DO IT ANYWAY. Also, ‘je cannae ph0t0sh0p’ - french, scots, and what-is-that-even in one sentence? Allow me to take this moment to give you all the awards that ever were.
:’) You are an enabler, which means that you get a special (aka terrible) prize (a term here used loosely) in the form of me dreamcasting Wildwood Dancing in the form of shitty un-photoshoppèdtogetherintolovelyand~meaningfulgraphics pictures of pretty people. IT’LL HAPPEN but not tonight.
Ugh like just—it’s so nice, to let it go. And by ‘it’ I of course mean linguistic normalcy or standards or what have you. Like. Just. I fear I am about to veer into the Land of Incredible Pretension here very soon if I go on any more, so I will only say that I am so glad you are here (there) to rejoice in the casting off of ruL3z with me and that it’s almost embarrassing in the sense that it’s like I’m some poetry kid who’s just discovered e.e. cummings and is like OMG YOU CAN DO THAT?!??11!?! I mean honestly. And yet I can’t bring myself to care because it’s just too great.
“If you are a student you should always get a good night’s sleep, unless you have come to the good part of your book, and then you should stay up all night and let your schoolwork fall by the wayside, a phrase which here means ‘flunk’.”—Lemony Snicket
It’s not like I was ever a Runner. I did track in middle school. My relay team always won at meets, but only because I was friends with the fast girls. Then again, middle school was also when I could keep up with my friend The Runner, the one who runs miles in under four minutes, as long as he didn’t start sprinting.
He talked me into doing cross country with him the summer before freshman year of high school. It was hot (practice was early early early in the morning but I live in the kind of town where it hits 90 degrees before ten a.m., so) and sticky and miserable and glorious. Then, in the last weeks of August, I tried out for volleyball (which I’d also played, school and club, in middle school) and made the team. I was too chicken to tell the coach, one of the social science-y teachers, that I quit, so I passed the news along to my friend and just stopped going to practice. I thought the teacher, who passed it along through the grapevine that he was (mockingly) angry with me and who yelled at me down the halls whenever I passed his classroom, would forget about it eventually. I wasn’t one of his prize runners or anything. I was a middle-of-the-pack girl. But he never did. Even in senior year he still regularly told my other friend (who’d been the best cross country girl until she lost her whatever-it-was that made her so good and subsequently had a breakdown) that she was to persuade my itinerant ass to itinerate back to the team. It made me feel bad. That he was so nice. That he remembered me.
Volleyball was grueling and I loved it and hated it more. I always wondered whether I’d made The Right Choice or whatever bullshit.
But I ran tonight. Barefoot and in a tank top and boxers around the whole neighborhood, with my cell phone clutched in my hand. It wasn’t very far. Maybe one mile the first loop. But then I passed my house and went around again without even stopping. Not when I got a stitch in my ribs. Not when I stepped on sharp rocks. Not when I got splinters in my feet. And my lungs didn’t hurt and yeah, I was sweating, but I’ve been sweating passively all fucking day. (It’s midnight now and still almost eighty degrees out. Why.)
I looked at the stars in between street lamps, when the light pollution wasn’t too bad. Tried to figure out which constellations I was looking at, realized I had all of them wrong (that one W wouldn’t turn into Cassiopeia no matter how hard I squinted), so I made up new ones instead. Thought about things. Wrote shit in my head. Let all my stories untangle out like I do every night before I go to sleep, only it was better, cleaner, and there wasn’t the chance that they’d all be gone or knotted again when I woke up.
And I never stopped. Because it was just: Pavement. Pavement. Pavement. Night. Night. Night.
I’m supposed to be the cold emotionless robot in the family (you would not BELIEVE how many times during this past week I have overheard various relatives telling others just to assign such-and-such task to me because I could be relied on to be feelingless and cold-hearted, etc.), but I cried and dribbled and sniffled and bawled and wept my way through my wavery-voiced eulogy today like an infant
but the good news is that I’m not even embarrassed
So my gram died this morning. My dad’s mom. I now have no grandparents left wtf because everyone else died of like alcoholism and smoking already. And don’t worry, I am usually a callous bastard, but I am rather heartbroken and all and I’ve cried and whatnot but at the mo, you know, I’m just keeping it boiled under or whatever, but anyway, I present to you what are so far the funniest moments of today, because in shitty situations I resort to being tacky and inappropriately using humor as a coping mechanism. But if that is the kind of thing that is likely to make you uncomfortable, please don’t read this, yeah?
THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE UNDER A ‘READ MORE’ BUT IT’S NOT WORKING SO WHATEVER.
Geranium texting: I’m so sorry for your lose.
My mom, who is taking it really fucking hard, texting: I just can’t stop crying…
I roll my eyes because I can’t deal with this, like, how do you even respond to that, omg.
Mom texting: And my face looks shite
Me texting: lol I’m sorry that your face looks shite :(
Mom texting: Like shite [probably because she thought I was making fun of her grammar]
Me texting: "Looks shite" works too actually
Mom texting: Or as Gram would say “shuta” [misspelling of Lithuanian for ‘shit’]
Me texting: Šūda!
Mom to me on the phone: "How’s Dad? [it was his mom] Is he okay?
Me: "Uh, yeah, I guess, I mean, he’s like visibly fine or whatever. He’s not crying or anything. He is sweating a lot from helping me move though, so that’s kind of the same thing."
Dad, who coincidentally is here to take me home tomorrow after my last final: "I’M CRYING WITH MY BODY!!"
My dad to my mom on the phone: “Suck it up!”
Me: “Dad!!!" [throws things at him]
Dad: "I was trying to be empathetic! Sympathetic! Was that not?"
Me: "Oh my god, Dad, that is like the opposite of empathy!”
Dad: "Wait, I said sympathy too! Sympathetic!"
Me on the phone with my brother: "So Dad told Mom to suck it up."
Dad: "Would you shut up about that already, you little punk?"
My brother: "Wait, are you serious? Oh my god."
Me: "Everyone deals with grief in different ways."
My brother: "I just came back from the dentist. I’m trying to make sure this is actually the worst day possible. I’m gonna find some huge dude to kick me in the balls later."
My mom on the phone (she kept calling): "I think it will be really nice if you and all the grandkids, including Geranium and [his sister], could sing ‘You Are My Sunshine’ at the funeral."
Me: "Oh my god, Mom. That…is going to be so cheesy.”
My mom, starting to cry harder: "I just thought it would be nice."
Me: "Aaahh okay. Um. Okay. Fine. It’ll be…uh…sweet. We can, uh, do that, I guess."
My aunt on Facebook: [emotional status update here]
Aunt’s friend: OMG…I’m so sorry.
Which just made me die laughing, because, “OMG”? Really?
Various other fucking status updates because my whole damn family is all about the fucking social networking. Geranium even tweeted about it. My sister and I don’t really get along but I feel a CoNnEcTiOn to her in this time because I swear to god we are like the only ones who haven’t posted something.
“Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.”—Lemony Snicket
“25. And the Lord spake unto the Angel that guarded the eastern gate, saying, Where is the flaming sword which was given unto thee?
26. And the Angel said, I had it here only a moment ago, I must have put it down some where, forget my own head next.
27. And the Lord did not ask him again.”—Genesis 3:25–27, Good Omens (via roxanneritchi)
I had a dream last night that we lived in a zombie-apocalypse type of situation, but it was like nbd, it was mostly under control as long as you stuck in groups, etc. (OR SO WE THOUGHT).
I was at a drugstore with some people, and then there was a zombie in the store, and we were all like, dramatic put-upon sigh, WHAT AN INCONVENIENCE, but I was like, “Oh hang on I really need to get cotton balls” (real-life truth. Now you know where my priorities lie. Need for cotton balls > zombie threat), so I went over to the other side of the store by myself to get the damn cotton balls, only then it was like the zombie was mad at me or something (EXCUSE ME FOR WASTING YOUR TIME, ZOMBIE), and I had thrown my drink on the floor, so because of the wetness it/he was able to move more quickly and I was like fuuuuck.
So I yelled at the guard behind the counter to shoot it, because that’s what he was there for, but he didn’t ‘cause he just, like, froze in panic, and I was like “Omg whatever I can do this myself,” so I ran over to him, the zombie In Hot Pursuit!, and he threw the gun at me and fled, and I launched over the counter like the badass that I am, and then I spun around and aimed the gun at the zombie, and the weight of the gun in my hands felt so good, and it felt exactly like it does in real life, and I was like ugh I love guns, but then I pulled the trigger because the zombie was, like, Right There, and…it didn’t go off.
The fucking thing wasn’t loaded. And it was just this unsatisfying, lightweight click-click-click for every time I squeezed the trigger instead of the satisfying heavy feel of a gunshot, and I was so pissed off at the stupid guard for not even loading his gun! Who does that, as a guard in a zombie-apocalypse world??
So I just had to hightail it the fuck out of there, swearing like a sailor the whole way because what the fuuuuck.
I am sure there is some sort of bullshit “I am feeling powerless in my life!!1” symbolism/interpretation to be had in there; and
I really need to go to a shooting range around here because I woke up so damn dissatisfied. The dream got a hell of a lot scarier after that point (Everyone Got Separated! There Was a Lake of Terror that Turned People into Zombies! My Love Interest Turned into a Zombie! etc. etc.), but when I woke up, instead of feeling residual panic/fear, I was just really mad about getting to feel the weight of a gun without actually getting to shoot it; and
Holly: Hey Gram, guess what I’m doing this summer? I’m going to this music festival thing in the city!
Gram: Ohh! Are you! Here, tell the nurse what you’re doing this summer:
Holly, dutifully: I’m going to Outside Lands this summer.
Gram: What’s that it’s called? Outside Lanch?
Holly: Outside Lands. Outside Lands.
Gram: Is that right. [informatively; not joking] It’s very musical, I hear. From what I understand.
Holly, trying not to laugh: I hope so.
Gram & Holly: [conversation]
Gram: So does that boy ever talk to you?
Holly: Yeah, we’re really good friends, I’m going to be living with him for a month this summer, actually.
Gram: Ohh! Maybe there’ll be pinchin’ or somethin’! Pinch ‘is butt, maybe then he’ll know what you want.
This one time, my gram told me that she and my grandpa didn’t consummate their marriage until after he came back from the war (WWII, not Vietnam; my dad was in Vietnam. My parents are kind of old), because he couldn’t perform on their wedding night.