Ate chinese food, got drunk, called friends and got no responses, laid on the floor laughing (me), watched America's Best Dance Crew, proceeded to take a long drunk shower, Felt dizzy and ill and ran to my bed. Where I slept still in my towel and wet hair from the shower. Since I have no shame, I'll say I'm on my period and didn't recognize that as a drunk citizen. Also my hair somehow formed an unnatural poof akin to a bumpit on the right side. Had to take another shower this morning.
Homework done for my afternoon class: None.
Dream I had last night:
I found a hidden staircase next to my bed room entrance that led to a loft I'd never noticed. Upstairs there was a circle of four couches, and just like a really nice space for hanging out (we don't have much of that in our apartment). Then I realized out of the loft there was a roller coaster-like track that had a cart you could sit in that was a direct line to the Mr. Chicken on route 9. The cart would leave at random times with no warning. I accidentally got in the cart and went but didn't order anything. It was next to the space station restaurant. At the Space Station restaurant (chicken nuggets, rainbow room) Sharon and maybe Carly were there. They said they they wanted to do something. I said we should have a get together in the upstairs of my apartment. Sharon said, "Yeah I have to plan it, it's my birthday, who should I invite?". We decided just the girls and Mark (Stef's boyfriend). I was up in the loft. Girls filtered in. Then all of a sudden crazy people like from high school/college and/or my relatives were coming. An old man that I swear was in the Escape to Witch Mountain movie said he was my old teacher. My dad was there. My paternal grandfather was there. I pulled Mike G. aside and said "I know this isn't real and I'm making it up because my grandfather died in 8th grade" then I hysterically cried because I felt overwhelmed by that. I ran into a sun room (unexplained). I met a woman with huge eyes and claws for hands. She was the human version of the animal she trained. I forget what animal, but it kind of looked like a mini sloth or slow lorris. It went at about 100mph and ran over things fast.. like around your body but you couldn't even feel him. He was super cute. Hung out with him for a while, then kind of got freaked out. I felt like I had to leave. I checked my money on my dresser and it wasn't American/ and or/ was counterfeit. I had a 26 dollar bill. I was really mad at the convenience store guy for giving me back bad change. I went outside. A bunch of guys I had never seen in my life were hanging out. I decided to get drunk with them. I had brought out my rum. Then Katie W. came out and drank some. Then the guys yelled at me saying I had finished my rum and now was drinking theirs. A guy (who was kind of attractive but I wasn't attracted to) got up in my face and told me "We could either go to my bed right now and fuck and you don't have to worry about the rum or you have to pay. I said, "I have to go to the ATM. All I have is this 26 dollar bill". I figured if we got drunk we'd have sex anyway. So I started to walk down the street, rum in hand, off to my nearest ATM. Then I woke up....
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
What Kristie and I could do tonight
a. sit at home watch a movie, bye bye sleep.
b. sit at home, stare, talk
c. sit at home do homework, don't hang out with each other
d. go out to eat
e. go out to a bar and drink and look at one another
f. invite people (Carly)and do d. e.
g. Diva's
h. go to the movies
i. flick a bic til we're stuck to the couch
j. sit at home and yoga
k. sit at home and dance though I've been doing this for 3 hours alone
l. sit at home and get drunk, do a., b., k.
m. get drunk outside
n. play apples to apples by ourselves
o. oranges!
p. penises!
q. quilts!
r. reggae music!
s. Sex!
t. Terri!
u. Umbrellas!
v. Voodoo!
w. Witches!
x. Xylophones!
y. Yummy!
z. Zebras!
aa. ritual suicide
bb. disemboweling
cc.
b. sit at home, stare, talk
c. sit at home do homework, don't hang out with each other
d. go out to eat
e. go out to a bar and drink and look at one another
f. invite people (Carly)and do d. e.
g. Diva's
h. go to the movies
i. flick a bic til we're stuck to the couch
j. sit at home and yoga
k. sit at home and dance though I've been doing this for 3 hours alone
l. sit at home and get drunk, do a., b., k.
m. get drunk outside
n. play apples to apples by ourselves
o. oranges!
p. penises!
q. quilts!
r. reggae music!
s. Sex!
t. Terri!
u. Umbrellas!
v. Voodoo!
w. Witches!
x. Xylophones!
y. Yummy!
z. Zebras!
aa. ritual suicide
bb. disemboweling
cc.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Secret Acts of Females in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication
Here, for any who dares read, is the beginning of a mock-Victorian-etiquette-manual-esque piece I wrote maybe a year back. I just found it on my hard drive and gave a little giggle. Thought I'd be not-so-shy and share it.
The goal of the personal exercise: To write a beautiful story of diarrhea.
It's unfinished. Sorry for spelling errors, I oddly couldn't update the document.
The Secret Acts of Female in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication
The very inscription on my breast pocket alerts me to the fact that I am a lady, and being part of the female sex I must address myself as such first and foremost: owner of galloping mammaries, arbiter of branching hips, tradeswoman of the fearsome triangular dynasty, keeper of the womb.
I must also recognize myself as others do call me by: my dulcet, infantile girl name, the very presupposing and wildly insinuating, Lilly. My dear mother wrangled that one no doubt from the vestiges of Mother Nature herself, hoping in time I would one day prove myself to be as precociously layered and recondite as that bespeckled musty flower. You see, the intricacies of woman lay not only in her form.
A lady is always presumed to look her best. Slinky, form-embracing garbs are a must as well as some proper skin adornments. That is why you could see my figure wrapped in the same such apparel on any given Saturday night—and on this given Saturday night, to be sure. Howard Blake had informed me of his get-together (shin-digs too colloquial and parties too pedestrian) last week and knowing that this night could afford the appearances of many captivating women and some selectively entertaining men, I gave a brief and husky, “Why not?”, propping the phone back in its cradle and sighing towards the barren walls. Felicity was simply exasperated, buttocks barely seated on her chair, when I told her of our impending engagement. I see how my credibility might be shoved off completely by the latter sentence, and I will be the first to admit the atrocious, reprehensible properties of a name like Felicity and all those who would associate with some such names. However, if I may be given warranted reprieve from disapproval for the etymological atrocities of my neighbors, the narrative can continue on in a felicitous manner, as it were. I kept Felicity as a close by acquaintance, dare I say friend, because indeed her amicable countenance was one rarely seen in the dismal, dreary setting of Portsmith. Portsmith, its burgeoning mouth agape to the whimsy transits of commercial vessels, was a wasteland culturally and had barely the muffled heartbeat of social attractions. After surviving the first twenty-two years of my life in such a stifling flutter of a sea port, I found it only suitable to stretch out the rest of my existence in the toil that makes for the poetic lyrics in the shockingly popular shanties of the day. These ladies here, they have no combs, they comb their hair, with cod fish bones. These and other similar lyrics are well suited to the general disposition of the commonfolk here. No, you won’t see Felicity brushing through her auburn locks with the calcified skeleton of deceased marine life, but the women that huddle in their shops selling their respectable goods might certainly find themselves stroking through their stringy, briny hair with the spine of a fish after being so damaged by the hood of stale, brackish air that swarmed the crust of Portsmith.
“Do you think Kenneth Sullivan will be there?” Felicity whined on our way to the door, reconfiguring the gaudy bow on the front of her red blouse.
Kenneth Sullivan and men like him were of the contrary, dullard species that I categorically ignored with an upturned, snubbed nose. He wore the type of tight, squarish trousers that undoubtedly slinked up his backside and left nothing of mystery to the dynamics of his unchiseled, flat behind. His gums receded from his teeth like unobligingly led horses, encapusled in mote-like spit that I imagined had the bacterial fecundity of toilet water. Felicity doted upon such gentlemen.
“He must be. This looks to be his type of gathering,” I suggested.
I rang the doorbell ceremoniously, with a brief hesitation as I entered through the doorjamb. A sudden and achingly swift bolt of pain breached my intestines and I had to graze myself a few courteous seconds before I was to engage in the active duty of dialogue. Something stirred among the depths of my stomach, and having had a modest breakfast and lunch, I wondered at my gustatory disruptions. I carried myself in still, gliding not walking, as most women do in their desired effort to become attractive to the opposing sex. My breasts firmly sheltered in the tightening dress and my protruding and perturbing stomach encased by the skirt, I melted over towards the host to give him his regards and wavered over like the dolloping smoke of a cigarette to a group of unassuming guests.
Harold Glaser, Marianne Shields, Cynthia Trasout, Mark Adams. The faces blurred into a pastel mixture and only the names remained doubled up and lingered over in my memory like overfolded vocabulary lists that an overachieving school girl minds over in the penultimate days before the exam. Cristoff Demarconi, Jane Regan, Randall Furbush. Name plates and gravestones marking people and yet their identities will remain shrouded to my encumbered mind as their tenuous illustrations in my head were spilt away like rained on chalk drawings. Surely there were leather shoes, someone was wearing a sweater, someone a tailored suit, of course pearls, and there might have even been a Trixie that my memory is specifically choosing to omit, but in these situations all there really can remain of such personalities are their monikers. Their figures distort in inkish blots inside my inabsorbant cerebellum, leaving much to be desired, and please forgive me. But had my mind—and oh dear stomach—been in standard functionary condition, I might have addressed to you three swollen paragraphs pregnant with description of bowties and canine toothed camaraderies, but for now this is all I can offer.
Felicity grabbed my black garment from the hip and bent her lips towards my earlobe.
“Kenneth just asked me about Peru. About going to Peru. His company has a branch there. Hmmmmph,” she chortled in a hum of presumptive bliss.
“Well, well. The lower Western hemisphere awaits, the loins of America lay eagerly for you,” I muttered.
Felicity scowled at my jocular pandering, wishing one day that my aspirations would match the tennis-side vodkas that hers leaped towards.
In an instant the doom that slept in the nethers of my belly awakened like a vengeful sea creature. I slid away from Felicity, hoping she would not note the wave of anxiety pelting my forced grin. In the flash of a learned sprinter I traversed the entire room. The Cynthias, the Harolds, and the Randalls whirred in a ferris wheel fashion against the brazen trek to the lady’s room. One should always excuse themselves and pardon yourself by saying you are going to powder your cheeks when retiring to the restroom. But there are times, there are other times when stealth is paramount to the female motional habit.
I locked the door with a deft click and tore my stockings down with the terror of building water against a weakened levee. As one sits upon the toilet, one must be sure to paper the seat to maintain a hygienic bottom. Next, one crosses her legs and is careful to muffle the sound of nature’s calling. A vigorous wash of the hands is urgent upon returning to the given social event. One should linger at the mirror, studying one’s frame, and be sure to have reapplied lipstick in hand when vacating the room. Primping always conceals other tasks the body unforgivingly minds. I sat upon the toilet and felt an urgency so vivid, my legs remained as disparate as the continents on a globe. I sat in trepidation, unclogging my bowels as if I were a mightily established spectroscope probing the innards of the goat subject in question. Yellowish waves of boiled impotence ring out like truths swept from my anus to the ground, the same gurgling breath as warmish tiger lilies bring come spring, only not so sweet, and fragrant, yes, but not in the pleasant manner but dedicated to the scent of repugnance, the sun bakes down along the nape of the neck in such the same manner of the heat that sounds against a distempered stomach, and like the cooing rush of temperature across the genitals moments and instants before the surge to the snowy capped peak of glorious orgasm—then comes too the current of fire from the grumbling belly. Acidic liquid that curls up and undulates until quaking in a tumultuous stream of disastrous stench, and sucks back in when the owner of such fecal tribulations fails to meet the necessitated toilet. I rest on the toilet, warming it with my twenty-minute hiatus. My bowels become generous philanthropists to the moral cause of the toilet, expunging altruistic plops into the awaiting tithing basket.
(to be continued... dun dun dun)
The goal of the personal exercise: To write a beautiful story of diarrhea.
It's unfinished. Sorry for spelling errors, I oddly couldn't update the document.
The Secret Acts of Female in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication
The very inscription on my breast pocket alerts me to the fact that I am a lady, and being part of the female sex I must address myself as such first and foremost: owner of galloping mammaries, arbiter of branching hips, tradeswoman of the fearsome triangular dynasty, keeper of the womb.
I must also recognize myself as others do call me by: my dulcet, infantile girl name, the very presupposing and wildly insinuating, Lilly. My dear mother wrangled that one no doubt from the vestiges of Mother Nature herself, hoping in time I would one day prove myself to be as precociously layered and recondite as that bespeckled musty flower. You see, the intricacies of woman lay not only in her form.
A lady is always presumed to look her best. Slinky, form-embracing garbs are a must as well as some proper skin adornments. That is why you could see my figure wrapped in the same such apparel on any given Saturday night—and on this given Saturday night, to be sure. Howard Blake had informed me of his get-together (shin-digs too colloquial and parties too pedestrian) last week and knowing that this night could afford the appearances of many captivating women and some selectively entertaining men, I gave a brief and husky, “Why not?”, propping the phone back in its cradle and sighing towards the barren walls. Felicity was simply exasperated, buttocks barely seated on her chair, when I told her of our impending engagement. I see how my credibility might be shoved off completely by the latter sentence, and I will be the first to admit the atrocious, reprehensible properties of a name like Felicity and all those who would associate with some such names. However, if I may be given warranted reprieve from disapproval for the etymological atrocities of my neighbors, the narrative can continue on in a felicitous manner, as it were. I kept Felicity as a close by acquaintance, dare I say friend, because indeed her amicable countenance was one rarely seen in the dismal, dreary setting of Portsmith. Portsmith, its burgeoning mouth agape to the whimsy transits of commercial vessels, was a wasteland culturally and had barely the muffled heartbeat of social attractions. After surviving the first twenty-two years of my life in such a stifling flutter of a sea port, I found it only suitable to stretch out the rest of my existence in the toil that makes for the poetic lyrics in the shockingly popular shanties of the day. These ladies here, they have no combs, they comb their hair, with cod fish bones. These and other similar lyrics are well suited to the general disposition of the commonfolk here. No, you won’t see Felicity brushing through her auburn locks with the calcified skeleton of deceased marine life, but the women that huddle in their shops selling their respectable goods might certainly find themselves stroking through their stringy, briny hair with the spine of a fish after being so damaged by the hood of stale, brackish air that swarmed the crust of Portsmith.
“Do you think Kenneth Sullivan will be there?” Felicity whined on our way to the door, reconfiguring the gaudy bow on the front of her red blouse.
Kenneth Sullivan and men like him were of the contrary, dullard species that I categorically ignored with an upturned, snubbed nose. He wore the type of tight, squarish trousers that undoubtedly slinked up his backside and left nothing of mystery to the dynamics of his unchiseled, flat behind. His gums receded from his teeth like unobligingly led horses, encapusled in mote-like spit that I imagined had the bacterial fecundity of toilet water. Felicity doted upon such gentlemen.
“He must be. This looks to be his type of gathering,” I suggested.
I rang the doorbell ceremoniously, with a brief hesitation as I entered through the doorjamb. A sudden and achingly swift bolt of pain breached my intestines and I had to graze myself a few courteous seconds before I was to engage in the active duty of dialogue. Something stirred among the depths of my stomach, and having had a modest breakfast and lunch, I wondered at my gustatory disruptions. I carried myself in still, gliding not walking, as most women do in their desired effort to become attractive to the opposing sex. My breasts firmly sheltered in the tightening dress and my protruding and perturbing stomach encased by the skirt, I melted over towards the host to give him his regards and wavered over like the dolloping smoke of a cigarette to a group of unassuming guests.
Harold Glaser, Marianne Shields, Cynthia Trasout, Mark Adams. The faces blurred into a pastel mixture and only the names remained doubled up and lingered over in my memory like overfolded vocabulary lists that an overachieving school girl minds over in the penultimate days before the exam. Cristoff Demarconi, Jane Regan, Randall Furbush. Name plates and gravestones marking people and yet their identities will remain shrouded to my encumbered mind as their tenuous illustrations in my head were spilt away like rained on chalk drawings. Surely there were leather shoes, someone was wearing a sweater, someone a tailored suit, of course pearls, and there might have even been a Trixie that my memory is specifically choosing to omit, but in these situations all there really can remain of such personalities are their monikers. Their figures distort in inkish blots inside my inabsorbant cerebellum, leaving much to be desired, and please forgive me. But had my mind—and oh dear stomach—been in standard functionary condition, I might have addressed to you three swollen paragraphs pregnant with description of bowties and canine toothed camaraderies, but for now this is all I can offer.
Felicity grabbed my black garment from the hip and bent her lips towards my earlobe.
“Kenneth just asked me about Peru. About going to Peru. His company has a branch there. Hmmmmph,” she chortled in a hum of presumptive bliss.
“Well, well. The lower Western hemisphere awaits, the loins of America lay eagerly for you,” I muttered.
Felicity scowled at my jocular pandering, wishing one day that my aspirations would match the tennis-side vodkas that hers leaped towards.
In an instant the doom that slept in the nethers of my belly awakened like a vengeful sea creature. I slid away from Felicity, hoping she would not note the wave of anxiety pelting my forced grin. In the flash of a learned sprinter I traversed the entire room. The Cynthias, the Harolds, and the Randalls whirred in a ferris wheel fashion against the brazen trek to the lady’s room. One should always excuse themselves and pardon yourself by saying you are going to powder your cheeks when retiring to the restroom. But there are times, there are other times when stealth is paramount to the female motional habit.
I locked the door with a deft click and tore my stockings down with the terror of building water against a weakened levee. As one sits upon the toilet, one must be sure to paper the seat to maintain a hygienic bottom. Next, one crosses her legs and is careful to muffle the sound of nature’s calling. A vigorous wash of the hands is urgent upon returning to the given social event. One should linger at the mirror, studying one’s frame, and be sure to have reapplied lipstick in hand when vacating the room. Primping always conceals other tasks the body unforgivingly minds. I sat upon the toilet and felt an urgency so vivid, my legs remained as disparate as the continents on a globe. I sat in trepidation, unclogging my bowels as if I were a mightily established spectroscope probing the innards of the goat subject in question. Yellowish waves of boiled impotence ring out like truths swept from my anus to the ground, the same gurgling breath as warmish tiger lilies bring come spring, only not so sweet, and fragrant, yes, but not in the pleasant manner but dedicated to the scent of repugnance, the sun bakes down along the nape of the neck in such the same manner of the heat that sounds against a distempered stomach, and like the cooing rush of temperature across the genitals moments and instants before the surge to the snowy capped peak of glorious orgasm—then comes too the current of fire from the grumbling belly. Acidic liquid that curls up and undulates until quaking in a tumultuous stream of disastrous stench, and sucks back in when the owner of such fecal tribulations fails to meet the necessitated toilet. I rest on the toilet, warming it with my twenty-minute hiatus. My bowels become generous philanthropists to the moral cause of the toilet, expunging altruistic plops into the awaiting tithing basket.
(to be continued... dun dun dun)
Baffled
I woke up feeling like this at 8:30 this morning (Oh, great and my first class is not until 2:30):
I was in the bathroom hand-washing my underwear from the night and wincing in horrific, viking-ic pain when I came back to my room to discover a text from none other than the *previously discussed here* Deli Sam.
It reads: "Good Morning my love".
Everything about this is laughable including the 15 minutes he has spent in total in my presence. And my bloody underwear. If only he knew me and not some weird, hazy, cardboard fantasy of who his acne'd-grease-cookie-buyer-sister-of-his-regular-customer is. His love, indeed.
I was in the bathroom hand-washing my underwear from the night and wincing in horrific, viking-ic pain when I came back to my room to discover a text from none other than the *previously discussed here* Deli Sam.
It reads: "Good Morning my love".
Everything about this is laughable including the 15 minutes he has spent in total in my presence. And my bloody underwear. If only he knew me and not some weird, hazy, cardboard fantasy of who his acne'd-grease-cookie-buyer-sister-of-his-regular-customer is. His love, indeed.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
I love love
Moralism: a Didactic Post
Unlike those Valentines-Antagonizers, I for one have no problem with love. I know, I know, singles feel "bad" about themselves. Or, supposedly they do. But honestly, if you feel ~uncomfortable~ with a day because you are single, then you just must not be secure with who you are as a person. I love myself single and have absolutely no problem with my singlehood. I almost irritate myself more when I'm in a relationship. So, I just want to propose the idea NOT to hate on a holiday that celebrates love. Who doesn't love love? I mean, who doesn't like feeling loved? Be honest. Nobody. Nobody is like, "Yeah I hate how the person that I love also loves me". It seems Love-Hatin' is almost as cliched as Love-Celebratin'. And I'm not talking solely about romantic-sex-love here. I am spending today with some lovely friends of mine, all of whom I love. Why? Because I love love. And if you're reading this, I probably love you too.
"With our love, we could save the world, if they only knew"
Next: Why is it we can say we did something shameful we did 15 years ago... or preface stories, "no but I was in 2nd grade!". I really wish we could own what we did yesterday. If we owned what we did yesterday, there would be a lot more takin responsibility for ourselves as a whole. It seems we like to run away from who we are NOW or what we just did, but we are willing to accept the freaky, embarrassing, mistake-ridden self of the past. Step up: be yourself, own yourself and go fucking love somebody (not just yourself and including yourself!).
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Just an Old Fashioned Love Song
I went with my roommate to her lab (where she makes test tube babies that glow in the dark!) and I saw the rats that she works with. As I was helping her weigh them and writing down things in a notebook, I spied one of the male rats doing something curious. There's no better way to say this then to just come out right and say it. The rat was auto-fellating himself. A little nubbin like a dog's pink lipstick stuck out of the rat tummy as he slurped on it. Two other rats joined it.
My roommate was unphased and said she once saw the inside of a female rat's vagina while giving birth. Just your average day.
A rat. Sucking his own dick. Two other male rats sucking him after. GAY GAY GAY RAT ORGY EROTICA. I'VE NEVER SEEN PORN.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Phenom-ma-man
Curious trend: So, I've been to Brooklyn three times in my entire life on visits to my sister. On these three visits I have been to her nearby deli three times in my entire life. I have spent about five minutes each time in said deli. AND YET, and yet the worker there who is Americanly called Sam is completely obsessed with me. What did I do to cause this? Answer: absolutely nothing except show up in glasses and grease string hair at 1am to buy fatty foodstuffs like ice cream and cookies on three occasions over the span of two years. I wasn't even very friendly! He asked for my email address on the second trip and I gave it to him with Terri's assurance that he probably didn't know how to plug in a computer. That proved absolutely and completely true. On my third and most recent trip, I with cell phone in hand, was asked for my number. No backing down. I had the goddamn thing on me. He told me to let him call it so we could see if it worked. Since then I have received oh maybe 7 texts from him. Wishing happy holidays, asking for my email (again?? why?? what would you say?? We now sell Annie's mac n cheese and there's a 2 for 1 sale on pastrami this week??) All of these texts are in barely-there English, with just enough resemblance to English words for me to make out their meaning. I have never answered, and yet they come.
Two nights ago was a gem of unbelievable proportions: Hi hwo ar yuo i muceo
I understand this resembles a drunk text, and you're all like oh Katie that's just a drunk text. But I know beyond a reasonable doubt that he is standing in the deli and texting me. He's ALWAYS there. I THINK and by THINK mean GUESS WITH A TINY SHRED OF CERTAINTY that it says "Hi how are you? I miss you". But one may never know.
On another note, I wish I smelled differently today because it isn't.....good.
Two nights ago was a gem of unbelievable proportions: Hi hwo ar yuo i muceo
I understand this resembles a drunk text, and you're all like oh Katie that's just a drunk text. But I know beyond a reasonable doubt that he is standing in the deli and texting me. He's ALWAYS there. I THINK and by THINK mean GUESS WITH A TINY SHRED OF CERTAINTY that it says "Hi how are you? I miss you". But one may never know.
On another note, I wish I smelled differently today because it isn't.....good.
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