Cursive is still a thing, okay?

I’m not cut out for this.

I stared at his little mustache and his slim little beard, the way they turn down into a hard U with his mouth – I stared at them for a solid three minutes this morning.  His room is one hundred years old, just like the house, and all of the light in his room comes in through the dirty window panes just behind my head.  The windows are like his headboard, but I’m the only one that really notices the windows and the morning light and the little prickly hairs.  

By habit, he sleeps with a “face shirt.”  To keep the light out in the mornings.  I could probably get myself a face shirt too, they’re strewn all about his room for easy pickings, but I like getting woken by the light.  I like the clarity it provides me when my eyes first open, even without my extremely strong glasses prescription sitting on the stool beside the bed.  I like that, without my glasses, I can see perfectly clear the moment I wake up.  I see half of his face, just there, lips lightly touching themselves with an air of confidence that evaporates the instant the face shirt comes off and he awakens.  I see the black little furs prickling into shapes, and prickling in places that don’t really make sense.  The little stache hairs over the upper left side of his lip are a little long, and I think about the tiny little scissors he uses to trim them.  

The disarray of his room, the shield of his shirt, and the protruding hairs all around his face, the hairs that have nothing to do with the mustache or the beard – I remember his shaking hands.  His hands shake a lot; he doesn’t believe me about getting enough protein.  I try not to tell him things like “You’re not eating enough protein,” because those are the types of things girlfriends say, because they kind of have a say.  I’m part of the room, I’m part of the disarray.  I’m not his girlfriend, I am his lover.  But that doesn’t make me any less of a person.  A person with a personality.  A personality that cares and gives, simply by nature.  I can keep coming to this room, and waking with this light.  I can keep my skin stuck to his skin in the sweat that comes with an old home, no AC.  But I can’t keep caring that his hands are shaky.  It would just help if he would stop telling me about his shaky hands.  Because then I think about them, and then I care about them, and then I feel more like a companion and less like a casual lover.  This is not good.


Sunday, January 10th, 2012.

There’s a small one-family home, older, with hard-wood floors, grungy walls, and no lighting, save for a strand of Christmas lights running through the main room and out onto the large back deck.  The house is void of furniture, as it’s all on the back deck to make a floor space for the show that will take place there that night.  It’s a college house that doubles as a venue for local musicians and painters.  The walls are covered with small, amateur canvases from past art shows, and the living room is filled with musical equipment.  There are voices muffled, coming from the back door when you stand inside.  The screen door smacks shut every 30 second when someone comes in, or someone goes out.  The backyard is filled with people.  The spring semester starts back the next day, and everyone who left town is now back.  The back deck is set up as a living room, with two couches and a coffee table.  People fill the couches, PBR cans litter the table, and the wooden porch railing is lined with perchers flirting with standers.  There’s music coming from a speaker somewhere.  It’s non-descript.  Our main character, Ashley, is perched on the arm of a couch, with her casted leg resting on the cushion next to her.  Her crutches lean on the railing behind her.  She’s comfortable there.  It’s her friend’s house, she knows all the artists, she knows everyone at the show.  She’s there with her best friend and roommate, Melissa.  Melissa is a small girl, with a sweet disposition and delicate features.  Melissa is Ashley’s chauffeur for the night, as it is Ashley’s right foot that is broken, and she can’t drive.  Ashley sips on a beer and laughs at something someone in the circle has said.  The scene goes back inside the house, where a van pulls up into the driveway, and four young men hop out and bring in their instruments.  There’s a poster on the wall advertising the event, the headline band reads: JOSE OYOLA & SAM PERDUTA, OF BERLIN, CT.  Out-of-towners.  The young men set down their instruments and walk out to the back deck, one in particular holding a bottle of whiskey they had all split.  His name is James.  He’s tall, dressed a little shabbily, and has burly-ish features, with soft eyes.  Cut to later in the night.  There’s music playing from in the house, but Ashley is still on the couch.  Melissa gets up to go to the bathroom.  James plops down in her place.

Tomorrow, I get to take my toothbrush to a boys house.  He told me I should.  He invited me to stay.  He wants me to stay.  He wants my teeth to be clean in the morning, because I will  be there in the morning, and that’s something he wants.  My toothbrush will be welcome in a boys bathroom.  

22 years old, and I may finally be starting my first decent relationship.  With toothbrushes, and a side of the bed that’s mine, mine, mine.

Daily Prompt: I’d Like to Thank My Cats

The weight of this cheap plastic trophy, likely ordered from a place where thousands of identical cheap plastic trophies are created and distributed, weighs in my hands as though it was not truly there at all.  As though it’s only really exists if you look at it and acknowledge it.  This trophy holds no weight.  My award holds no weight.  

Don’t get me wrong, guys, I appreciate being awarded “World’s Most Average Person,”  I think I had it coming…but I’ll admit it’s a depressing, empty title to accept.  

As a child, I was the smartest.  I read the most books.  I was the asshole other kids kind of couldn’t stand, and the angel teachers loved to slap stickers on.  I was motivated to help out in the Library, create my own drawing lessons business, and read every book I could get my grubby little fingers on.  I was the smart kid.

I was also the fat kid.  I played Gameboy instead of kicking a ball around at recess.  I had a couple friends, but they were kind of like me.  They validated my personality, and I didn’t know this wasn’t the way I should be.  My parents never encouraged me to do much beyond get straight A’s and behave.  I never learned to play the piano.  I never joined any clubs.  I was the smartest, but I see now how relatively useless this was.

Well, years go by.  I’m still smart in middle school, high school…I still retain my hard wit and dark humor.  But my motivation evaporates.  I no longer care about reading.  I couldn’t care less about what my teachers thought of me.  I didn’t have any interests, any hobbies.  I had my best friend, and that’s all I wanted.  I wanted to live my life.  I didn’t get a job, or an internship.  I went to the movies, and slid by in class.  Homework was a joke.  Apart from the evils of mathematics, I could hardly pay attention and ace most of my tests.  School has never been hard.  Then again, everything is standardized these days.  If you’re a good test taker, like me, then you’re golden.  But as I graduate from college, I’m realizing that the way I’ve skated by, acing everything, was the worst thing I could possibly do for myself.

I don’t remember shit.  I have so skills, I have no talents, I have no drive.  The one thing I feel relatively good at is written and verbal communication.  Great skills to have, but not without motivation.  I almost never write unless I’ve been assigned something.  Some of the most beautiful things I’ve ever written were college essays for classes that had nothing to do with writing.  I bottle up my talent for lack of creativity and lack of motivation to plug said talent into an outlet, and coming out of school, I long once more for the graded essay.  I feel as though I’ll never write again if I don’t get a grade.  

I am average.  I am the most average person in the world.  Thank you for this award.  I truly deserve it.  I will sit at this desk, under these fluorescent lights, working in a field I could not give less of a fuck about, licking envelopes and getting migraines.  I feel stupid.  I feel like I can’t learn anymore.  

Maybe I need someone to physically threaten me in order to light a fire under my ass.  Is that really what it takes these days?  Is it just me, or is this my generation?  I see people my age, with college degrees, not even trying to find work in the field they want to work in.  They’re resigned to dish washing and clerical work.  8 bucks an hour.  Forever.

Average is no way to live.  It’s no way to breathe.  But thanks for the award anyway…I’ll mount it right next to my diploma.

Raggedy Expectations

This week, I’m making my very first solo roadtrip.  I head south Wednesday for a music festival with my pals in central Florida.  I find myself completely giddy to get out of this godforsaken town for a few days, to hang out with people other than the friends I’ve come to loathe and resent.  The music festival will be full of color, sound, new scents, and fresh faces.  I’m frickin’ ecstatic.  

So ecstatic, I’ve begun to daydream for these little pockets of time.  I’ll slip into the daydream with something as simple as thinking about the clothes I plan I packing.  Then I start to imagine the types of shows and occassions I’ll be dressing for.  Do I have anything remotely weird and hip enough for some of this stuff?  Hmm…there’s that vintage cloth bathing suit I found at Goodwill and few weeks ago.  It’s so funky and flattering.  It reminds me of a sexy Raggedy Ann costume.  Where the hell would I wear that?  Maybe there will be a sexy Raggedy Ann costume contest.  I’d wear the suit, with a red wig, and doll makeup.  I’d get on stage, because of course I’ve won in my fabulous find, and I’ll dance for the crowd.  I’ll be happy.  I’ll feel free from judgement, because who the hell are these people?  I don’t know these people.  The crowd cheers at my quirky dance moves, and the man with the mic tell me to twerk.  I can honestly say I don’t even know what that looks like, but all the kids are talking about it these days.  I look at the man with the mic, and say “Fool, Raggedy Ann wouldn’t even know how to twerk.”  And then I start doing the Twist and the Charleston, and the guy just shrugs.  

Snap.  End of fantastic daydream.  I hope my trip lives up to these expectations, because shit.

Come on, bitch, you can do this.

I’ve never had the urge to start a blog.  I’ve never even had the urge to read a blog.  While attempting to move past the compulsion to have a solid piece of paper in my hand, and accepting this forum as a true step away from my stubborn habits, I am going to start writing in this blog.  I hope to make a daily effort, but at the very least, weekly.  

A little about myself…I can be cold.  I can be sarcastic, vulgar, and blunt.  It’s odd, because the way I write and the way I think are two very different things.  I’m actually a very warm and open person.  I like to smile at people on the elevator.  Sometimes I’ll ask a stranger about their day.  But the way I write is something in and of itself.  I’m a little stiff.  A little short.  A little stunted in the way I transfer my emotions and perceptions onto a visible screen, viewable by whomever so pleases.  

I don’t express myself.  I often don’t understand my emotions or the emotions of others.  Sometimes I make decisions that I know are morally reprehensible, but not by my standards…by the way I know others will react.  It’s difficult to take this as a guideline when I want to do something that doesn’t feel wrong.

I rarely write for fun, even though writing is what I feel I could be great at.  It’s the one thing I’ve excelled in over the years, from essays to poems to short stories.  The thing is, I work well under assignment.  I admit that writing daily or weekly without prompt or assignment, willy nilly on the internet, is going to be quite a challenge for me.  I plan on ranging my blog from everyday occurrences (only if they are interesting, of course), to social blunders that seem to be on the rise for myself in my particular group of friends, to pieces of prose, whether they be short or long. 

I hope to not write a lot like I’m writing right now.  If there’s no structure to the format I’m writing in, like in this instance, then I will be likely to prattle on about this and that.  I really could talk forever about things.  It’s not a great quality to have.  I need to know how to create a proper beginning, middle, and end in everyday conversation, but then again, I’ve never been a good story teller.  I’m descriptive, objective, and thorough.  It’s great for certain things, but it can be a real bitch for a reader who just wants me to get to the point.  I know this.  I’m working on this.

This blog is an exercise for me.  I would truly love for it to turn into something closer to my heart.  Something I very much care about.  If that happens, I can guarantee something beautiful will happen.  I can only hope that this blog becomes an outlet like I’ve never experienced before.  I’ve never had a diary, or a sole confidante.  I’ve never been an open book.  But that’s what I want.  I want to be an open book.  Maybe if I can achieve that emotionally, I’ll be able to write a book one day.  A novel, a short story, a poem…something that says more about me to the world than I could ever be brave enough to let slip through my lips.

Come on, bitch, you can do this.