Daintily

On the way to–she had already forgotten the city’s name–she was hit with the reality of it all.

I’m leaving. Actually leaving.

Gravity seemed to pull her back; it pulled through the doors of the bus that had gone past its healthy dose of mileage, it pulled through the light Bee Gees playing in the background, it pulled her mind back home. Back home. Back to a place where she didn’t–quintessential reason, she had convinced herself, for anyone leaving–quite belong.

The sounds of the bus were muffled through the light rumbling of cars outside: fragments of conversation strewn to complete thoughts and phrases, irregular phrases that seemed to match perfectly without any correlation to one another.

Maybe we were two different. Maybe we were speaking two different converesations at once. 

They had quite .. a number of conversations. Fascinating conversations that soon begot fighting. Fighting about her art. Fighting about his whereabouts during strange hours of the night. Fighting about why she wasn’t doing enough. You should be helping around the studio, he would yell. I’m busy, she’d yell back. Paint would be splattered on the ground. Broken paintings, she remembered that. Strewn around everywhere. Paintings she had relentlessly broken her back to finish. Paintings that, unfortunately, were in the crossfire of hostility. Where were you, she’d ask. He’d look at her: Why do you need to know?

Why do you need to know?

They had happy times; she was sure of it. She racked her mind for happy times. Oh, that one time! The one where they had driven up to Napa; he told her that he loved her wine-stained lips. The one in which she became helplessly elated with his promotion at work; they celebrated with a night of take-out-Chinese and her favorite film (artsy-fartsy, independent AND foreign). Or that one time where she opened the gallery downtown and he told her that she was amazing. Or when they had talked about the future.

But the nostalgia soon faded, like the energy and determination she had somehow acquired that morning. The bus stopped. She got off and was immediately attacked by heat. Using the Economist to shield the sun, she hoisted the duffel bag onto her shoulder. And then she–aimlessly–began to walk.

Further, futher, further away.

I have a lot of growing up to do.

A part of me is overwhelmingly happy.

The other is scared, panic-striken, a bundle-of-nerves; the one that is living off cups of Black coffee with the extra shot, always and forever.

(It’s nice to know that the only enduring relationship in my life is a cup of $1.35 coffee at 7-11.)

Everyone knows making mistakes is vital to growing up. It’s like the ugly, inevitable chapter of every book that you just have to trudge pass. You can read it as fast as you want to. You can hide it under your bed and hope to never read it again. But it’s there, it’s there, and it’s so permanent: The Times New Roman etched into the skin by some laser-printer in some publishing house. Permanent until you go incredible lengths to eradicate it, of course.

Please don’t be that mistake.

You caught me under false pretenses
How long before you let me go?

Before I go on, this blog is dedicated to Hillary Clinton for being fabulous, Benj for all the help, Cecilia for being the coolest pharmacist–she “promised” me a shopping trip and the most eligible interns you could ever imagine–at O Connor, John for never sleeping and/or eating, and Crissy for gracing my ears with great music.

This past weekend, I acquired a very lovely piece of technology . Customary for all my technology, it needed a name. Something snazzy and unforgettable. Something to open eyes and amaze, excite, or stir controversy. And I really wanted to name it after a dead president.

So I thought long and hard about the pros and cons of each president.

And after a good three minutes, I decided to name my new iPod classic “Richard Nixon”.

My reasoning? Watergate. Nixon was a total–pardon my french–bad ass. And so is my iPod.

Case closed.

(And as for controversy — you can imagine the myriad of responses I’m getting.)

So … I love my lab coat

It makes me feel incredibly legitimate.

If I could put it in words, I would.

Let’s just say it was … one hell of a week. Traveling from place to place–meaning, transitioning from flight to flight to flight–begets inexpressible lethargy.

My thoughts are now in French, which is perfectly ridiculous because I never took a day of French class and the only French word I know is “fromage”.

Mes voyages? Fromage!

Now it’s back to selling drugs (or in this case, doing paperwork for those who sell the drugs; “Why is Valium missing?”), drawing for food, buying coffee for Soma FM, and singing for le seignuer.

Will you be my unintended?

“Why did I let you drink the wine? I’m supposed to be the responsible adult here.”

“I would’ve done it if I had been with my parents.”

“But that’s the thing — you weren’t.”

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you know.”

“I’m supposed to be the responsible person here.”

Questions and conversations coveted through the remnants of bad Merlot may, quite possibly, be the most equivocal. The intentions of each and every question posed are so unclear; everything is open for interpretation!

Though you may beg to differ — I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much

Disclaimer: Pardon my French

I suppose lucid, mildly coherent, entires would help you understand everything that you’d need to know, but well, ambiguity is all the rage.

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How does something that once felt so inexplicably yours feel so tainted and used?

Is there anything left in this world that would satisfy me
Is there anything thing left in this world that will satisfy you, tonight?

We were sailing on
I could see the world below
Never thought I’ve come down
Expectations fail
It seemed as though our will was no match for the trouble found

I sometimes wish I could say all the things that were on my mind. Fascination. Amazement. Need. Fear. Lethargy.

I’m not particularly fond of circular reasoning, but it sure is dominating my mind today.

In other news, I think it’s been decided. Chuong, my late night 2:27AM buddy, believes that I am perverted. Oh great, just what I need! Perversion!

Who knew Lil’ Wayne was so punny?

She say he so sweet
Make her wanna lick the rapper
So I letta lick the ‘rapper

Because–you know–not only is he a rapper (the guys that regurgitate words really, really, really fast), but he, apparently, is sweet like the insides of a wrapper (the wrapping outside a lollipop).

Ha ha ha