’s lawn. He rode the bike through the neighbor’s obstinate landscape, trying to clear a path. It was a frighting lawn because it belonged to Boo Radley, or at least he thought so. He didn’t know better and it’s what his mother had told him. And the crotchety woman across the street yelled at children like the morphine-addicted civil war survivor, so he believed it. There were sweeping weeping wooden plants, and he ran into one of them. The bike crushed him because when you are riding fast, in sixth gear, and you hit something, you stop. His mom came out of their white washed house and ran through the white washed fence. He sat in the doctor’s office and thought maybe he was going to be up against something bad.

At 18 Jon lost his virginity to a girl he didn’t really know. It was in a basement at the bottom of a house that he’d built, and he wasn’t sure he really like it. The sex. There really wasn’t much more to it than that.

At 23 he was nestled in age between his 33 year old girlfriend and her 13 year old daughter. He shared a room with the mom in the upstairs bedroom of her house. They got along. He didn’t build houses any more but he still rode bikes.

At 24 Jon was engaged. They made coffee together and fought. Chicago was the last straw. She moved out of the garage where he lived with his dad’s paintings and piles of bicycle parts and blankets for tapestries and a chair balancing on planks in the ceiling. It was a perfect place to read. She took all her things and stopped talking to him in that wooden box where they worked together. People came in and they drank things and they left and sometimes they were irritating, and sometimes they were nothing.

At 25 Jon still worked at the coffee shop on weekends, when he wasn’t working with metal signs and walking lawn sprinklers. That Christmas he set up his tinsel tree with the girl who asked him out after he’d made her tea. And with a nervous shake in her voice she tried to make a joke and forgot to tip.

He said he was leaving soon. He was moving to Chicago and that sometimes he got upset. He was attached to nothing, and was nothing to be attached to. He kissed her on the forehead when he dropped her off, and the air was very cold. He walked back to his VW Bus and it made a loud noise so she’d always knew when he was coming and going.

He showed her 8 mm slides on a projector and played records in his garage. They drank Red Stripe. A chair balanced on planks above their heads. Scarves hung around their necks.

He wore a denim coat with flannel lining and mittens whose tops pulled back like convertible cars. He said just wait until summer. In summer, he said, there is more to do and everyone is happier and rides their bikes, like the one he was building for her, and she would see the yard the way it was supposed to be. Not covered in snow.

After months of watching slides and listening to records he asked, “can I kiss you.” And she said “yes” and thought “no” and remembered that he was nothing to get attached to.

Later she changed her mind, and he seemed alright with that.

He gave her music she didn’t listen to for a year and a half, but they didn’t break up when they went to Chicago. He had stopped talking about moving, and they were only there to visit. Her parents came from Ohio and he did a good job talking to them. He slept with her in his friends’ extra room when they slept and breathed white powder when they didn’t. He wore a denim coat and stocking cap. Under all his winter clothes he snapped the buttons of his western shirts.

The drive from Lincoln had been eight hours. They stopped at a rest stop and looked at a map. It was big and empty like Iowa and the bathrooms along the highway at midnight. They switched drivers. It was only half way.

On the way home they listened to Dolly Parton. While he slept in front of the glove box she sang along to “Joline” to stay awake.

At 27 Jon was dating someone else.

They went to Chicago...

A Blog In Parts, Like a Bike in Pieces

2008-11-02T21:58:00.000-08:00

I got a new bike.

No.

I recently acquired an old bike. It is an Univega. It was some muddy red, like confused brown, and the handle bars were locked in the headset. It took three weeks and a can of WD40 to get them out. I strapped my new bike (which is older than my old bike, just like my new car is older than my old one) to my old bike and peddled the little guy home.

The frame and forks napped on the unused drier in our entryway until I made time to scrub them down, sand them, and slather them with primer, paint, and lacquer. This weekend I took the Univega back to Yellow Bike and put the headset back together. Pete complimented my paint job. I coughed really hard from the pneumonia I might have.

And now I'm going to post photos. As the bike progresses there will be more photos.

I wish my bike was softer so I could sleep with it.

I Do Not Belong to the Same Monster

2008-10-24T06:54:00.000-07:00

I went running today.

It’s Tuesday. I couldn’t write yesterday because I found myself face-down on my bathroom floor after the day had already ended. Then at 4 am I decided to go for a run. And now, well, the rest of that fungus is inside my face. Bits of it are in my teeth, and I’m hoping it’ll inspire me to write a better grad school application essay.

Maybe I should take out the trash before I get too carried away. I’m going to take out the trash before I get too carried away.

It’s out.

This part is awkward. This part where I don’t know if I’m high, or if I’m just waiting to get high, or if I will actually get high. I tend to not take drugs seriously. Like the time in Chicago, when Jon had broken up with me, and Lexi’s old roommate said I could stay with him, and I packed up my car and left Lincoln. And he left me a brownie in the fridge, and I didn’t know what else to eat for breakfast, and I just didn’t think it would do anything.
It did.

This time I ate them on a rice cake. A caramel one. With peanut butter. It’s natural peanut butter and doesn’t taste like anything. I have to add honey or salt. It’s really cold. My nipples are threatening to rip holes in my shirt.

I got electrocuted today. Not really. But sort of. The lady told me to take off all my clothes, and she gave me a diaphanous thong and a piece of paper to cover myself with. Then she told me to put on some green protective eyewear and I read CAUTION signs through them. The signs also said “RADIATION” and “GO FUCK YOURSELF.”

She took this long tube like a robot dick and she pressed it into my thighs and the machine on the other end of the robot dick “wwrrrrvvvv”ed, and the end pressed into me went, “pop, fwoosh!” And I stared at the ceiling and wondered if this was strange.

Is this one of those times I’m supposed to “drink a lot of water”?

Maybe we’re not talking? I think we’re not talking. Me and everyone. Even if I’m writing you, you’re not saying a damn thing back. And even if I call someone they wont answer their phone, and maybe I’m not high at all. Maybe I’m just sleepy. Which seems a terrible waste.

Two of my three roommates are home. I heard the door move and got nervous. Doors are nervous places. They open and shit. I have no faith in medicating. Self-prescribed or no. I feel like everything is a placebo. I’m more afraid of a hamburger--those giant, greasy, slabs of flesh so pumped full of chemicals--than I am of chemicals themselves. I have no faith in medicating. I need more data. More tests must be done.

Nurse, run the fucking data.

This shit’s defective.
_____________________________________

It took a goliath orgasm to get the high out of me and into things.

I was so upset about being sober still... but that huge explosion in my crotch made my whole body puff up like a dandelion head, like it would float. Like I was not molecularly distinguishable from the air. And my face felt like all the space around it. And that space book I’ve been reading made me think I was gripping the tail of a meteorite as it waved past galaxies, and Qfwfq and I, we are paintings. And the bottom of me was stuck to the bed like a cookie burnt to a pan. And I heard unimaginably perfect music.

That is all. Then my clenched eye lids opened and it was as if nothing had happened.

Oh, except that I FINALLY washed my sheets this weekend... which it turns out... was poor timing.

I looked down, between my legs, at the puddle and thought, I do not want to sleep on that.
I was trying to drink water, thinking to myself how short that trip had been, and the liquid splashed up on my cheeks and dribbled down my front and collected like a wet moustache on my grey sheets. And I thought, as I gazed down between my thighs, I should take a picture of that. Also, I thought, I do not want to sleep on that.

And now that it’s all soaked in, it just looks like a fat “M”.

The trip was not over. I just had another in the bathroom. The hair stuck to my forehead, and I said, “I have a moustache in my eyebrow.” And I thought about this boy I kiss now, who says he forgets nouns, and I was suddenly much further away in the mirror, and I felt sick. And everything I looked at looked like it was a movie. Like my pale blue tiles and hands holding tooth paste.

Then I started repeating everything, like, “And everything I looked at looked like it was a movie. Like my pale blue tiles and hands holding tooth paste. Then I started repeating everything, like, “And everything I looked at looked like it was a movie. Like my pale blue tiles and hands holding tooth paste.” Then I started repeating everything, like, “And everything I looked at looked like it was a movie. Like my pale blue tiles and hands holding tooth paste.” Then I started repeating everything, like, “And everything I looked at looked like it was a movie. Like my pale blue tiles and hands holding tooth paste.”

And it went on forever. And still does, for all I know.

I used too much soap to wash my face. It was thick and lathered in my hands. the wet spots on the sides of me face tingle and I when I thought, “I’ve used too much soap to wash my face,” I really thought, “brains.” I thought, “I am using too much soap to wash my brains.” And I see things off to the left.

Always the left. Like... flashes, or something scurrying. And best is the things when I close my eyes and see things I don’t see. which is not that exciting this time. It’s just kiwis dancing in top hats against a zebra stripe backdrop. I don’t mean the birds, kiwi, I mean the fruit.

It was clearly some pathetic cut-out, past-up job. Like some high school kid in the ‘80s was making his first “animation”. And everything is just some shitty advertisement. The type I’m suprised when I see it. When I see it and I think, “Modern technology has made it possible for us to make love to the same song over, and over, and over... yet we cannot make a better advertisement than this? This looks like fucking clip art on a Power Point presentation slide.”

Fucking Power Point.

It is funny that that is a noun. It seems to me, more like a very, very strong (and assertive) verb. For example: “I will Power Point you in the right direction.” Like the capitalization is really just there to tell the receiver of the message, “I am not fucking around. You know I am going to point the shit out of something.” (Bitch).

And the person being pointed would say something to their sister in law, after being taken aback, like, “My, he was a very aggressive pointer.” And she’ll pretend to be put out by it, but really wish that he would fuck her the way she’d long lost hope her husband ever would. And she’ll wear her mom jeans over her mom-gut and her hair will be the same it was 15 years ago, and she will go home and make some jam or something.

But it’ll just be jam or something. A baked good.

And that’s why Power Point is so God. Damn. Baffling.

Like the eyes I drew on my dresser to make it talk. They are disparate, and belong to different monsters.

But, I Love You

2008-10-10T18:01:00.000-07:00

She yelled, "I'm gonna spit in your fucking face!" And she yelled, "I'm going to spit in your fucking face from my fucking bloody nose!"

And her bag, the one that hung lower than her tiny shorts swung behind her. And her voice shot out from her fucking face like venom and her hair whirled around her crazy head and this light winked in my face like it wanted to have sex with me and all that man could say was, "But I love you."

And he hadn't washed his hair, either. I knew because it stuck out it all directions without any help. And she was not as young as she looked, and I knew because her swinging titties and tiny shorts didn't cover her face. And she yelled at his fucking face that she was going to spit in it from her fucking bloody nose.

And I breathed real heavy because I finally got drunk off two beers again.

And she was so much of a women as she spit and spun at him. And I was so much of a women as I rode home on two beers I was woman enough not to pay for. And she was so much of a women when she didn't cry, and I was so much of a women as I rode home to a flat tire I was women enough not to know how to fix. And all he could say, that lowly man, all he could say, so small and pathetic, all he could say with his fucking face was, "But I love you."

And I just kept climbing that hill because I did not want anyone to spit in my fucking face.

Little Debbie, Even Smaller.

2008-10-06T22:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Debbie,

For many years I cherished the sweet and salty mixture of the Nutty Bar. As my pallet changed and began appreciating the things I promised to loath for life, such as dark chocolate, fresh vegetables, and even exercise, my desire for your sweet delicacies waned.

For years I lived, happily, without the Nutty Bar. Family members attended Southern Adventist University, gas stations taunted me with racks of the smaller Debbie’s goodness, sack lunches bore only fruit, and still I managed. Then I moved to Texas, a large hot state, inconducive to cheap renters who don’t want to pay to use AC.

In recent days a feline roommate, Kat, has purchased box after box of Generic Bars, masquerading as Nutty Bars. I scoffed until one day, in line at the HEB (Here Everything’s Better (oh, these Texans)) I saw a box of Nutty Bars. I couldn’t describe why I felt such longing. Germans call it Sehnsukt. The reason for this need eluded me, but I grabbed the box, guiltily, and threw it in among my avocado, mango, oats and soy milk.

Even after the red and yellow box occupied my designated pantry self for a week I contained my desire to consume the concoction, always associating it with the health problems that plague most American’s today. Finally, an especially trying day at work drove me to give in to temptation. I sat, poised, awaiting the sweet delight that would encompass my mouth. I ate the Nutty Bar. One layer, two... three... and then... there was nothing. WTF! Only three layers? SERIOUSLY?

Then, with the box displayed clearly in front of me I realized what had happened: Nutty Bar! (the box exclaimed to me in bold lettering) Thins (it whispered in tiny print below). You can imagine my disappointment. Throughout my youth I found most of my joy in the three following activities: beating the shit out of pinatas, picking berries by train tracks, and separating the fucking layers of a Nutty Bar. Which now, I’ve found, only have THREE layers.

I am writing to request that you, or any one of your Little family members send me exactly 24 Nutty Bar layers, which will account for the two layers missing from each 12 bars found in the “NUTTY BAR (thins)” box. If you can manage to send all 24 layers attached to one another I would find this perfectly acceptable, and separating all these layers could be most pleasurable. If not, I will except the layers separately.

Thank you for your concern and time,
Tatiana

National Drink Beer Day

2008-09-30T20:50:00.000-07:00

Drink Beer Day is something I celebrate about 300 days a year.

Today, though, is actually National Drink Beer Day, so... I had an excuse.

Just as stoners frequently forget things, like recent conversations, where they put their keys, or that someone is actually still on the telephone while they order from drive-thru windows, I'd had a perpetual sense of discomfort. I've felt for a month or so that I've left the gas on, forgot to wash my dishes, or left the front door ajar when leaving for work. Even though none of these things proved true.

But today, on National Drink Beer Day, I remembered.

I remembered that I forgot to forget about him crawling into my bathrobe under wool blankets. I forgot to forget about the way he smelled, or the shape of his hands. I forgot to forget about the sweaters full of holes that I wanted to mend (but not really), or the piles of pearl-snap button-up shirts. I forgot to forget about the time I whined on my bicycle and he fell asleep in the park. I forgot to forget about eating dinner with his family, or our first fight. I forgot to forget the wrinkles in his forehead, or the redness of his eyes when I left. I forgot to forget how patient he was when I lost my mind, and how frightening he was when he lost his. I forgot to forget the feeling of complete acceptance. I forgot to forget he wanted me to move back into his state and his house. I forgot to forget his phone voice. I forgot to stop giving a shit.

I forgot to forget him.

Maybe it's because I actually did forget to brush my teeth before work. Maybe because he called me this time. Maybe because I drank too much. Regardles, I remembered I forgot to fall out of love.

Thank God for National fucking Drink Beer Day. Right? ... Right?

Chad

2008-09-20T07:30:00.000-07:00

Chad is a grave digger. Chad digs graves.

In the upstairs room of his Virginia Beach home he has a queen size bed. At least he thinks it's queen size. He doesn't sleep in it. He sleeps on the couch. At night, when he comes home from digging graves he gets in the shower, knowing that he's got a shot comin' to him. And when he's had that shot and a few more he smokes in the back, where there's concrete, and a four foot level, and string tied to stakes that mean there will be more concrete.

He doesn't take calls. Except his ex-girlfriend. He has two ex-girlfriends, the lesbian and the violent one. He doesn't hear from the lesbian any more. He takes the violent one's calls and when she asks to come over he says yes, without hesitating. And when she asks him to help babysit he also says yes. Even though he thinks it sounds like a coffin, like the ones he drops into the earth.

Chad was 22 the last time I saw him. He is 25 now. He waited for me outside a thrift store and remembers the pond by my house. "You do have a pond, right? I'm not remembering some other pond."

He's drinking and asks about me. I say right now or in general and he says, "tonight." And I say not yet. I also say, move to Austin, we're looking for a roommate. Also, forget those AA meetings, come here. Rent is cheap.

I say we'll bike and swim and do yoga and you can sleep on any of our couches you want, even though they're all outside. And he says, "I'm fat." And he says he's 130 lbs., and I believe him.

All of his ex-girlfriends from Ohio are married. The very first, and the next, and the next. "Sarah is getting married, Katie's already married." And he tells me how long it's been since they've talked. And he tells me he thinks it's strange. And he tells me about the old man at the cemetery who brings fresh flowers to his wife three times a week. And they talk. And that old man is the only person he can stand.

He says I can visit. I say he can, too, since he may not have his grave-digging job forever, and he tells me, "there's nothing holding me here." And I say Austin is good, and he says he's not looking for good.

And I get another call and have to go, and I leave him there, smoking behind his house, with a shot or a bottle, and he says, "Let's talk again?" And I say, yeah, I think we should. And I split a beer with my roommate and drive downtown.

So, I Live in Texas

2008-09-09T20:28:00.000-07:00

But I really like to say "Tejas," because I think it has more flavor. And when I ride my purple bicycle home from work I read the sign, "Senior Living," as, "Senior living." The first time was unintentional, and that made me laugh and wonder if I've been here too long.

Some things in Tejas are frustrating. Like getting a driver's license, registering a new car, and convincing fat, mean, old, haggard women at the DMV that, "No, I did listen last time when you told me that I need my passport and old license and social security card. That's why I have them right here, in my hand. However, if I didn't listen to you telling me that I needed the registration for a vehicle I don't own yet, it's because you didn't fucking say it." And while I'm turning red in the face and thinking these things, and also things about gripping her sagging neck in my tight, sweaty fists, the guy behind me says, "Whoa, whoa," to the old lady who has just said to me, "Obviously you don't listen. This is life, sweet heart, and it just gets harder as you get older." And I think yeah, if you can't get any. Which is a lame come-back but all that comes to mind at the time.

And then I think, "You're right, Texan lady, you are the last thing I want to be like. I'm going to get the hell out of here." And I do. I get the hell out of there. And I sit behind a steering wheel and I wonder if I'm going to explode all over my mother's leather seats.

When I complain to the lawyer at the company where I work he says, "Let's go." And I get my license because he is intimidating. And my saga comes to a very abrupt and anti-climactic end.

When I Study I Learn Things

2008-09-09T20:06:00.000-07:00

I love this man's vigor.

Despite the woman's constant prosaic, no, depressing, interjections, he is intrepid in his excitement. "Every day," he says with a rare fervor, "Every day I wake up and I think, I haven't lived this day before. This is a part of my life that I have never been to." And one woman says, "I love that. I've never thought that before, but I love it."

And the woman who's just said something about either being busy or drunk said, "I used to tell my students, 'you're only as smart as your library is thick, because when you're old, you're nothing but a catalogue,'" and she sucked her cigarette.

And the happy man said, "I don't feel that way... I'm always learning new things. I go for a walk every day. I get up every morning and walk four miles and say hello to all the dogs along the way. There's one that I am just having a love affaire with, and it will jump up on the fence and go 'yip yip yip' and I'll say hello. And I go by this cemetery and I love it," and he tells a story about one of the tomb stones and that he loves to bake and the very negative woman stops interjecting.

And I get chocolate all over my fingers and continue studying vocabulary because, I guess, I am only as smart as my library is thick, and I've never lived this day, and I have a lot to learn.

Heat Bringer

2008-08-21T13:00:00.000-07:00

Today I wore a t-shirt. It's not my t-shirt. It is my friend's t-shirt. He is not wearing it because he is in training for Special Forces and is not allowed to own his own t-shirts. At least not if they have the out-line of a fire-breathing, fire-haired, fire-holding man dropping fire-scorpions at his feet. So because he is doing many, many push-ups, I am wearing his t-shirt.

The man's fire-hair spells "Heat Bringer" and between the his feet and scorpions it reads, "Bring the Heat." It says, "BRING THE HEAT," because this guy can take it. Seriously. He's already breathing fire, so whatever heat you might bring wont even touch him. Or maybe it will. It will touch his arms, which will burst into flames with fire-arm hair. Or it will touch his crotch, which will explode into a big flaming ejaculate.

If he is at a dance party, or a club with a lot of music he might bring the heat to the dance floor, and start a firey congo line. And if his son is playing drums in the band that is playing he will roll his eyes. And at the next show he will tell his dad, “Okay, no congo line this time, guy. NO CONGO LINE.”

And his dad will say, throwing back his drunken head, “Why?!” And he will spit some fire on the table on accident and try to wipe it up with his hand, “Why don't you want me to do the congo line? I love the congo line.” He will purse his lips and pout and he will say, “Are you embarrassed? Are you embarrassed of me? Is that why you wont let me do the congo line?”

And the son, who is already 28 and long-ago gave up pride and feelings of embarrassment, at least when it came to his fire-breathing, scorpion-dropping father, will say, “Fine, have a congo line. I don't care.”

And then the Heat Bringer will bring the heat to the dance floor. And he will be on my shirt. And my co-worker will be jealous and want one of his own. And I will be the most popular girl at the dance all day.

Bill's Concussion

2008-08-19T17:58:00.000-07:00

Today.

Today is my birthday.

I am 26.

My name is Bill and last night I got a concussion.

It was still light when I started drinking heavy. I drank whiskey from a bottle that I carried in a bag on my back. My back is an average-sized back, most of me is average-sized. But maybe not my brain, which is hiding today.

Today is my only 26th birthday and I am wearing a “skin-colored” bandage around my head with some white cotton in the front. It covers seven stitches that I paid $1500 for a professional to sew into my head.

I do not have health insurance.

My bandage is “skin colored” but not really my skin color, and not really most people’s skin colors, especially not if those people are black or brown or some shade darker than what I guess might be called eggshell. But the color of a brown eggshell, which is really like a dark beige, which I guess is called tan. So, maybe this bandage is your skin color if you have a tan.

I do not have a tan.

My hair is very blonde. I think it is more blonde than it was when I was 23, or even 24. Most people who are blonde find their hair gets darker as they get older. I also found that my hair got darker as I got older, until I was 24. When I was 23, and even 24, I did not live in Texas, I lived “north” (which, in Texas, is everywhere but Mexico and Florida). But now my hair is lighter than when I was younger and it makes me feel, well, I guess I’m indifferent.

Last night my hair was very red, at least where all the blood got in it.

Today is my birthday and it is also the 17th of August. Because it is the 17th of August it is my birthday. I have invited friends and the friends of friends to my house, where I have a new roommate, and I am going to cook 26 different kinds of meat in honor of each year that I have lived. The brisket represents my 15th year of life because that is the year I got my tonsils taken out. I have been looking forward to today for a whole week because I love to cook and I love to cook for other people and I love for other people to eat what I cook. So I have been looking forward to this day, August 17th, for a whole week.

At least I think a week. I got a concussion last night.

It’s bad what this concussion is doing to my brain. I feel very slow and a lot of “ow.” Especially in my head and my right shoulder. People try to hug me because today is my birthday and I have to pull away and extend just my left arm and explain to them, “No, the right arm is sore.” I explain that, “it hurts,” and that, “I am injured,” and also that, “I have cooked for you, 26 types of meat in honor of my 26 years of life,” and just to be clear I tell them, “because today is August 17th, and that’s my birthday.”

Just in case they forgot.

A friend started a tradition I like. On her birthday she gave away gifts. So today, because it is my birthday, I decided I, too, will give away gifts for my birthday. When I announce this in the living room, which is also the dining room, or maybe just the dining room since everyone was eating when I started announcing this, I addressed everyone with clear confidence. I said to everyone, which was two girls and two boys on my right, and three girls and three boys on my left, and then one boy, who is my new roommate, even more to the left than the group of boys and girls. Everyone was eating 26 different kinds of meat in honor of the 26 years I managed to live, despite drinking so much whiskey and falling off of my bicycle and on to my head. And later someone said, “Otis died at 26, one of the greatest musical loses of all time.” I hope I do not die at 26, however if I do, I suppose it could be made better by the fact that my death were one of the greatest musical loses of all time.

“My friend started this tradition,” I said.

“My friend started this tradition a few years ago where she would give something away on her birthday,” and Hanna, who is my friend who gives things away on her birthday said, “Yeah, but I give away crap.” And I didn’t ignore it, because that would be impolite, but I did continue because I had made gifts to give away. When I continued I said, “So I have made seven,” (7), “copies of Rosetta Stone three, so if you would like to learn Spanish, Arabic, Russian, German, Italian, Swedish or Mandarin, I will give you two discs. You need them both. It only runs on Windows.” And I handed them out.

I handed out seven (7) copies of Rosetta Stone three that only run on Windows.

I tried to count this, but seemed to come up short. Today is my birthday and I am having a hard time with math. I got a concussion. It is August 17th and two times in my life school started on my birthday. I didn’t skip that day though because I was a very good boy. The best boy. And today I hope I am the best man. I am not the best man because it is not a wedding, it is my birthday, because today is August 17th, my birthday.

25 took a long time to finish.

26 will be a good year to have because I have been ready for 25 to go away for a whole year, which is 365 days, and a quarter. A quarter of a day. I have been ready for 25 to end because I’m now done with pretending to be an adult. And I am done with people expecting me to grow up. These things are supposed to magically happen at the age of 25. However, now that I have made it through 25 unscathed (save last night and the hole that resulted in my forehead) people will realize I am deliberately immature. I have, with great maturity and depth of thought, decided to remain irresponsible. And that is why I am glad that I am no longer 25.

There is a picture of the gash in my head on my cellar telephone. I took it so I could send it to all of my friends with a simple message. This message is going to say, “Do not drink and bike.” This is a recommendation I received from the nurse who shot a local anesthetic into my head, even though I already couldn’t feel anything because whiskey is a very non-discerning anesthetic. She said it would prick then burn and I said “Okay.” And I asked when she would start and she said she was done, and I kept smiling.

I’m going to send the pictures to all my ex-girlfriends and see who responds.

While I sat on the end of a bent plastic bed, covered in sheets made of paper, a nurse injected my head with a local anesthetic. While she advised me not to drink so much and not to ride my bicycle while I did it I waved at a police officer in the hall way. He looked angry, which is okay because it was very late and he was not awake because he’d been having fun drinking. The nurse told me he was awake because he’d come for the guy in the room next to mine. She said I did not want to talk to him. And I put my hand down and tried to look less like I’d been endangering my life with alcohol and two-wheeled, man-powered vehicles.

It was probably not effective.

I have been looking forward to today for a whole week, because it is my birthday. I have been planning this meal and preparing ingredients and salivating. Today is my birthday and I am frustrated because my head hurts, which makes sense because I got a concussion last night, and also I am not hungry. I do not know if the concussion is what has made me lose my appetite, but if it is I’m never going to bike that drunk again. I really wanted to eat the brisket.

The brisket is on a plate next to my drying computer.

My computer is drying because it acted as a liver for the pack I wore on my back, which is average-sized. My laptop absorbed all the whiskey I’m glad I didn’t drink when the bottle that held it together burst under me, my bicycle, and, I guess, gravity. I work on computers, I make software, and so I’m extra nervous about my slow brain today. I need my brain and especially my math pieces.

I am a little useless without my math pieces.

I have two roommates. One is new and one is old. One is a boy and one is a girl. The new one is a boy and the roommate that was old before him was also a boy, that boy’s name was Hans, and he was from Denmark. The girl’s name is Rita and I try not to sing that Beatles song when I say it. The new boy’s name is Allen or Arden or something like this. The fact that I cannot remember his name is not his fault. I met him just before my face met a curb as I was biking home after drinking a lot of whiskey. The whiskey I didn’t finish I left in the container in my bag, next to my laptop, and so the laptop soaked it up like a sponge. And now I am letting it air dry during my party. The party is for my birthday because it is August 26th.

No, I am 26 because it is August 17th.

The girl roommate is very nice and has taken responsibility for much of the grilling. This is a BBQ so the grilling is very important. I have been looking forward to this meal all week and as they drove me to the emergency room last night I tried to give them instructions for the brisket. I think they laughed at me for trying to give them instructions on the brisket. But it takes a very long time to cook and I’ve been looking forward to this meal all week. The boy roommate is Vegan and thus not grilling, although I did see him place three giant veggie dogs on the grill.

There are mushrooms around here somewhere.

I work on software, so I really need my math pieces and I’m trying to tell someone how long it took to cook the meat and I can’t add. I cannot add 15 and 9. I think I normally know this, but my brain is working so slow it’s hard to tell. I’m trying to do math the way my ex-girlfriend who is bad at math would add things. She would try to distribute all the “excess” (what she called any number that was not divisible by 10) and try to make little groups based on 10. So she would make 15 and 9 into 14 and 10 and then get 24, because it is easy to add 10 to something.

I think it is easier to just know math. Or I did yesterday.

The girl roommate is being very helpful and I appreciate it very much. She is a nice girl, except in the morning. In the morning she wakes up early to go to work early because she does not work in a cave of electronics and math like I do. She wakes up early and one day I woke up early and I was feeling so pleasant and so happy to see her that I said, “Hey, good morning.” And then, “Do you always get up this early?” I asked because I didn’t know yet, and she said, “Bill.” She said, “Bill, I always get up this early. Every day I get up this early to go to work. Yes, Bill, I always get up this early.”

Since then I don’t try to talk to her in the morning. But she is a sweet girl.

Everyone is outside on the porch, drinking and smoking cigarettes and talking about quitting smoking cigarettes and the hole in my head and the seven (7) stitches that are keeping it closed and we are placing bets on which girlfriends might respond with great concern. I think the ballerina, but she wont call because she is afraid to hear my voice. I also think the last girl. I think she still cares a great deal and will be concerned. It is my birthday and I have a concussion and I’m sure they’ll be concerned.

I’m sure they’ll be concerned because at one time we loved each other and today is August 17th and I am 26 years old, and I am glad I am not 25 and there are 26 different kinds of meat, and I’m not sure what 17 plus 26 plus 25 is right now and that makes me nervous because I work on software and I really need my math bits and I quit smoking two years ago and I like the chair I keep on my porch because it’s soft, but it makes me nervous because I got it for free out of someone’s lawn, but that was before the new roommate moved in and Hans moved out and Hans had helped me carry it and I didn’t have a concussion.

But today, on my birthday, I do.

My first blog, other than Myspace and that tripe.

2008-08-19T17:50:00.000-07:00

Israel told me I should blog.

Israel said, "Tatiana, you should blog."

And so now I have a blog, and I do have very high hopes. I would lie and say, "I have no expectations, I have no thoughts or cares about this blog." But you would already know that it is a lie because I said earlier, "I would lie..." My high hope is that you will really like it when I write.

After I post this introduction to all the things I hope to post I am going to post my first real (and seen through to fruition) attempt at writing a short story that was not about myself. It is about a boy I met who has a birthday on the same day as my oldest sister.

Also, this weekend I got mustaches.