pakalolo

when one more person visits this page, the counter will be at 1000.
whoever you are, i'd like you to know that you hold a special place in my heart.
ha.

grrrrr being stuck inside on a saturday night. When i have teenage children i will let them roam free through the city.

There's a lot that i want to write about, but i can't find the words. Maybe eventually.

the mathematical equation that is my weekend so far:
- only two hours of sleep
+ watching the sunrise
- four hour long lectures on college
- dissapearing parents
- them not dissapearing entirely
+ hot negatives
- no chemicals to make prints
+ having things to write about
- not being coherent on two hours sleep
+ getting to know people i've admired from afar
- no one is ever as perfect as i think they'll be
+ but they're still pretty damn cool
- having reservations about hard drugs that i can't justify
+ having my brain be intact
+ violent samarai ballet movies
- falling asleep half way through

Aim improv comedy
(an entire one half of the credits go to the lovely Ms. ptitza, in the role of Mary Kate Olson, whose long overdue link can now be found to the right)


MARY KATE OLSON: (small voice) feeeed me ... just one triscuit ... i promise not to tell.

MANAGER: what will the press say when you can't fit into your size -1 dresses mary kate?

MARY KATE: i.... i can get them altered.....

MANAGER: we can't have them calling you Mary Ate olsen now, can we

MARY KATE: (frantically) we can... cut out the size tag and ... and sew it onto another dress ... pleeeease...... one little triscuit won't hurt?

MANAGER: the public isn't BLIND mary kate. you're already the fat twin

MARY KATE: (clawing with her bony little fingers) (begins to cry) i know... i'm the weak one...

MANAGER: did you just touch the triscuit

MARY KATE: (wiping a grain of salt off on dress) NOOOOO!!!

MANAGER: do you know how many calories you just absorbed into your blood stream with that touch!?!! quick, go cut off a limb so you'll weigh less

MARY KATE: (jumps up and down) i didn't touch it! i didn't!
(quickly) ashley eats her chapstick!!!!!! she puts it on and then she chews it off her lips!

MANAGER: alright, but if at our daily weighing time you;re 0.012 pounds heavier, you're in for it missy

MARY KATE: i saw her do it! believe me! you have to believe me!

MANAGER: now you know ashley's the thin one, she can eat whatever she likes and not gain a pound. but i don't want you to get any ideas

MARY KATE: (wiping tears away with fluttery hands)

MANAGER: give me your chapstick!

MARY KATE: but... but... it was her! (tries to conceal a tube of cocoa-flavored bonnie bell behind her back) i.... i'm so good! i'm the good one!

MANAGER: oh fine! I've had enough of this. give me the chapstick and you can have this grain of salt (grain of salt in center of huge empty plate)

MARY KATE: (licks her dry lips hungrily) (weakly, in a soft monotone) it's not chapstick it's bonnie bell

MANAGER: Alright ready? its time for that hamburger shot. i want you to wear these rubber gloves so you don't absorb any grease while you hold the fries

MARY KATE: (extends arm as though expecting injection) (despondant) ohhh.... i thought you meant.....

MANAGER: hahaha

MARY KATE: (sniffles)

MANAGER: (quickly shoots insulin into arm when MK begins to faint, then hides needle behind back)

MARY KATE: (wobbling back and forth)

MANAGER: be strong mary kate! remember, tomorrows your monthly celery stalk treat

MARY KATE: (tries to jump up and down giddily but only collapses like a marionette into a chair)

An exerpt from my diary in fourth grade

"Dear Diary,
Here is a funny little play

brownie (judge)
caline and zazoo (suspects)
fudge (guard)

6 states have been bombed

Fudge (holding a gun to caline's head): do you confess having bombed these 6 states?
Caline: yes

I'm finished"

also, a conspiracy theory:

"March 19, 1997

Dear Diary,
the days 19
the years 97
also i'm 9, and there are 2 9's in 19 and 97"

if anyone has the time to read the whole thing, comments on that last story would be so lovely.

This weekend has been ok but i am going slightly stir crazy. Will someone come serenade me at my window, then whisk me away on a galloping white horse? that would be nice.


EDIT: oh my goodness, Dakota just did that! without the white horse, but it was excellent nonetheless. she is the queen of my heart.

Disclaimer: While some of this is may be true, almost all of it has been somehow changed or invented to suit my devious purposes.

Disclaimer # 2: This is a first draft. any and all constructive criticism will be taken to heart and incorporated into the writing immediately

A Story About How All Of Life Is a Metaphor For Itself

I step carefully over the broken beer bottles crushed into the dirty grey linoleum, wishing I’d worn something other than flip flops. I swing through the glass doors that would later be smashed in a fight between two young coke dealers. It was spring time on Spring St. and this party was so dirty it verged on poetic. When I arrive around nine forty five, there’s a line of teenagers that stretches up the many flights of stairs, waiting to get in. A strange smell wraps through the place, and I spend my slow climb to the top wondering about it. It isn’t only stale beer, the smell of so many bodies pressed together, it is something musky, almost primitive. “You know what this smells like?” says a guy loudly when I am finally right outside Camille’s apartment. “You know what this smells like??” and a few people fall silent to listen. “This smells like eviction.”
Camille’s apartment is small and most of the two hundred people there have climbed one more flight of stairs to her roof, where it is possible to breath. But rumors spread quickly that the ceiling is cracking, and the drunken private school teenagers trample each other on their way back down. A watermelon had been thrown about and pieces of it cling to the walls. The alcohol is all gone, and those who’d arrived late are distraught. An alcohol expedition is formed by a small group who scream over the loud music, and money changes hands, and the few familiar faces that I know disappear out into the streets of Manhattan to pretend to be twenty-one.
Inside the party, there is no pretending. The entire wispy concept of what it means to be between the ages of 14 and 18 in New York City has been condensed into the heavy atmosphere of this small apartment. I stagger outside. Three blond girls in nearly matching short skirts pass me on their way up. The girl in front exclaims “Aw Jennie! You’re so cute! You still wear underwear!?” The girl behind her interjects “ I used to wear underwear last year!” And Jennie pulls up her short skirt, which is so short not much pulling up is required, and nearly shouts “I’m not wearing underwear! I’m wearing booty shorts!!” I hurry down the last few flights, stifled by their overuse of exclamation points, longing for air. In some parallel universe, where I’d gone to a different High School perhaps, or made different friends, was I one of those three girls? Was this what it meant to be a teenage girl in Manhattan?
Outside, drunk private school boys were displaying what it meant to be a teenage boy in Manhattan. They’d taken over the street, men had come out of the bars to cheer them on, and the testosterone that flowed down Spring St was intoxicating. The boys had taken possession of a heavy green bouncy ball. They run head on towards moving cars, jump on the hood, and slam the ball into the windshield before jumping off. People cheer. The ball rolls towards my feet, and I roll it back, laughing, knowing this is dangerous, but knowing also there is nothing I can do to stop it. And who cares? After all, this is a poem. It takes five cars before someone stops. A cab hits the brakes in the middle of the street. A group of boys run and jump on the back, shaking the car so much the man can’t get out. College boys in bars cheer. I shout “Go unformed prefrontal cortexes!” because no one can hear me, and I’m not ashamed. The cabbie gets out eventually, and the boys begin beating him with their shoes. But I’m not there to see that, I heard that second hand, because I’m busy walking quickly down a dark alley with two 19 year old boys.
Which is not as scary as it sounds. They’d introduced themselves to my friend Cath and I with firm, serious handshakes. It was all I could do not to laugh at their polite “Nice to meet you”’s and their bloodshot eyes. They were talking and we were giggling, out in the street, over the shouts of drunken men, when a cell phone rang. It was a friend of theirs, and without explanation they excused themselves and left.
As they turn the corner, and disappear out of sight, Cath and I look at one another and laugh at the mirrored disappointment on both our faces. Fueled by each other, fueled by the spring air, fueled by the unseen chemicals coursing through a teenager’s body, fueled by a recklessness our parents would never understand, we take off at a run behind them. Halfway down a dark alley we catch up to them.
“Hey!” one exclaims to the other, “Look who it is!”
“What are you ladies doing here?” We make up some excuse. Our friends are busy, we have nothing to do. So where are they going, anyway? They are going to Bensenhurst. To get free ecstasy.
“Come with us!” they urge, “What else do you have to do?”
“We’ll walk you to the Q train,” I laugh, “But Bensenhurst? No way.” Cath looks nervous at the mention of ecstasy. Hard drugs. I am too. But we swallow that anxiety like we’ve been taught to swallow our liquor, clenching our stomachs and trying not to grimace. We help them find the Q train and part with polite goodbyes. We wonder at the pointlessness of it all. We often do.
Back at the party, when our friends ask us where we’d been, we look at one another and laugh. “Bensenhurst,” we reply. Then we are swept away by the river of their babble. Things had happened while we were gone. Had we heard about…? And we hadn’t, so they, good friends that they are, fill us in thoroughly on all the details.
“And there they were, fucking fucking in a puddle of piss. In front of everyone! So I was like ‘Go find a room! Do you know that that’s piss?’ and the coked out blond girl is all like ‘leave me the fuck alone, I’m just fucking trying to fuck him!’” my friend shouts loudly into the city street. I laugh, half amused, half horrified. All of high school could be distilled into a one sentence poem, I think. A poem which would read:

And there they were
Fucking
Fucking
In a puddle of piss.

Or maybe that wasn’t quite right. Maybe the poem would be:

fueled by each other,
fueled by the spring air,
fueled by the unseen chemicals coursing through a teenager’s body,
fueled by a recklessness our parents would never understand,
we take off at a run

While I muse over the one sentence distillation of years, my friends decide it is time for this party to be over. We pile into a cab and drive to one girl’s empty house. We fall asleep on couches, watching bad teen movies, some of us crying at the sad parts while others laugh. What a perfect ending, I think, as the sounds of the other girls blend into the sounds of my dreams. But the story doesn’t end here.
I am walking down Houston St. on my way home the next morning, and an old man with a cane stumbles out of a building ahead of me, his friend holding onto his arm. I look again, and he’s not old exactly, mid-50’s perhaps, but there is an air about him of things falling apart. The old man stands in the street and his friend bends down in front of him to tie his untied shoelace. The old man staggers three steps back, then falls backward and his feet roll up above his head. He lies sprawled on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and offer him my hand. “Do you need help?” He grabs my hand tightly with one of his. “No, no. I’m fine,” he slurs. But he holds my hand tightly and doesn’t let go. His friend grabs his other hand and we both try to pull him up, but the man is trying to lie back down, and he is too heavy to lift against his will. His friend turns to me and smiles apologetically. “It’s going to take him a while,” he says. “He’s a poet.”
“Aren’t we all?” I reply. The old man drops my hand and seems to go to sleep on the sidewalk, and I turn and keep walking home. This story doesn't end.

my head is swamped with a thousand things that don't matter (like school) But one day, soon, i will have time to write deep and meaningful thoughts. Until then, leave deep and meaningful comments

wooo that was kind of fun!

Birthday Countdown: one more day!

life is so confusing.
I wish i could tell what some people were thinking, only briefly, only one or two thoughts. That much would be a huge help. All these mixed messages leave me so bewildered.

more than i wish for that though, i wish i didn't care. If someone out there knows the secret to not caring about things that don't matter, i really wish they would share.

In other news, the weather today was perfect. And i managed to yell "stop fucking objectifying me" to two of the cat-callers on the street today, which let out a lot of repressed frustration.

today: hearing about peoples love lives, not knowing what happened in any of my classes, LOGIC!, sylvia's beautifuly british mother, donating my shoe to a good cause, disproving my theory on cigarette karma (which is: if i let people bum cigarettes off of me, then when i need one, someone will bum me one. This is not, however, true.), a long lost hat, chocolate sales, heated history arguments, and "white rabbit". It was not, altogether, bad.

Guess who's birthday is in three days?

too hard? alright. here are clues:

1- she has a really cracked out blog
2- it is this blog
3- she is probably the biggest dork you'll ever meet AND
4- if you were in her room right now, you'd see her dancing to the ramones, happier than shes been in days

BECAUSE

1- birthday in three days
2- AP's are over
3- Fish (live fish), and tea, and honeymelon cakes with my other half
4- i have a really cool french anti-capitalism shirt
5- I plan to do NO hw tonight. Instead, i will dance.

I wonder how much sense this entry makes...

This is back, because i like it.

A Fable

Sure, sure it was a little pathetic. He had to admit that much at least. Although it wasn’t really that he himself thought so. It was the looks people gave him at dinner parties that made his strangeness undeniable. “And what do you do for a living?” someone would almost always ask. And, forgetting to be embarrassed, he’d excitedly launch into an explanation. They all laughed at first, but when they saw that he wasn’t laughing also, that he was serious, they’d politely excuse themselves and go talk to someone else. So sure, it was strange. But it wasn’t like he was ashamed.
See, what he did was…well, some background information first. His parents were filthy rich, right? And it had never really occurred to him to hold down a job. Eccentric passions ran in his gene line, and his father, who spent his business hours prank calling department stores, approved of his career choice entirely.
See, what he did was this. You know…well you know those joke books? Like how, in the backs of them sometimes, there are lists of obscure laws? Or sometimes you might see them in a forwarded email. Laws like: in Zion, Illinois it’s illegal to give dogs, cats, or other domesticated animals a lit cigar. You know the type. So see, what he did was this. He went from state to state with long lists of these laws in hand. He broke them systematically and openly. In Pine Island District, Minnesota he passed back and forth in front of cows without tipping his hat, calling the policemen to watch, but no one made one move to arrest him for it. He drove a camel on the highway in Nevada. He slurped soup in New Jersey, and ate peanuts walking backwards in North Dakota. And so on, till he’d broken almost every stupid law he could prove actually existed. No one ever got the joke. No one ever arrested him.
And so finally he was at yet another dinner party, and yet another well-dressed woman was backing away from him slowly. A group of people in the corner was snickering about his adventures over the past few years. So he stood alone by the rows of wine glasses, and accidentally knocked them off the table. And the cop at the party, who’d brushed up on this recently, sprung to his feet and arrested him. In New York City it is illegal to break more then twelve wine glasses in an apartment below 14th st. As he was escorted out of the apartment in handcuffs, his face blushed red with shame. The other dinner guests all laughed. And there’s a moral in here somewhere.

Ha! Koda and I spent at least an hour and a half making an interestingly illustrated DICKtionary. we are way cool.

also, we terrorized bloomingdales.

This weekend was cool in the sense that i have not opened my AP psych review book once. Go unformed prefrontal cortexes.

I was walking down Houston St. on my way home early saturday morning, and an old man with a cane stumbles out of a building ahead of me, a friend holding onto his arm. I look again, and he's not old exactly, mid-50's perhaps, but something about him seems like hes falling apart. The man stands in the street and his friend bends in front of him to tie his untied shoe lace. The old man staggers three steps back, then falls backward and his feet roll up above his head. He lies sprawled on the sidewalk. I walk up to him and offer him my hand. "Do you need help?" He grabs my hand tightly with one of his. "No, no i'm fine" he slurrs, but he holds my hand tightly and doesn't let go. His friend grabs his other hand and we both try to pull him up but the man is trying to lie backdown, and he is too heavy to lift against his will. His friend turns to me and smiles apologetically. "It's going to take him a while," he says. "He's a poet."
"Aren't we all?" i reply. The man drops my hand and seems to go to sleep on the sidewalk, and i turn and keep walking home.

ouch...


christ, who knew things could hurt this much?

It makes me so nervous that this blog has gotten 28 hits since i last posted and only 1 comment. Please, please, please, if you're looking at this, leave a comment somewhere.

Come into my garden. Walk softly, things are growing beneath your feet. Can you smell the flowers dancing? Come deeper, come closer. Let me tell you about my life, about my wife. My wife had a smile like a single rose blooming, and eyes that glittered like dew. She stretched in the early mornings like a green shoot leaning, reaching, yearning for the sun. I showered her with love. She wilted and withered away and her hair fell off like petals. Walk softly, she is resting beneath your feet. Come into my garden. Let me show you my rosebush. Listen, that flower is singing. Let me show you how many different greens there can be. Listen, listen, can you hear the flowers singing? They’re singing for you. They’re singing sweetly, sadly, softly. They are singing ‘come into my garden, walk softly, things are growing beneath their feet’ They are singing ‘come into my garden let me show you the beauty great sadness can hold.’

rain is beautiful

My cat is so clean!

a story, later, perhaps. check back.

p.s.
laura is impossibly cool. (impizzozibly)

x littlejeans x (7:10:04 PM): thizat doeznt sizave yizou anizzy lizzetters!
x littlejeans x (7:10:31 PM): wuz < was : FIZALSE

I've been having trouble articulating this, but i've been feeling this way for a while now. At first i tried saying i wanted to be a hermit, spending my free periods in the library alone in the back. But thats not quite it. I want to close myself off into a box. I want to shut myself in a bubble. I want to see out, and talk to people, laugh with them or at them, but i don't want to care about them anymore. I'm so frustrated with myself for being consistently hurt by people who barely seem to notice my existance. I feel like i've become invisible, but not by choice. Perhaps if i actively choose to be invisible, this won't be so bad.

ahhh aps!

*bursts into hysterical sobs*