Sunday, April 27, 2008

I should

pull a Chris McCandless and make this whole thing just a record of what I have eaten.

April 27th:
wheat toast
symphony bar
coffee


One could argue that my list isn't cool because I didn't actually have to hunt down any of these things.

But then One could not read my blog.

Saturday, April 26, 2008

Girl Sailor

Sail her don't sink her this time




So much salt on my edamame. and the shins are singing about something or other. i really don't care for diet coke but it'll do. (and oh how that last sentence is symbolic for other things. you know, symbolism, like how mrs. smyley used to talk about Gatsby.) also, there should be a huge candy bar in this picture except i left it out. because the way i eat is appalling.

it is relatively possible that i have messed things up quite properly for myself this time. all though i don't regret because i feel myself learning as we speak. at least i think that's what that sick feeling in my stomach is. the gaining of knowledge. maybe it's just all the diet coke and cookies. or anxiety. nope, definitely going to go with knowledge.

i think i may just take a nap now ladies and gentlemen.

Monday, April 21, 2008

Things I've never been, never done, never claimed.

Me: I've never been ThisGirl. Never been the one to be bothered with this sort of thing.

Him: Just say it, you're jealous.

Me: No.

Him: Just say it.

Me: No.

Him: Well then you should probably let it go.

Me: ...

Him: Cuz I can't help you.

Me: Never asked you to.

Him: Well then what are you going to do?

Me: Probably get back at you somehow.

Him: God Manda.

Me: (sips coffee)

Him:
You're serious, aren't you?

Me: Yes. Quite.

Him: That's not healthy.

Me: Never claimed it was...never claimed I was.

Him
: (sips coffee)... so I think your upstairs neighbors are on meth.

Me: Because they pace the floor all night?

Him:
Yes.

Me: I think they are feng shui-ing the apartment.

Him:
or organizing their sock drawer.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Zero to Zero.

My phone tugs me out of slumber at 4AM.

and I genuinely don't know why I answer it.

half asleep I slide out of my comforter and into a pair of pants. grab my keys off the coffee table. leave the porch light on.

Repeat: it's just a ride home. over and over in my head.

he is too drunk to give me a cross street but I find the bar with relatively no trouble.

he pours himself from the pavement into my car where I am blasting Bodysnatchers and asks: who is this?

I turn my head slowly toward him and, in a tone that is mostly void with a hint of areyoufuckingkiddingme, I reply: Radiohead.

I pull out a cigarette. Not because I want one but because I know he hates them. The air outside is cold as I roll down the window to lite up at the next light. I defiantly keep my face forward as I silently dare him to not be attracted to me. Bad habits and all.

He turns his face the opposite way and in a tone that states; I see your bet and raise the stakes; he says: turn right.

His place is straight. Mine is right.

It's just a ride home. It's just a ride home.

He is defiantly keeping his face to the right. Daring me to gather up what little willpower I own and drop him off on his doorstep.

The smoke is beginning to burn my throat. I realize I hate smoking.

The light is green. I hesitate. I turn right.

Later on, as I am thinking to myself how he won, he grabs my chin so I am starring straight into his face.

I'm a good guy, you know. I'm one of the good ones. he says.

I squirm in his direct stare and with as much indifference as I can muster I say: Yeah, sure.

He is wounded and the score is even.

Zero to Zero.