Hey, good-lookin'. You come here often? What's your sign? What's a nice girl-or-guy like you doing in a blog like this? How long can I keep this going? Why do you people like me?
I'm in quite the chipper mood right now. I've spent the evening discussing new secret writing projects with some of my Awesome Author Friends, and making plans with the fiveawesomegirls about the future of our channel. We've decided that we're going to take a short hiatus from daily videos for the next month-- from today until September 13th-- in order to get our chaotic lives together, and to plot for the next couple of months. Most television shows take a break during the summer, so we're doing the same. Call it 5AG Summer Vacation. It's only a month, and we'll be back with more energy and more ideas. Basically, we feel guilty putting out rushed, tired vlogs, when our audience is amazing and deserves more than that. If you're bored, I have a new favorite collab channel, Honestovlog, that might entertain you in our absence. Fiveawesomgirls fans, we'll see you soon.
In other news, I'm going to The Situation's house tomorrow, and am going to spend the week hanging out with him and visiting various places. Blogging may be a little more of a stretch in this third week of August, but I promise I'll make it work. If you guys are sweet enough to enjoy a post written on MS Paint (in which I misspell "aquarium," of all things), then I know I can count on you to be supportive, even when wifi is hard to come by. Going along with the theme of this video I posted today, I want to thank you for being utterly fantastic and, as I've said before, my (secret!) favorite internet community. In my heart, blog readers reign supreme. Move over, Chipotle.*
Speaking of The Situation, I just remembered that I have to bake cookies before I see him tomorrow. On that note, I'll leave you with my senses. See you tomorrow, lovelies!
Today, I saw: that my shorter hair cut does not take well to curls. I look a little bit clownish. The Situation says it's pretty, but he's paid to say stuff like that.
Today, I smelled: onions and carrots and tomatoes, oh my.
Today, I touched: my laptop's keyboard. A LOT. Writing up a storm over here.
Today, I heard: all kinds of propaganda from Cosmopolitan that I swear was published with the sole purpose of making real women feel inadequate.
Today, I tasted: my mother's homemade tomato soup. It was good. Not as good as MY homemade tomato soup (sorry, Mom), but still good.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,891
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
*Well. Not quite. But you and Chipotle are very, very close.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Real Life
In just over a month, I will be twenty years old. Up until this point, I always identified more with kids a couple of years older than I was, since I grew up with older siblings. When I was twelve, I felt fourteen, and when I was sixteen, I felt eighteen, and now that I'm (almost) twenty, I just feel... completely terrified. Unworthy and unready for this title of Twenty. I was driving around with my best friend several months ago, musing about life, when Jess asked, "When did everything get so real?" And that's exactly what it's like. Our teenage years are so superficial-- the basis for so many larger-than-life movies full of Cliques and Drama-- that I spent the entire decade feeling like I was just "playing life." But I'm about to be twenty. As in "She's in her twenties." As in real life.
I don't know. It's like, for my whole life up until this point, I'd dream about getting some unusual and interesting engagement ring, and having a wedding with a chocolate fountain, and living in some city apartment with mismatched garage sale silverware, and being the cute pregnant lady at the grocery store, and giving my army of perfect children all sorts of ridiculous literary names, and wearing high heels to the job where everyone obviously adores me, and then sort of, like, dying with a million grandchildren around. That's how it goes, right? Hmm?
But God. Lately, I feel like I've just been shaken awake too early from an afternoon nap. Apparently, marriage is so hard that barely half of those who attempt it succeed. And apparently it's really, really unlikely that you'll make a living off being occasionally clever. And apparently you're going to screw up your kids no matter how hard you try, and they'll never be exactly what you want them to, and apparently a whole lot of people lie and steal and have affairs and apparently your body doesn't stay hot forever. So maybe you get a chocolate fountain at your wedding, but you also get fifty years of stretch marks and bankruptcy and sadness.
Is that really how it is? You work through high school to get to college, you work through college to get a job, and then. What? Is Real Life exactly like being a teenager, but trading uncertainty for disappointment? I don't want to dread the majority of my time on earth. Maybe I just don't get it. But for now, I'm really scared.
Wow. That was uplifting. Older readers, I'd appreciate your input on this one, if you don't mind. Am I looking at it wrong? Am I not mature enough to get it yet? Is it okay?
Today, I saw: my good friends, Tom and Maria, who directed my high school musicals. Tom's in this really cute Beatles tribute band (he's George), and they were performing downtown tonight for an audience of mostly families and older, drunker people embarrassing themselves. I sat in a crowd of retirees and their blue-haired babes, twisting and shouting as much as their oxygen tanks would allow.
Today, I heard: cute men in wigs pretending to be British.
Today, I touched: my mom's back, as if to say, "Okay, Mother. You can stop dancing in public now."
Today, I smelled: that ambient festival aroma of garbage and beer cans.
Today, I tasted: these beautiful fruit kebabs that my sisters made for a family picnic.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,788
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
I don't know. It's like, for my whole life up until this point, I'd dream about getting some unusual and interesting engagement ring, and having a wedding with a chocolate fountain, and living in some city apartment with mismatched garage sale silverware, and being the cute pregnant lady at the grocery store, and giving my army of perfect children all sorts of ridiculous literary names, and wearing high heels to the job where everyone obviously adores me, and then sort of, like, dying with a million grandchildren around. That's how it goes, right? Hmm?
But God. Lately, I feel like I've just been shaken awake too early from an afternoon nap. Apparently, marriage is so hard that barely half of those who attempt it succeed. And apparently it's really, really unlikely that you'll make a living off being occasionally clever. And apparently you're going to screw up your kids no matter how hard you try, and they'll never be exactly what you want them to, and apparently a whole lot of people lie and steal and have affairs and apparently your body doesn't stay hot forever. So maybe you get a chocolate fountain at your wedding, but you also get fifty years of stretch marks and bankruptcy and sadness.
Is that really how it is? You work through high school to get to college, you work through college to get a job, and then. What? Is Real Life exactly like being a teenager, but trading uncertainty for disappointment? I don't want to dread the majority of my time on earth. Maybe I just don't get it. But for now, I'm really scared.
Wow. That was uplifting. Older readers, I'd appreciate your input on this one, if you don't mind. Am I looking at it wrong? Am I not mature enough to get it yet? Is it okay?
Today, I saw: my good friends, Tom and Maria, who directed my high school musicals. Tom's in this really cute Beatles tribute band (he's George), and they were performing downtown tonight for an audience of mostly families and older, drunker people embarrassing themselves. I sat in a crowd of retirees and their blue-haired babes, twisting and shouting as much as their oxygen tanks would allow.
Today, I heard: cute men in wigs pretending to be British.
Today, I touched: my mom's back, as if to say, "Okay, Mother. You can stop dancing in public now."
Today, I smelled: that ambient festival aroma of garbage and beer cans.
Today, I tasted: these beautiful fruit kebabs that my sisters made for a family picnic.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,788
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
Friday, August 13, 2010
Eat Pray Love: Whine, Jumpcut!, Elephant
Well, I can now confirm it: Contrary to popular belief, I am not a hippie.
My family-- while very understanding and supportive of my internet life/artistic ventures/unconventional career path-- tends to joke about my "free-form chaos." My siblings refer to my guest room, which is often filled with traveling youtubers, as The Gypsy Hostel. I sometimes overhear my mom on the phone catching up with an old friend, saying, "It's called Five Awesome Girls, and they make these videos...." And I'm pretty much expected to always be dressed up as a mummy, or saving whales, or painting my face with glue. My one sister is the go-getter, my brother is the funny one, my other sister is the caretaker, and I'm this guy.
However, if Eat Pray Love is any example of how hippies are supposed to behave, then give me a freaking business suit and call me a fundamentalist, because that movie just left a seriously bad taste in my mouth.
I wouldn't ordinarily write a review like this on the opening day of a movie, for fear of spoiling the surprises and spurring on preconceived notions. But the thing is... there's really nothing to spoil. Astoundingly, the movie hardly managed to do or say anything in two and a half hours. By the time it was over, I couldn't remember anything about the world established in the first half. I was still totally and completely aware of the fact that I was watching Julia Roberts pretend to be a normal person. I paid nine dollars to see, in order: a whole lot of exposition with little purpose, James Franco looking kind of hot (purposelessly), some spaghetti, a bunch of people I didn't have enough of a chance to care about, an honest-to-God SHOPPING MONTAGE, more disorienting jump cuts than a wheezywaiter video, the lifeless drone of a main character pretending to have a soul but failing, some more characters whose names I can't remember and whose stories went by too quickly for me to be interested in, about twenty seconds of an elephant*, a terribly cheesy and terribly-executed flashback/dream sequence, and perhaps the worst and most unrealistic "romance" I've ever witnessed, which is saying something, because I saw The Last Song. I don't mean to give it all away, but the couple literally rides off into the sunset. I could have vomited.
Oh, and the message was the worst part of all. This movie preaches as much self-centeredness as an episode of Laguna Beach, multiplied by, like, Jordan Baker. The only thought we're left with? "Life is all about me. I should do whatever I want at all times, regardless of how it affects other people. Money is no object! The emotions of others are even less of an object! Maybe I'll get a divorce! Maybe I'll be with this guy! Maybe I won't! Maybe I'll be this religion! I'll do what feels good at this very second, and then move on to the next thing that momentarily satisfies me! Let's eat and gain sooo much weight that we're... we're still Julia Roberts." Give me a break.
Aaaand exhale. I'm sorry for that explosion, and I'm more than open to hearing your reviews, whether or not you agree with me. Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe I just missed the point, but Eat Pray Love made me feel less like a vivacious foodie feminist and more like a moody semi-conservative in a theater full of menopausal women... and I was having hot flashes for a different reason. Sigh.
Today, I saw: a bad movie.
Today, I heard: a lot of people express surprise over the difference in my hair color. Still not used to it.
Today, I smelled: about forty different kinds of wine. I went with my mom and sisters to this cute little vineyard for dinner.
Today, I touched: a watermelon the size of my torso.
Today, I tasted: some kind of... fried pizza dough, dipped in... maybe marshmallow fluff? Whatever; I'm not too concerned. Probably not the best idea, but screw it, I'm a size four now.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,741
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
*I'm serious. With no previous warning, and with no follow-up whatsoever, there was an elephant. Doing nothing to advance any sort of plot. Just chilling, being an elephant, for the sake of being an elephant. It was as if they'd finished the film, and the director was like, "Oh my gosh. You guys. We're in India. LET'S GET AN ELEPHANT. Put that in there! I don't care where! Just insert an elephant clip! White folks go craaazy for that shit!"
P.S. High-fives and make-outs for those of you who caught my Elizabethtown quote in yesterday's post. Obscure!
My family-- while very understanding and supportive of my internet life/artistic ventures/unconventional career path-- tends to joke about my "free-form chaos." My siblings refer to my guest room, which is often filled with traveling youtubers, as The Gypsy Hostel. I sometimes overhear my mom on the phone catching up with an old friend, saying, "It's called Five Awesome Girls, and they make these videos...." And I'm pretty much expected to always be dressed up as a mummy, or saving whales, or painting my face with glue. My one sister is the go-getter, my brother is the funny one, my other sister is the caretaker, and I'm this guy.
However, if Eat Pray Love is any example of how hippies are supposed to behave, then give me a freaking business suit and call me a fundamentalist, because that movie just left a seriously bad taste in my mouth.
I wouldn't ordinarily write a review like this on the opening day of a movie, for fear of spoiling the surprises and spurring on preconceived notions. But the thing is... there's really nothing to spoil. Astoundingly, the movie hardly managed to do or say anything in two and a half hours. By the time it was over, I couldn't remember anything about the world established in the first half. I was still totally and completely aware of the fact that I was watching Julia Roberts pretend to be a normal person. I paid nine dollars to see, in order: a whole lot of exposition with little purpose, James Franco looking kind of hot (purposelessly), some spaghetti, a bunch of people I didn't have enough of a chance to care about, an honest-to-God SHOPPING MONTAGE, more disorienting jump cuts than a wheezywaiter video, the lifeless drone of a main character pretending to have a soul but failing, some more characters whose names I can't remember and whose stories went by too quickly for me to be interested in, about twenty seconds of an elephant*, a terribly cheesy and terribly-executed flashback/dream sequence, and perhaps the worst and most unrealistic "romance" I've ever witnessed, which is saying something, because I saw The Last Song. I don't mean to give it all away, but the couple literally rides off into the sunset. I could have vomited.
Oh, and the message was the worst part of all. This movie preaches as much self-centeredness as an episode of Laguna Beach, multiplied by, like, Jordan Baker. The only thought we're left with? "Life is all about me. I should do whatever I want at all times, regardless of how it affects other people. Money is no object! The emotions of others are even less of an object! Maybe I'll get a divorce! Maybe I'll be with this guy! Maybe I won't! Maybe I'll be this religion! I'll do what feels good at this very second, and then move on to the next thing that momentarily satisfies me! Let's eat and gain sooo much weight that we're... we're still Julia Roberts." Give me a break.
Aaaand exhale. I'm sorry for that explosion, and I'm more than open to hearing your reviews, whether or not you agree with me. Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe I just missed the point, but Eat Pray Love made me feel less like a vivacious foodie feminist and more like a moody semi-conservative in a theater full of menopausal women... and I was having hot flashes for a different reason. Sigh.
Today, I saw: a bad movie.
Today, I heard: a lot of people express surprise over the difference in my hair color. Still not used to it.
Today, I smelled: about forty different kinds of wine. I went with my mom and sisters to this cute little vineyard for dinner.
Today, I touched: a watermelon the size of my torso.
Today, I tasted: some kind of... fried pizza dough, dipped in... maybe marshmallow fluff? Whatever; I'm not too concerned. Probably not the best idea, but screw it, I'm a size four now.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,741
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
*I'm serious. With no previous warning, and with no follow-up whatsoever, there was an elephant. Doing nothing to advance any sort of plot. Just chilling, being an elephant, for the sake of being an elephant. It was as if they'd finished the film, and the director was like, "Oh my gosh. You guys. We're in India. LET'S GET AN ELEPHANT. Put that in there! I don't care where! Just insert an elephant clip! White folks go craaazy for that shit!"
P.S. High-fives and make-outs for those of you who caught my Elizabethtown quote in yesterday's post. Obscure!
Thursday, August 12, 2010
My Love Life
Hello, lovelies! Today was a good day. I did something SHOCKING! and decided to dye my hair back to its natural color, I got to hear a demo of a new Mike Lombardo song (so good), and I decided to alienate all my straight male readers by writing an entire paragraph about my boyfriend and my hair. I also posted a fiveawesomegirls video with terrible lighting, in which I make an inappropriate innuendo directed towards my engaged, female friend, and continue talking about my hair. And I took a shower. Really, I can see why you guys are so invested in my life; this crap's enthralling.
Anyway, I think it's about time to discuss a topic I've been asked about a lot lately, just to get it all out in the open and shoot down any possible rumors. I've been receiving quite a large number of questions concerning my love life. I'm going to officially address them now, once and for all, with the utmost maturity. Via a Myspace questionnaire from "pimpsurveys.com," entitled "Questions About You And Your Lover."
1. When did you guys start dating?
We met during my sophomore year of high school. I was sixteen. He was thirteen, but he'd just moved into my town.
2. How long have you been dating for?
You... really can't do that math? Four years.
3. How did you meet?
I'd heard a lot about him-- he was gaining popularity among the older kids at school-- but we first came into contact with each other during rehearsals for a musical I was in. Someone brought him over to me because I was stressed. He made me feel better.
4. Do you love him/her?
More than anything.
5. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with them?
I mean... I'd like to occasionally have a little something on the side, but I'd always choose him first.
6. Does he make you laugh and happy?
He makes me very happy. He doesn't exactly make me laugh, though.
7. Have you kissed?
The majority of the time that we're together, my lips are on him.
8. Do you like him for looks or personality?
Oh, both. He's gorgeous, but it's what's inside that counts.
9. Would he/she die for you?
He dies for me about once a week.
10. Would you die for him/her?
If our love continues at its current rate, he will probably be my cause of death. Yes.
So there you have it: my relationship with Chipotle, summed up into ten beautiful, grammatically-sound questions. I hope you're satisfied-- I just allowed you into a very personal part of my life. Me and Chipotle are special. We are intrepid. We carry on.
...I'm sorry for that. On to the sensing.
Today, I saw: myself in the mirror and gasped a little bit. It's going to take some time to get used to.
Today, I heard: aaaall about some lady's adventures in potty training her two-year-old. Hair salon conversations are extremely boring. It's like you're sitting in on a meeting for a club you don't belong to and have no desire to join.
Today, I smelled: fancy hair products I would never buy.
Today, I touched: two of my awesome friends from high school, Alyssa and Emiko. I went for a walk with my mom and brother at the park where my old cross-country team trains, and they ran over to me, covered in sweat. It was adorable.
Today, I tasted: arugula salad with roasted pine nuts.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,694
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
Anyway, I think it's about time to discuss a topic I've been asked about a lot lately, just to get it all out in the open and shoot down any possible rumors. I've been receiving quite a large number of questions concerning my love life. I'm going to officially address them now, once and for all, with the utmost maturity. Via a Myspace questionnaire from "pimpsurveys.com," entitled "Questions About You And Your Lover."
1. When did you guys start dating?
We met during my sophomore year of high school. I was sixteen. He was thirteen, but he'd just moved into my town.
2. How long have you been dating for?
You... really can't do that math? Four years.
3. How did you meet?
I'd heard a lot about him-- he was gaining popularity among the older kids at school-- but we first came into contact with each other during rehearsals for a musical I was in. Someone brought him over to me because I was stressed. He made me feel better.
4. Do you love him/her?
More than anything.
5. Do you want to spend the rest of your life with them?
I mean... I'd like to occasionally have a little something on the side, but I'd always choose him first.
6. Does he make you laugh and happy?
He makes me very happy. He doesn't exactly make me laugh, though.
7. Have you kissed?
The majority of the time that we're together, my lips are on him.
8. Do you like him for looks or personality?
Oh, both. He's gorgeous, but it's what's inside that counts.
9. Would he/she die for you?
He dies for me about once a week.
10. Would you die for him/her?
If our love continues at its current rate, he will probably be my cause of death. Yes.
So there you have it: my relationship with Chipotle, summed up into ten beautiful, grammatically-sound questions. I hope you're satisfied-- I just allowed you into a very personal part of my life. Me and Chipotle are special. We are intrepid. We carry on.
...I'm sorry for that. On to the sensing.
Today, I saw: myself in the mirror and gasped a little bit. It's going to take some time to get used to.
Today, I heard: aaaall about some lady's adventures in potty training her two-year-old. Hair salon conversations are extremely boring. It's like you're sitting in on a meeting for a club you don't belong to and have no desire to join.
Today, I smelled: fancy hair products I would never buy.
Today, I touched: two of my awesome friends from high school, Alyssa and Emiko. I went for a walk with my mom and brother at the park where my old cross-country team trains, and they ran over to me, covered in sweat. It was adorable.
Today, I tasted: arugula salad with roasted pine nuts.
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,694
Nail color: "Through the Grapevine," Wet 'n' Wild
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
A Note from The Situation
Hayley's off tonight.
So, while she laughs at this very clever Nalts video, I will fill you in.
Well she's off duty as a blogger. She's sitting on Skype on my other monitor, with beads and bows wrapped around her head, picking apart some beaded jewelry with a nail file and a piece of yarn.
She's not off because she doesn't care about you. It's quite the opposite. She's off because she does. She doesn't want to just write a post of nothing and have you be disappointed. She really does put a lot of time into what to write about. Sometimes it causes undue amounts of stress, especially on occasions like last night, when last-minute formatting issues sparked a minor emotional avalanche. All is now well, however.
I know this because, for the most part, the only time we have to spend together (and by 'spend' I mean 'skype') is at night, right before she goes to bed, which is also when she's writing her blog. And alot of our personal time together is spent by her talking/brainstorming/whining/writing her post for the night. I'm not complaining, I'm merely illustrating how high of a priority y'all are to her.
This whole being-far-apart thing will most likely become more difficult, seeing as she's about to go back to school, which is an additional 4 hours further from me than she is now, and I'm counting down the final days before leaving my last full-time job in an effort to spend more time touring, promoting the album, and trying to not start to death that way. Romantic artistic lifestyle? Maybe. But the most conducive method of ensuring we have time and money to hang out? Probably not. If we make enough from our respective 'careers' I'm going to attempt to take her with me on my trek to LA this January for my now-apparently-annual performance with Molly Lewis. Hayley says "The west coast is a big deal." Which is exactly why I don't want to go by myself again. What is the point of this? Doing what you love isn't so straightforward. By sticking with my regular full-time job, which I most certainly do NOT love, I have money to do things and go places with people I DO love. By quitting and doing what I 'love,' I make (far) less money but I'm doing that romanticized "living the american dream" we hear so much about. Quite a poser, indeed.
My collateral for writing this post? "If you want, I could pop out a couple of songs. A couple of jams. Slow jams. And...ballads."
Right now she's waving around a tube of toothpaste and poking at her webcam lens with a facial blush makeup brush.
"Are you just telling my blog that I'm crazy and weird?"
No.
So, while she laughs at this very clever Nalts video, I will fill you in.
Well she's off duty as a blogger. She's sitting on Skype on my other monitor, with beads and bows wrapped around her head, picking apart some beaded jewelry with a nail file and a piece of yarn.
She's not off because she doesn't care about you. It's quite the opposite. She's off because she does. She doesn't want to just write a post of nothing and have you be disappointed. She really does put a lot of time into what to write about. Sometimes it causes undue amounts of stress, especially on occasions like last night, when last-minute formatting issues sparked a minor emotional avalanche. All is now well, however.
I know this because, for the most part, the only time we have to spend together (and by 'spend' I mean 'skype') is at night, right before she goes to bed, which is also when she's writing her blog. And alot of our personal time together is spent by her talking/brainstorming/whining/writing her post for the night. I'm not complaining, I'm merely illustrating how high of a priority y'all are to her.
This whole being-far-apart thing will most likely become more difficult, seeing as she's about to go back to school, which is an additional 4 hours further from me than she is now, and I'm counting down the final days before leaving my last full-time job in an effort to spend more time touring, promoting the album, and trying to not start to death that way. Romantic artistic lifestyle? Maybe. But the most conducive method of ensuring we have time and money to hang out? Probably not. If we make enough from our respective 'careers' I'm going to attempt to take her with me on my trek to LA this January for my now-apparently-annual performance with Molly Lewis. Hayley says "The west coast is a big deal." Which is exactly why I don't want to go by myself again. What is the point of this? Doing what you love isn't so straightforward. By sticking with my regular full-time job, which I most certainly do NOT love, I have money to do things and go places with people I DO love. By quitting and doing what I 'love,' I make (far) less money but I'm doing that romanticized "living the american dream" we hear so much about. Quite a poser, indeed.
My collateral for writing this post? "If you want, I could pop out a couple of songs. A couple of jams. Slow jams. And...ballads."
Right now she's waving around a tube of toothpaste and poking at her webcam lens with a facial blush makeup brush.
"Are you just telling my blog that I'm crazy and weird?"
No.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
A short story?!
After I post something deeply personal on this blog-- like my entry about depression, or yesterday's about weight loss-- it almost takes me a while to recover. I've spent full hours today reading comments and emails, and I can't force myself to stop thinking about your stories. Your responses have made me laugh out loud, and think about my own life, and some of them have nearly brought me to tears. What's even more amazing is that every time I get to the end of the comments and refresh the page, ten more have appeared. It means the world to me that so many of you are daring enough to open up to a stranger, and that you trust me and this community with such personal testimonies. You are a beautiful group, and that's not something I say lightly, because the word "beautiful" is often annoyingly misused. But this is not a misuse. In fact, I'm pretty sure the entire internet's beauty quotient is currently being occupied in my blog comments. Don't even bother navigating away from this page; everything else you find will be ugly in comparison. You're all so beautiful, you make Tina Fey look like Carrot Top.
Anyway, I'm not quite ready to jump back into normal blogging tonight-- I think I need another day or so to mediate on the last one, and to continue reading your comments as they come in. I am, however, going to do something totally out of character. I'm going to take a faithful leap into my friend Kristina Horner's footsteps, and since she dared to post a short story yesterday, I'm going to dare to do the same. Keep in mind that I never do this, and that I'll probably keep my eyes partially closed in self-defense as I read your comments, but I guess it's about time.
I just opened my laptop's Short Stories folder, weeded out the ones with adult content (I mean like mild swearing and topics less relevant to this audience, you pervs; you would not want to see me attempt to write porn*), and then I pretty much looked away and pointed at a random file. This is a little vignette I once wrote for a class. We were prompted to tell a story with emphasis on a specific amount of time, and it had to be under a thousand words. But we weren't instructed to be melodramatic and predictable and utterly unremarkable. I just took that upon myself. So. Uhh. Here you go. You're allowed to laugh at me if you want... just don't tell me about it, okay?
" The toilet flushed, and so did my face. It sounded different. Even girls' toilets are different.
I didn't want to be staring hopelessly at the stall door when Claire came out, so I busied eyes to the best of my ability. I glanced at my reflection in the large mirror, splattered with the soap scum of strangers. I looked as out of place as I felt-- a six-foot hairy beast, standing next to a tampon dispenser and digging his fingernails into his palms. It occurred to me that I should say something. I opened my mouth, but my tongue was too dry and my heart was beating too hard.
The latch clicked, and Claire walked slowly out, her bottom lip bitten and her eyes closed. We stood in silence for some time, before she cleared her throat gently. "Are you going to say anything?"
Weird. Her tone was so unlike her-- flat, expressionless, almost intimidating-- but she looked like a sallow little version of the very same Claire. I don't know what I had been expecting. It had only been two months.
"I'm trying," I admitted.
"Yeah, well," she breathed, and I think I heard something like a gasp in the back of her throat. "I didn't wait for you to drive here so I could do this alone."
With a squeak of the heavy wooden door, a middle-aged woman entered the room. Seeing me in my big gray hoodie, the woman's eyes bulged. Claire turned her head sharply and stared at the sink counter, embarrassed.
"Uh... excuse us," I managed to say in a somewhat normal voice, sending a startling baritone echo off the tile floor and walls. The scandalized woman parted her lips and turned quickly to leave, muttering something containing the words "public rest stop" and "indecency." I watched the woman exit and felt another pang of anxiousness when I spotted the blue cardboard box in the trashcan by the door. The same box I'd concealed inside my sweatshirt on my way out of CVS, and the same box whose contents were now being held between Claire's forefinger and thumb, calculating the answer to the question I'd been meditating on ever since she called and asked me to drive over, immediately.
Claire stayed frozen with her eyes cast downward. She was wearing a little white dress, and there were goosebumps up her exposed arms. It was June. I unzipped my sweatshirt-- mostly to buy time before I had to think of something else to say-- and I placed it over her shoulders. She looked for a second like she wanted to slink her arms into its sleeves, but she kept both hands steady on the little blue stick she held.
How have you been? I imagined her asking. Then I could reply, and say something like, I've thought about you. I still care about you enough to be here. I'm here, aren't I? I had to give my mom an excuse, and I had to pay for gas, and I'm here. In a girls' bathroom on the side of the highway, so you didn't have to do this at home, and you didn't have to do this alone. I'm here.
But she didn't say anything, or further acknowledge the sweatshirt, or give me any meaningful glances to let me know that she didn't blame me. She just stood there. Blaming me.
Finally, she said, "You stopped calling me."
"I didn't think you wanted me to. I saw pictures of you with that guy--"
Claire pushed a puff of air out through her nose. "On Facebook?"
"Uh." My shoes looked muddy. Had it been raining outside? Had I walked into the highway rest stop in such a nervous stupor that I hadn't noticed rain? "Yeah, I guess I saw them on Facebook."
Claire opened her eyes a little wider, as if to suggest that she would have found this funny, if she were currently capable of feeling anything but fear and disdain. She might have said, I guess we came full circle, then. I might have nodded and mused that, several months ago, when I saw a pretty girl on a mutual friend's profile, I never would have guessed that I'd spend spring break driving an hour back and forth between Pittsburgh and New Castle every available day, just to feel her against me, or that those short weeks when we were a We would bring us... here.
Because Claire said nothing, I dared to ask the question I'd been harping on all morning, alone in my mom's SUV. "Did... did you want me to keep calling you?"
But just as the words left my mouth, the phone timer in her dress pocket dinged. We looked at the little blue stick in her hands, and then at each other. For as out of sync as we had been in the past two months, Claire and I quietly gasped in unison, as she turned the little blue stick over in her shaking hand. "
So... that's, like, a story. It's no masterpiece, but I don't think it's terrible. Whether you like it or not, I hope you appreciate that I just took a serious risk in showing you. Lucky bitches. On to the sensing!
Today, I saw: about six episodes from the third season of 30 Rock. Ugh, I want to be Liz Lemon.
Today, I heard: "Freebird" playing over the grocery store loudspeaker, which was enough for me to momentarily forget that I don't play guitar. There may have been some rocking out in the shampoo aisle.
Today, I smelled: my own sweat in mass quantities, when I took a psychotically long and grueling cross-country run. Seventy minutes! It felt good. And also awful. Runners know what I mean.
Today, I touched: a fresh blister on my foot. Ooooww.
Today, I tasted: two servings of my favorite dark chocolate, because when you run, you're allowed to consume twice as many calories, right?
Once again, I'm looking forward to reading your comments on today's post, as well as any more on yesterday's. I hope you all have a lovely Wednesday, and I'll see you tomorrow night!
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,595
Nail color: Gasp! Blank. I'm in the process.
*Alright, if you INSIST. It was a dark and stormy night. Two people were in a house, and then they got it on and stuff. It was exciting and undignified and kind of gross, and everyone was really into it. Now pay me lots of money for that thrill I just provided you.
Anyway, I'm not quite ready to jump back into normal blogging tonight-- I think I need another day or so to mediate on the last one, and to continue reading your comments as they come in. I am, however, going to do something totally out of character. I'm going to take a faithful leap into my friend Kristina Horner's footsteps, and since she dared to post a short story yesterday, I'm going to dare to do the same. Keep in mind that I never do this, and that I'll probably keep my eyes partially closed in self-defense as I read your comments, but I guess it's about time.
I just opened my laptop's Short Stories folder, weeded out the ones with adult content (I mean like mild swearing and topics less relevant to this audience, you pervs; you would not want to see me attempt to write porn*), and then I pretty much looked away and pointed at a random file. This is a little vignette I once wrote for a class. We were prompted to tell a story with emphasis on a specific amount of time, and it had to be under a thousand words. But we weren't instructed to be melodramatic and predictable and utterly unremarkable. I just took that upon myself. So. Uhh. Here you go. You're allowed to laugh at me if you want... just don't tell me about it, okay?
" The toilet flushed, and so did my face. It sounded different. Even girls' toilets are different.
I didn't want to be staring hopelessly at the stall door when Claire came out, so I busied eyes to the best of my ability. I glanced at my reflection in the large mirror, splattered with the soap scum of strangers. I looked as out of place as I felt-- a six-foot hairy beast, standing next to a tampon dispenser and digging his fingernails into his palms. It occurred to me that I should say something. I opened my mouth, but my tongue was too dry and my heart was beating too hard.
The latch clicked, and Claire walked slowly out, her bottom lip bitten and her eyes closed. We stood in silence for some time, before she cleared her throat gently. "Are you going to say anything?"
Weird. Her tone was so unlike her-- flat, expressionless, almost intimidating-- but she looked like a sallow little version of the very same Claire. I don't know what I had been expecting. It had only been two months.
"I'm trying," I admitted.
"Yeah, well," she breathed, and I think I heard something like a gasp in the back of her throat. "I didn't wait for you to drive here so I could do this alone."
With a squeak of the heavy wooden door, a middle-aged woman entered the room. Seeing me in my big gray hoodie, the woman's eyes bulged. Claire turned her head sharply and stared at the sink counter, embarrassed.
"Uh... excuse us," I managed to say in a somewhat normal voice, sending a startling baritone echo off the tile floor and walls. The scandalized woman parted her lips and turned quickly to leave, muttering something containing the words "public rest stop" and "indecency." I watched the woman exit and felt another pang of anxiousness when I spotted the blue cardboard box in the trashcan by the door. The same box I'd concealed inside my sweatshirt on my way out of CVS, and the same box whose contents were now being held between Claire's forefinger and thumb, calculating the answer to the question I'd been meditating on ever since she called and asked me to drive over, immediately.
Claire stayed frozen with her eyes cast downward. She was wearing a little white dress, and there were goosebumps up her exposed arms. It was June. I unzipped my sweatshirt-- mostly to buy time before I had to think of something else to say-- and I placed it over her shoulders. She looked for a second like she wanted to slink her arms into its sleeves, but she kept both hands steady on the little blue stick she held.
How have you been? I imagined her asking. Then I could reply, and say something like, I've thought about you. I still care about you enough to be here. I'm here, aren't I? I had to give my mom an excuse, and I had to pay for gas, and I'm here. In a girls' bathroom on the side of the highway, so you didn't have to do this at home, and you didn't have to do this alone. I'm here.
But she didn't say anything, or further acknowledge the sweatshirt, or give me any meaningful glances to let me know that she didn't blame me. She just stood there. Blaming me.
Finally, she said, "You stopped calling me."
"I didn't think you wanted me to. I saw pictures of you with that guy--"
Claire pushed a puff of air out through her nose. "On Facebook?"
"Uh." My shoes looked muddy. Had it been raining outside? Had I walked into the highway rest stop in such a nervous stupor that I hadn't noticed rain? "Yeah, I guess I saw them on Facebook."
Claire opened her eyes a little wider, as if to suggest that she would have found this funny, if she were currently capable of feeling anything but fear and disdain. She might have said, I guess we came full circle, then. I might have nodded and mused that, several months ago, when I saw a pretty girl on a mutual friend's profile, I never would have guessed that I'd spend spring break driving an hour back and forth between Pittsburgh and New Castle every available day, just to feel her against me, or that those short weeks when we were a We would bring us... here.
Because Claire said nothing, I dared to ask the question I'd been harping on all morning, alone in my mom's SUV. "Did... did you want me to keep calling you?"
But just as the words left my mouth, the phone timer in her dress pocket dinged. We looked at the little blue stick in her hands, and then at each other. For as out of sync as we had been in the past two months, Claire and I quietly gasped in unison, as she turned the little blue stick over in her shaking hand. "
So... that's, like, a story. It's no masterpiece, but I don't think it's terrible. Whether you like it or not, I hope you appreciate that I just took a serious risk in showing you. Lucky bitches. On to the sensing!
Today, I saw: about six episodes from the third season of 30 Rock. Ugh, I want to be Liz Lemon.
Today, I heard: "Freebird" playing over the grocery store loudspeaker, which was enough for me to momentarily forget that I don't play guitar. There may have been some rocking out in the shampoo aisle.
Today, I smelled: my own sweat in mass quantities, when I took a psychotically long and grueling cross-country run. Seventy minutes! It felt good. And also awful. Runners know what I mean.
Today, I touched: a fresh blister on my foot. Ooooww.
Today, I tasted: two servings of my favorite dark chocolate, because when you run, you're allowed to consume twice as many calories, right?
Once again, I'm looking forward to reading your comments on today's post, as well as any more on yesterday's. I hope you all have a lovely Wednesday, and I'll see you tomorrow night!
Chipotle burritos this year: 23
Subscribers: 32,595
Nail color: Gasp! Blank. I'm in the process.
*Alright, if you INSIST. It was a dark and stormy night. Two people were in a house, and then they got it on and stuff. It was exciting and undignified and kind of gross, and everyone was really into it. Now pay me lots of money for that thrill I just provided you.
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