I'm Sorry, Storm

i read my last post. WOW. (wow, but not wow...actually i've been hyper gassy for the past ten minutes, so wow.) I was uncharacteristically emotional that day but i've since sobered up and smothered all those pesky little girl feelings. Mostly in part to a relatively so-so book about clown sex, spousal abuse, deaf humor, and a murder most foul . Hats off to daniel for the recommendation and the subsequent hours spent stifling hellishly visceral laughter. Laughter so gutturally repugnant you flail your head from side to side like a horizontal light switch to check if the dead has in fact been raised. (So what if i'm overselling it a bit. You weren't there. You don't know.)

Here's the clincher: i have seven pages left, and have abandoned said seven pages for over 24 hours. As it is now, the story is completely open, dangling with possibilities. And once i jiggle and jostle those last drops, zip, it's over. But its become this big, bloated thing, hanging over me waiting to burst. Like a long, drawn-out relationship, where i wish she'd just spontaneously combust so i wouldn't have to end it. I don't mean that. It's only, i get scared when it becomes this serious, not just some lusty literary fling. Ah damn, i have to end it...the irony is killing me.

The name? How completely indifferent of me, her name was Apathy and Other Small Victories. If you ever happen to run into each other (which you will and should because she can make you real happy) tell her i said whatever.

An excerpt:
"He looked at me the way my mom did that time she caught me officiating the wedding of Mr. Potato Head and He-Man. I had just said, "You may now kiss the bride," when I looked up she was standing in the doorway. I was fourteen years old, and I was not wearing pants."

For an eleven year-old you used to pimp out his Storm action-figure to Mr. Sinister and Hobgoblin, mashing their super parts together and providing foreplay dialogue, i lived in fear of "the look."

Foul Language

An essay gave me diarrhea.

Two days ago i forced out a violently crappy piece of, well, writing. Pungently terrible writing. In fact "writing" is too strong a word, more precisely, a muddy puddle of words dribbled out of me in slow, toxic spurts. I "wrote" for most of the night. When i woke up i had some loose ends to...who am i kidding, i was cranking out that sick pile in between trips to the bathroom. Typing for a few minutes, then obeying my bowels.

How could i have made myself sick over a "Death of a Salesman" essay?I knew this material inside and out, i mean i won my damn debate didn't i?

After my butt stopped grumbling i realized, gee whiz, i'm a pretty shitty writer...good for a laugh, i guess, but how am i gonna support my family with that? I'm going to a pseudo-college, with a plastic major, for a syntheitc career. Damn, what am i doing here?

Something Cool (working title)

A-hap-py birth-day, A-hap-py brith-day...

All i want for today is rain, so make it happen God.

Byecycle Blues

My palms were white-knuckled oceans of sweat. The back of my legs were a population of gashes and scrapes. And my fanny was, and still is, sorer than a freshly raped anus. But in spite of my battle scars i'm finding it hard not to smile. You would too if you had just learned how to ride a bike...except you wouldn't because you do know how. Everyone does. But until yesterday i was still a two-wheeled virgin veering off into gutters and parked cars.

The moment I got on the bike i figured it would be the same though. I would hoist my awkward mass onto the unsuspecting seat, wobble for four seconds, curse, and then quit. But Anaoshak wouldn't let me quit. The only thing he would let me do is peddle. "Just peddle, you can't fall if you just keep peddling," haha...if only someone had forced me to just keep peddling when I was growing up. (The transition from trike to bike is a liminal journey, one that affects how a child views setbacks. Recovering from my biking wounds has taken much longer than the average human.)

There are few things still left in the world that make me giddy with child glee, and bike riding is one of them. I wanted to take a faded Polaroid with my helmet on, smiling an innocently wide-eyed grin...like a tiny hand print in clay. I've been saying goodbye alot these days...it feels comforting to say goodbye to something i'm glad is gone. Thanks anaoshak, the fanny was for you.

Happy Anniversary

Disclaimer: This was for me and to remind myself of who i am. I have this weird habit of writing for a certain person, a specific audience to entertain with my cleverness. I'm writing for me. This post is confusing, pretentious, and will be judged...Enjoy.

I am happy at times. I smile, queue laughter. Words are spoken to me and I respond with words in kind.

I am shallow. I judge things that others have no control over. I punish myself, judging things I have no control over.

I am passive. I repeat words that do not belong to me, constantly. Words bring me close to others. Shared words.

I am alone. I listen, say little. Words only escape through song. The words are about me, my life, my problems, my happiness. I am selfish. I make them about me; warp them to satisfy a need for attention. I hear "we" and it hurts. I am not we.

Humans lack the ability to truly understand one another. This is proof. But that's ok...I'm here to help sort it out.

I am not what I am, an assortment of maladroit emotions, but rather, what I have. Precious things like moodswings, magnificent shifts in perspective. Memories. Dogs, and the selfless act of caring for a living thing that is dependent on your love. My sense of humor, a series of flimsy sutures suppressing childhood hemorrhages. The strength to rise. I have sarcasm to take the edge off, like two advil's. Unconditional love from my creators, mom and dad. humility. Potential to change. And then there's you...do i even have to mention you guys. I may hate what i am, but by god, i love what i have...

This was for me and to remind myself of who i am. I have this weird habit of writing for a certain person, to entertain them with my cleverness. I'm writing for me.

This year it was better.

But It Looks Like Jaundice

If the world were made of legos most of us would be asian...

Still here.

I was in bed...ready for sleep...but nothing happened...it's been about two hours and I can't stand it.

So here I am.

If you had a floor-plan of my house you would know that my computer is located in the kitchen. This means that I would have to trek all the way from my bed...down the hallway...passed the living room (stepping on every damn toy kyden decided to leave sprawled out on the floor...like shiny, plastic mines. One plushy plaything even started giggling as i accidentally mashed my foot into his torso)...and through the dining room.

Yes, I did all of this just so I could tell you I'm lonely...I'm lonely and I can't fall asleep. Not sad, balling, hyperventilating loneliness, just a craving for someone to lay beside me...a teddy human. The feeling reminds me of when i was little and my mom would sit on the toilet seat as i showered. I had just earned the right to shower alone--no bath, no brother, no ducky, and no mommy--but, alas, mommy was there. Everything was going smoothly...I lathered my hair, stuck my head under the water, and, suddenly, everything went black. The second I closed my eyes Chucky, Jason Voorhees, Freddy Krueger, and Michael Meyers (think Halloween, not Austen Powers) were all waiting outside my shower curtain, calling dibs on my assorted body parts. It was like a horror movie monsters tea party had burst from my imagination and into my parent's master bath...so I did what any traumatized child would do: I shrieked,"mmmMMMOOOOOOoomm!," inhale,"mmmMOOOOOOoomm." In came mommy, faster than you can say "Freddy vs. Jason." She promised to stay with me until i had finished counting to one hundred (how else would I know when to stop rinsing my hair?).

Every ten seconds or so I would quietly ask:
"Still there?"
to which she'd reply softly:
"Still here."

...Ironically, my mom isn't home tonight. Not that i would be crawling into her bed or falling asleep to her stroking my hair as she sits uncomfortably in my plastic Ikea chair but...i crave her "goodnight." But mainly i crave a goodnight from any loved one at this moment...so goodnight friends.

hahaha...life is as funny as it is random, goodnight raghav.