Tag Archives: world

Stupid ipad work I hate you so this is not about you

Twenty-something and clueless- the never before told story of a lost young girl experiencing a quarter-life crises in a hipster city post-college, and in throes with her parents, and still coping with her childhood, which makes relationships a burden especially when she still sleeps with her ex because she is scared to go over a month without sex and so is he…yes the most original piece of literature to ever surface in this post-modern, existential, deconstuctionist capitalistic, overly-scholared American world. I would be at the forefront of groundbreaking beyond-hippie-hipster visionaries everywhere, embracing this new vision to pull us into 2012, and bridging the gap between driveling confused trust fund babies from gen X and soccer moms caught shopping at Forever 21 during school hours. In one book I would encompass a global view of communist capitalism from my experiences teaching abroad in Korea, which is like China but smaller and less original, and I would then blunder gracefully into stories about being unemployed post-teaching and college, confused about the ex thing, and trying to get inexpensive massages but failing after backpacking SE Asia, and being spoiled and no wiser than a fortune cookie, because my India and eastern spirituality loving ex ruined any ideas of enlightenment for me. He also failed to keep my cat alive when I moved abroad, and he gave me herpes so I lost a relationship with the next boy I really liked, which took me two years to find after I realized I had to move on, but you know, I’m not resentful or anything…I’m just a lost twenty-something writing an original tale about being lost in Portland, the capital of Happy Hour, bad credit, crack coffee, and tight pants.

I am returning from a hour at a Vietnamese beauty parlor where I entered to get my eyebrows waxed, and exited with my whole face waxed and freshly painted nails. I also had a mediocre foot massage from a lady called either Thing or Ting, who had named her 22month old Italy because her husband, who had two years ago returned to Vietnam to find a wife and tow her back to the states with him, had a soft spot for Italians. Ting/Thing and I threw at each other several questions in broken English like a crippled interview between Autistic teenagers, when she looked deeply into my eyes and asked, “Do you like Cocaine?” That’s what it sounded like and I stared at her and then asked her to repeat herself about ten times, each time she repeated “Cocaine, Coke-do you like?” and I finally was about to accept that my neighborhood Vietnamese community was submersed in drug culture, and maybe relate in choppy English phrases my most impressive cocaine story when I snorted about 22 lines in one night and talked about Nietzsche with a friend and decided by sunrise I was a genius and then crawled up in a ball and wanted to die…but then she spelled it out. “C-O-O-K’. Do you like? Coking?” Oh, that’s not as interesting a story, but yes, I like it.

I just cooked. I returned home, cleaned the litter box and then made dinner, and I really wanted protein so I opened a can of refried beans with a vision of Mexican tortillas, but the beans, after being coked up with cheese, onion, peppers and garlic, just looked like a big pile of colorful shit. But it tastes good.

So I just wanted to recount these stories, because they are going into this famous book I’m going to write about the nothingness of being nothing and getting old and feeling like I need to meet someone, and that every guy I pass is a potential husband, even the balding ones, because at least I know they are less likely to leave me or cheat on me, and at 26, you know I have a crippled heart and can’t take any more of that misery, because life is hard, and I still work retail.

PS. My Mucocele has gone down. In case you don’t know what that is, because I had it one month before I actually found it out on Google, it is (and this is according to Wikipedia): a swelling of connective tissue consisting of collected mucin due to a ruptured salivary gland duct usually caused by local trauma, in the case of mucus extravasation phenomenon, and an obstructed salivary duct in the case of a mucus retention cyst. The mucocele is a bluish translucent color, and is more commonly found in children and young adults.” It’s basically a lip cyst, or polyp for a friendly term. And to gross you out thoroughly let me tell you that I didn’t want to see a doctor and try to figure out the whole PSU insurance thing, because I hate insurance, bills, taxes and all of that boring shit, so I poked and drained the polyp twice (heavy drainage of mucus-like saliva liquid the color of faded yellow wallpaper), the first time a week ago, the second a couple days ago. And with the natural remedies prescribed by such reputable sources as Simplestepsdental.com and lumpinmymouth.com, I dabbed the drained lump with alum spice, bags of Hibiscus tea, colloidal sliver drops, and sea salt. My lip went from Hattie McDaniels- Mammie size (a Gone with the Wind reference that would be lost on most of my generation, and shunned by older righteous citizens for its political incorrectness), looking like I was punched in the face, to looking pretty normal now. I am relieved. I have a freshly waxed face, freshly painted dark blue nails, a whole new week of classes, a pile of shit at my side getting cold and hoping to be picked up and ingested immediately after I finish this rant of nonsense, and to be accompanied by a 3 dollar bottle of Trader Joes wine called Pink, and an instant netflix movie, probably something hip and unique and sexy because I don’t get laid enough and really need to live vicariously through my unlimited instant netflix movies, because they are reliable and committed and always await me after a long day of selling expensive shit to Mac-snobs, or bobbing around campus trying to pretend I still care about college, even though I don’t feel like a student because my professor doesn’t even know what avarice is and misspelled gluttony!; and I’m dreaming about traveling again or doing something, anything, but this…snagging that husband. Have you read this children’s book about a baby bird trying to find its mom? I can’t remember the title, something like , “Hi are you my mom?” or “Where’s my mom?” and so that is me lately, “Hi, are you my husband?” Pathetic.
I don’t even like responsibility. Imagine me in a committed anything. I can’t even imagine a rental that is more committed than month to month. This world completely befuddles me.

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Paranoia and a Rude Awakening

Aaahh! I had one of those Alice in Wonderland moments where I’m Alice and again I’m trying to make sense of everything around me, and nothing is making sense! And then I suddenly feel very young and naive, and things are overwhelmingly creepy and absurd all at once, and I’m unable to make everything I observe a rational, clear reality. Instead, I am being consumed, bit by bit, into this irrational construction of little creepy dreams, which are, in the end, all there is. Reality. So after a haircut and color from an old actor, I returned to my apartment and suddenly wondered why in all hell my New Yorker subscription seems to have been terminated, again I believe my mail has been confiscated by the old prick manager. The old writer of Hill St. Blues who sits and smokes like an old bump on a log in front of his blaring TV every day. I haven’t seen him in months. Caught in a spontaneous call to action, as usual, I stormed down the creaky vintage elevator to the first floor and pounded on his door, and as he again ignored the knocks, and it was slightly ajar, I opened it and my eyes widened like a frightened little girls because there, in a small portable hospital bed in front of the TV was Ken, the old writer manager, but he was about half the size I remembered him, laying in a little heap of bones, with large glasses, and tubes coming out of his nose. I immediately shut the door and my skin felt like it withered, and my fingers were trembling, and my breath was caught in my froggy sore throat. And I felt like a little shithead, like Alice, understanding nothing about this bizarre world, where nonsensical things happen everywhere, and crazy people follow you in the morning before you have even consumed a cup of coffee to take it all in…and the old charming man who sold the beautiful art deco room you’re now inhabiting and nit-picking at, is now lying half-dead in a hospital bed, and you nearly accused him of stealing your New Yorker. Good job, idiot girl.

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Selfish Bastards in the Age of Information

I had a nightmare in my head that Oregon was going to start carrying sales tax but it was immediately relieved by a joke to self brought on after another unreasonable shopping spree before class: “You could never kill ourself cuz you have too many cute outfits in your closet yet to be worn!” With all of the shit brewing in the world I feel like a selfish jerk (aka, Supercilious asshole-bastard, aka. Stalin-Palin devil baby). Do you know who would take the cake for selfish bastards? (but he is an android so therefore disqualified from any criticisms placed on human character)…my apartment complex owner. Here I have a beautiful studio, art deco, colored tiles in the kitchen and bathroom, a vintage, goth chandelier, and detailed windows, hard wood floors, but then the owner is probably a trust fund baby born into wealth with the brain of a PC computer chip, and the heart of a Sears appliance. I think he may actually be an android, but if he’s not, then the way he refused to shake my hand in our first acquiantance, and the way he rudely brushed off J when he once called to explain a starving kitten was deserted in the basement, not to mention the way he yelled at me over the phone the other day when I said it was his responsibility to fix the heater, and then hung up with I yelled back….well, because of all of these things he is a terrible, stodgy, plodding branding iron, and I want to toss him in a junkyard, and believe I might have to relinquish my home, (my handsome old lady home that won me honor through a DVD representation in my architecture class, and captivated friends with its classy, carnivalesque charms), for the sake of my sanity. Being ignored by coworker/exboyfriend whom I still masochistically pine for is bad enough, I am finding androidish behavior more prevalent these days, maybe I incite it with my unnatural naturalness, in which I say what’s on my mind, or maybe it’s the information age, and globalization making the world a hot bed of tech-dependent diapered dorks. I think if the Apocalypse is on its way, I have no other point in my ramblings then that I need to start getting laid more, listening to more hip-hop, and somehow get a car for Sunday trips to the coast and little Oregon towns with deserted barns and haunted hotels for photo projects. My other point was that selfish bastards suck, and I apologize for being one when I am one, because I know I sometimes am one.

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Colleen, Sylvia and Me

“If you want to quit or even if you want to kill yourself, wait a week, because by then the whole world will be different, and you know it always is!” Colleen says.

 This will be a calm spring return.  If I can survive the commercial blaring pink frills of Valentines day, the most soul draining holiday about fabricated, candy love, then yes, this will be a peaceful winter term.  J disappointed me for good….exed me from his life like a used kleenex. Maybe it’s a transient feeling and potentials aside because they’re not often realities, but where I saw art and passion, I now see computer chip and I also see maybe weakness, self-induced mind control, a very normal predicament to the average mollusk.  And besides it’s not true, he’s an escape artist, and I’m an overanalyzing black biled indecisive vagrant…sometimes.

But forget all that!  Be here now Ram Dass, or Ray LaMontagne would warble and croon.  What is in this immediate moment?  Well I have architecture tomorrow! And daydreams, morning coffee, a good book to finish, another good one to start.  The Journals of Sylvia Plath.  Getting into journals of writers I like, they seem like a peek inside the underwear drawer.  A secret little corner rarely visited, where all of the stories are demystified, and discerned with the raw, aggressive emotions and deliberations behind the scenes of their plots.  Maybe Sylvia’s life didn’t end pretty, but I relate to her, and I loved reading her over the past recent years.  I am    soooo     disconnected      sometimes.      I    am        far        away.

There are a few out there who feel similar parallels.

She writes: “I’m am too tired, too noble, in a perverse way.” and “no more knuckling under, groaning, moaning, one gets used to pain…”  and the best words of tonight of all “O do not make an artificial stasis which is unbreakable; break and bend and grow again”

And so I will, and I hope you will do the same…

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