" I believe there are monsters born in the world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies. They are accidents and no one's fault... And just as there are physical monsters, can there not be mental or psychic monsters born? The face and body may be perfect, but if a twisted gene or a malformed egg can produce physical monsters, may not the same process produce a malformed soul?"
-John Steinbeck, East of Eden
It's hard to find something that makes you Happy. It's hard to remember Happy once it's gone. And we all know that Happy, although always welcome, often comes uninvited and leaves unexpectedly.
She said: "I don't remember what it's like to be happy. Maybe I've never been happy."
It really bothered me. It bothered me more when she asked me the last time I was happy and I didn't have an answer already sitting on my tongue just waiting to be brought into the world of audibility. When was the last time I was happy? Have I ever been truly happy? What is happiness?
According to Shakespeare, and reiterated by Shania Twain, happiness is wanting what you have and not having what you want. So does that mean happiness is lacking the desire to change? To become better? To be void of dreams and aspirations? That in itself seems an impossible feat for man, whose cornerstone is the ability to create and build and improve. Thus, if we are basing happiness off of the testament of good ol' Willy, happiness, if it is possible, can never occur simultaneously with success. And true happiness can only be reached by the listless and the vapid extremities of our species.....
No. This is ridiculous. I just don't agree. Perhaps this is the romantic in me but I don't view happiness as that.
Happiness is laughter. Friendship. Fun. Whatever. Happiness is not complicated. It is a feeling of ease and contentedness and being entirely comfortable with who you are and what you have. It is not this unreachable thing that is taped to the ceiling, dangling on a string that is just out of our reach, mocking us as it swings left and right. No. That is the wrong outlook on happiness. Happiness is waiting to be picked up like....I don't know, an eager puppy. Sometimes it is just sitting there amidst it all, floating all around and surrounding the atmosphere with warmth and multiplying exponentially, readily available to all. Sometimes it is hidden like buried treasure and takes considerable strength and patience to procure. But it's there. It is waiting. You just have to take the time to find it. If you are not happy, you are not letting yourself be happy. And it is time you crawl out of yourself and see the world and breathe in the fresh air and all its glory of new beginnings and potential laughter. Happiness is not complicated. It is the simplest idea out there.
And in truth that's all happiness is nothing but a state of mind. It is a state in the present as we face our challenges and revel in our triumphs and accept our defeats. Happiness is confidence and assuredness and composure and love.
Okay. So I'm happy and apparently it's reachable. Then what am I working towards now? If I'm already happy, what else do I want? So maybe I'm not happy, or I would already be dead or basically dead, which brings back that earlier picture of someone who is "happy" and doesn't do anything because of it...........which again makes me think that productivity and happiness do not go hand in hand.
If happiness means being content with what you have, than happiness is not stunted by settling, in fact happiness would be synonymous to settling and being completely...happy with settling.
Ugh. This is torturous. What is happiness? Was my sister right? Have none of us ever been happy?
Is it ironic that the idea of happiness is plaguing me?
Monday, December 27, 2010
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Death.
You can cover the floors with plastic wood paneling, you can paint the walls bright colors, you can hang up photographs and paintings of sunrises and plants, but hospitals still smell like death.
I am incredibly depressing. I almost put this as my facebook status, but thought against it. Just a little too dark for the facebook community.
I haven't slept at all this week.
My grandpa has been in the hospital due to kidney failure since Wednesday.
He is getting an artificial kidney. An artificial, extrinsic kidney.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
Attached to the outside of his body, to keep him alive.
He will have this for the rest of his life.
He has to change it every three weeks.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
I haven't slept at all this week but I'm not sure the two events are related. Something about this week has been unnaturally awful. Failed interviews, threatened detentions, unpredictable futures, unpredictable lives. It's enough to lose sleep over.
Today I visited the hospital. And the only thing I could think of was my aunt. I really hate hospitals. Who doesn't? Everything is shoved inside this giant institution, covered by this veneer of cheerfulness. It feels like I'm walking into an airport until I get a whiff of the air. Until I listen to the noises and the announcements. Beeping moniters, whirring breathing machines, the Sunday news in the background, painfully light small talk with your family, painfully sensitive small talk with your family. Nobody wants to talk about your condition. Nobody wants to mention the word "death". Everybody is always tired. I hate hospitals.
I hate seeing people so useless. So incapable. Tangled up in plastic, the wires and the machines are no longer an extension of the patient, but the patient is an extension of them. Parasitic in nature, feeding on it to cling onto dear life. Dear life.
And what am I supposed to say? What could I possibly say?
Hey Grandpa, try your best not to die. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll see you tonight. I got into college. Hey Grandpa, feel better. Get well soon. Smile. I love you?
Are you hot? Are you cold? Did you eat? How's the food? Did you sleep? How did you sleep? Should I turn on the television? Should I open a window?
Do you need anything?
What could you possibly need that I could possibly provide for you?
I've only been to one funeral in my entire life and it wasn't even for someone I knew. It wasn't even for my aunt. It was for some random acquaintance of my mom's. It was held in a small funeral home with sterile white stucco walls and wine red almost shag carpet. There were lots of doors and rooms. People were either making too much noise or not enough. It was eerie.
I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.
I cried for this woman I never knew, never heard of, never seen.
How are we supposed to deal with death? People don't die. I'm a teenager. I'm invincible. Didn't you know that? Isn't that common knowledge? Nothing can touch me or the people around me. People don't die.
I'm not sad right now. My grandpa is better. His "condition" is stabilizing. I'm not sad. I'm indifferent. I'm uncomfortable. I'm not feeling much of anything.
I am as empty as a grave full of dust.
When I die--if I die--I want to be ready. If not willing, then at ease. Am I asking too much?
I am incredibly depressing. I almost put this as my facebook status, but thought against it. Just a little too dark for the facebook community.
I haven't slept at all this week.
My grandpa has been in the hospital due to kidney failure since Wednesday.
He is getting an artificial kidney. An artificial, extrinsic kidney.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
Attached to the outside of his body, to keep him alive.
He will have this for the rest of his life.
He has to change it every three weeks.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.
I haven't slept at all this week but I'm not sure the two events are related. Something about this week has been unnaturally awful. Failed interviews, threatened detentions, unpredictable futures, unpredictable lives. It's enough to lose sleep over.
Today I visited the hospital. And the only thing I could think of was my aunt. I really hate hospitals. Who doesn't? Everything is shoved inside this giant institution, covered by this veneer of cheerfulness. It feels like I'm walking into an airport until I get a whiff of the air. Until I listen to the noises and the announcements. Beeping moniters, whirring breathing machines, the Sunday news in the background, painfully light small talk with your family, painfully sensitive small talk with your family. Nobody wants to talk about your condition. Nobody wants to mention the word "death". Everybody is always tired. I hate hospitals.
I hate seeing people so useless. So incapable. Tangled up in plastic, the wires and the machines are no longer an extension of the patient, but the patient is an extension of them. Parasitic in nature, feeding on it to cling onto dear life. Dear life.
And what am I supposed to say? What could I possibly say?
Hey Grandpa, try your best not to die. I'll see you tomorrow. I'll see you tonight. I got into college. Hey Grandpa, feel better. Get well soon. Smile. I love you?
Are you hot? Are you cold? Did you eat? How's the food? Did you sleep? How did you sleep? Should I turn on the television? Should I open a window?
Do you need anything?
What could you possibly need that I could possibly provide for you?
I've only been to one funeral in my entire life and it wasn't even for someone I knew. It wasn't even for my aunt. It was for some random acquaintance of my mom's. It was held in a small funeral home with sterile white stucco walls and wine red almost shag carpet. There were lots of doors and rooms. People were either making too much noise or not enough. It was eerie.
I spent a lot of time in the bathroom.
I cried for this woman I never knew, never heard of, never seen.
How are we supposed to deal with death? People don't die. I'm a teenager. I'm invincible. Didn't you know that? Isn't that common knowledge? Nothing can touch me or the people around me. People don't die.
I'm not sad right now. My grandpa is better. His "condition" is stabilizing. I'm not sad. I'm indifferent. I'm uncomfortable. I'm not feeling much of anything.
I am as empty as a grave full of dust.
When I die--if I die--I want to be ready. If not willing, then at ease. Am I asking too much?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Inspirations.
"What has been given to me is not something to be repaid but to be fulfilled."
-PaulDavid Shrader, Probity
-PaulDavid Shrader, Probity
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Short and Sporadic Ponderings of Yours Truly.
"Never leave home in socks with holes because you never know when you're going to try on a pair of shoes."
Elegance, etiquette, composure, confidence, and humility. This seems to be the formula for adulthood. One step at a time. One pair of shoes at a time.
Who knew the library has so many...books? What a wonderful, wonderful world. I intend to one day read a book on etiquette borrowed from this previously mentioned place of wonder. It will be some kind of a rude awakening, I'm sure. Isn't that ironic.
"Fashion is about eventually being naked.''
I don't think I will ever really know myself because I am too preoccupied with changing myself, expanding my mind, and learning new things, new places, new people. Oh, I almost didn't see you there, College. Don't jump out at me like that. I imagine books of etiquette frown upon it.
-BIJOU Living
Elegance, etiquette, composure, confidence, and humility. This seems to be the formula for adulthood. One step at a time. One pair of shoes at a time.
Who knew the library has so many...books? What a wonderful, wonderful world. I intend to one day read a book on etiquette borrowed from this previously mentioned place of wonder. It will be some kind of a rude awakening, I'm sure. Isn't that ironic.
"Fashion is about eventually being naked.''
-Vivienne Westwood
Well put, Vivienne Westwood. I might just name my daughter after you. Let us see how she turns out.I don't think I will ever really know myself because I am too preoccupied with changing myself, expanding my mind, and learning new things, new places, new people. Oh, I almost didn't see you there, College. Don't jump out at me like that. I imagine books of etiquette frown upon it.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Deep Fried Scallops.
I've literally wanted to blog every single day this past week but I didn't have access to my computer. Now. I really don't have anything to say but instead I'm typing out of common courtesy for past yearnings. I wanted to write so badly that I started typing on my phone and saved a draft...and my phone is no magical, miraculous, super-computer utility so this was some kind of commitment. I'm not really feeling it anymore though. I don't remember where I was going with it....
Day one in Chicago began in Chinatown. Authentic Sichuan Cuisine. Sichua
n is a province in Southwestern China, close to the mountains. It also happens to be my dad's hometown. They are very proud of their food, known as one of the Four Great Traditions of Chinise cuisine. Think spicy, hot, fresh and fragrant. Delicious. We had some really traditional appetizers including crispy duck (pictured right), rabbit, fish, pig lung, and even chicken. They have some good vegetarian dishes too, haha. For dessert, frozen yogurt with mochi and pineapple.
The next day I had my first Chicago style hot dog--mustard, onion, sweet pickle relish, a dill pickle spear, tomatoes, pickled sport peppers, and celery salt. And then my mom craved some culture and we went back to Chinatown and ate at a restuarant that served authentic Chinese from her hometown, Guangzhou (Canton). There's some saying that the Cantonese "eat everything with legs except a table, and everything with wings except an airplane." It is much lighter and subtle in comparison to Sichuanese food but it is still good. We had a typical kind of rice porridge served with eel and honey glazed fish. For dessert we had vanilla ice cream with red bean paste.
We ended the trip with Italian gelato, some used books and some phenomenal Thai food. Specifically, the best Pad Thai I've ever had, spicy catfish and basil chicken. And one last frozen yogurt experience.
5:47 pm. I am facing the clock in a seat closest to the door. The dim light on the wall flickers rhythmically from the pulsing ceiling fan (not a burned out battery). I am staring straight at the wall, at no spot in particular, without moving my gaze, like I was staring at a spot in particular. I pop my gum.
5:49 pm. People filter in and out, making the bells strapped on the door jingle. I keep leaving the spot on the wall to glance at the door like I'm waiting for someone. It doesn't really smell like a bakery. It doesn't really look like a bakery. It isn't just a bakery. It is also a restaurant. A woman comes in, and sits at a round table set for six. She orders soup in Cantonese and it is brought out in less than two minutes. She sits and drinks, pushing her graying perm out of the way every time she took a spoonful, and talking aloud for everyone to hear.
And then my mom came back. And I stopped writing and it's not climactic to say the least. I'm sorry if you read it and you were expecting something. I really do think I was going somewhere with it but I'm really not sure anymore. Anyway. It was downtown Chicago, in Chinatown. This is a perfect segway for what I really wanted to talk about: food.
If there are two things I strongly believe it's that:
- If you do or say anything with enough conviction, it is the truth--think organized religion, or Antoinette.
- Food is the pinnacle of mankind.
Day one in Chicago began in Chinatown. Authentic Sichuan Cuisine. Sichua
n is a province in Southwestern China, close to the mountains. It also happens to be my dad's hometown. They are very proud of their food, known as one of the Four Great Traditions of Chinise cuisine. Think spicy, hot, fresh and fragrant. Delicious. We had some really traditional appetizers including crispy duck (pictured right), rabbit, fish, pig lung, and even chicken. They have some good vegetarian dishes too, haha. For dessert, frozen yogurt with mochi and pineapple.The next day I had my first Chicago style hot dog--mustard, onion, sweet pickle relish, a dill pickle spear, tomatoes, pickled sport peppers, and celery salt. And then my mom craved some culture and we went back to Chinatown and ate at a restuarant that served authentic Chinese from her hometown, Guangzhou (Canton). There's some saying that the Cantonese "eat everything with legs except a table, and everything with wings except an airplane." It is much lighter and subtle in comparison to Sichuanese food but it is still good. We had a typical kind of rice porridge served with eel and honey glazed fish. For dessert we had vanilla ice cream with red bean paste.
We ended the trip with Italian gelato, some used books and some phenomenal Thai food. Specifically, the best Pad Thai I've ever had, spicy catfish and basil chicken. And one last frozen yogurt experience.
And then I came home. And then. I went to Connecticut. It's your typical love story. Girl meets burger. And then she eats it. Typical. Except, it wasn't your typical burger. It was a hamburger from Louis Lunch, where they claim to have served the very first all-American burger, between two slices of toast, not fried but broiled, always without ketchup or mustard. Washed down with a dry soda. Amazing.
The next day I went down to the beach and had deep fried scallops at this tiny little restaurant right next to the ocean. They were the best scallops I've ever tasted. Not stringy or tough. Cut like butter tasted like meat. Tell me this wasn't a good week. Well, you have no idea what you're talking about.
I decided next year, I'm going to take a road-trip solely to find some good food. Come with me.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Lime Flavored Jello.
I haven't posted in awhile but there's no inspiration to write like the inspiration that comes from staying home on a Friday night when there are so many other fun things going on. I don't think I've ever been invited had more plans that I couldn't do.
Oh well. Sounds like another dance party alone. Yeah, yeah? Uh, yeah!
Ps. I'm thinking some kind of really unofficial gathering at my house on a Tuesday night a week from now kind of for my birthday but not really dance party night picnic campfire board games(Stratego perhaps? Sam Wyatt start reading my blog.) sort of deal. The kind where I invite too many people and only the cool ones show up/the ones who don't have anything to do and thought this might be Pleasant. You guys would fall into one of those categories right? Be there.
I'm thinking about cake but then it might seem like a birthday party, but who knows. Everything is up in the air or suspended in jello. Lime flavored, as always.
Maybe I'll have jello there. Find out for yourself. Make an appearance. Don't bring me presents, bring food.
Oh wait I almost forgot. We're seniors!
Oh well. Sounds like another dance party alone. Yeah, yeah? Uh, yeah!
Ps. I'm thinking some kind of really unofficial gathering at my house on a Tuesday night a week from now kind of for my birthday but not really dance party night picnic campfire board games(Stratego perhaps? Sam Wyatt start reading my blog.) sort of deal. The kind where I invite too many people and only the cool ones show up/the ones who don't have anything to do and thought this might be Pleasant. You guys would fall into one of those categories right? Be there.
I'm thinking about cake but then it might seem like a birthday party, but who knows. Everything is up in the air or suspended in jello. Lime flavored, as always.
Maybe I'll have jello there. Find out for yourself. Make an appearance. Don't bring me presents, bring food.
Oh wait I almost forgot. We're seniors!
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
A work in progress.
"Only as high as I reach can I grow, only as far as I seek can I go, only as deep as I look can I see, only as much as I dream can I be. "
-Winston Churchill
It's not quite finished (or edited properly), but it'll do. Reflection on this year:
I met a lot of really great people this year, people who I admire and am comfortable around, people who are genuinely funny, people who I always have fun with, and people who I can talk to about anything. Consequently, I became more comfortable with myself and I took another step in the direction of not caring about what other people think. Let's call it...maturity, for kicks. Lots of things have happened this year and if nothing else, it is at least interesting. But it is something else, it's a lot else.
There is a defining line between the people who will always be there for me and the people who laugh at my jokes. I am so grateful. I am extremely lucky. I am surrounded by wonderful people. And I love you all.
I learned that sometimes trying to protect yourself and keeping a safe distance can sometimes mean lying. The best way to combat this, is to just try and feel. For example. The truth is I'm not a die-hard cynic and neither are you. I'm a romantic trying to hide. But I'm starting not to mind so much. Because after all, what is wrong with believing in love? In others? In humanity? My biggest regrets are always the same. Not being brave enough, lying, not saying anything, not trying to say anything.
Things I would love to change about myself/improve upon:
- Gain composure.
- Do not be afraid of rejection.
- Do not stop trying.
- No more empty promises
- Work on my relationship with my parents
My Reachable goals for this coming year/summer:
- Get into college. Ha.
- Fight senioritis.
- Don't procrastinate on college/scholarship essays.
- Make relationships with your teachers. Not just for the recommendation letter
- Maintain/better organize Picnic Club
- Do something worthwhile with my summer
- Meet some underclassmen
- Get my license
- Get a better job
- This is obviously in no particular order
2010-2011. It is our year. Let's make the most of it.
What does success mean to me?
Happiness.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Senior Moment
I'm not even graduating and I'm tearing up? Tonight was the last choir concert for seniors and I really cried. Does this foreshadow our senior year at all?
Holy cow. I'm going to miss them so much.
I wish all of them read my blog so I can talk about how much I lubbbb them and how they are wonderful, beautiful, amazing people, and how I can't even imagine what highschool will be like without them.
The day after tomorrow the school will feel... empty.
Holy cow. I'm going to miss them so much.
I wish all of them read my blog so I can talk about how much I lubbbb them and how they are wonderful, beautiful, amazing people, and how I can't even imagine what highschool will be like without them.
The day after tomorrow the school will feel... empty.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
LBH.
I'm making the next abbreviation.
LBH= let's be honest.
lbh. I'm the shit.
Ps. One never really realizes how embarrassing she is until she shows a group of people a video of herself on a Friday night because she thought it was "funny."
Falso.
That's not honest.
That is a lie.
I am embarrassing.
Back to being honest.
LBH= let's be honest.
lbh. I'm the shit.
Ps. One never really realizes how embarrassing she is until she shows a group of people a video of herself on a Friday night because she thought it was "funny."
Falso.
That's not honest.
That is a lie.
I am embarrassing.
Back to being honest.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Dublin is Hip-Hopppin'
What a healthy stache.
I have lots o things in common with these two people.
I will also cutabitch, Carol Seaver.
And I also have a healthy mustache, Rollie Fingers (what a sweet name for a baseball player, yes? Yes.)
Ps. Henna smells like minty lavender.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Curry and Naan
I get to eat Indian food once a year and it's one of my fave days eva. Right up there with Christmas, and that's when Jesus was born. Today was that day. Yummy yum yums.
Today was also the day I ment Denton. Driver's ed. Nine days until I'm a senior and today was my very first class.
It's a battle-- kind of like cancer or drug addiction. I'm winning.
Hello, my name's Megan and I'm going to get my license.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
The unbearable lightness of being.
AP exams are over. Does that mean it's time for my facebook back? I don't know if I want it back.
Eh. I'll probably get it back.
You know what I hate? Calling in favors. Asking for stuff. Making speeches about why I'm the best candidate ever and everyone is great but they're really, actually, shitty in comparison and if you were a bright young thing like they say you are, you all are, bright young beautiful things, then you would very clearly be able to see that. So cast your vote. If you don't vote for me, then you're a miserable fuck with no valuable sense of fore-, in- or hind-sight.
That was not explicitly mentioned in My Speech.
But you can bet considerable amounts of money that it was implied. Carefully hidden within clammy palms and impromptu messages about Picnic Club. Didn't you know Picnic Club is synonymous to vote for me because I'm quirky and I deserve it? Oh and I love organizing. (laugh) I mean I really love organizing. (light chuckle) I would fuck it before I would fuck Michael Phelps. And who the fuck wouldn't fuck Michael Phelps? That's why I should be president. (smile, broadly, that is.)
Dear Daddy,
If I ask for something, you should just give it to me.
Dear Daddy,
Please don't make me beg. I know you know I won't. But apparently this time I will. Because desperate times calls for doing stupid shit and compromising everything.
Dear Daddy,
Fuck you. You make me feel ridiculously small.
Dear Daddy,
Please stop. I'm right here. Linda's not here, but she's here. Or at least, she's certainly not there. Don't go. Please stop. We're all right here. We're all waiting.
In other news.
I love nice people. But I hate them too. Can you just shut the fuck up and make me feel like shit? Tell me what I'm doing is not okay and then immediately after go back to being wonderful. No not you, mom. You've already told me that whatever I'm doing to you was not okay, is not okay, will never be okay. But everyone else. Tell me I'm shitty and mean it. And keep saying it until I get it. But as soon as I believe it, you better treat me like I'm fucking wonderful. That would make me feel better. Can you do that for me? You said anything, right? Wait. Don't tell me I'm shitty. Tell me I'm wonderful because then I look for reasons why I'm shitty. If you told me I was shitty, I would look for reasons why I'm wonderful.
Wait. Don't tell me anything. Tell me a joke.
Long post tonight. I always have more to say when I'm alone. Which makes sense. Because the only person I can talk to is myself. Excluding God. But nobody was thinking about You anyway. Be careful, dear reader. My soliloquoy is starting to turn into a dialogue.
Eh. I'll probably get it back.
You know what I hate? Calling in favors. Asking for stuff. Making speeches about why I'm the best candidate ever and everyone is great but they're really, actually, shitty in comparison and if you were a bright young thing like they say you are, you all are, bright young beautiful things, then you would very clearly be able to see that. So cast your vote. If you don't vote for me, then you're a miserable fuck with no valuable sense of fore-, in- or hind-sight.
That was not explicitly mentioned in My Speech.
But you can bet considerable amounts of money that it was implied. Carefully hidden within clammy palms and impromptu messages about Picnic Club. Didn't you know Picnic Club is synonymous to vote for me because I'm quirky and I deserve it? Oh and I love organizing. (laugh) I mean I really love organizing. (light chuckle) I would fuck it before I would fuck Michael Phelps. And who the fuck wouldn't fuck Michael Phelps? That's why I should be president. (smile, broadly, that is.)
Dear Daddy,
If I ask for something, you should just give it to me.
Dear Daddy,
Please don't make me beg. I know you know I won't. But apparently this time I will. Because desperate times calls for doing stupid shit and compromising everything.
Dear Daddy,
Fuck you. You make me feel ridiculously small.
Dear Daddy,
Please stop. I'm right here. Linda's not here, but she's here. Or at least, she's certainly not there. Don't go. Please stop. We're all right here. We're all waiting.
In other news.
I love nice people. But I hate them too. Can you just shut the fuck up and make me feel like shit? Tell me what I'm doing is not okay and then immediately after go back to being wonderful. No not you, mom. You've already told me that whatever I'm doing to you was not okay, is not okay, will never be okay. But everyone else. Tell me I'm shitty and mean it. And keep saying it until I get it. But as soon as I believe it, you better treat me like I'm fucking wonderful. That would make me feel better. Can you do that for me? You said anything, right? Wait. Don't tell me I'm shitty. Tell me I'm wonderful because then I look for reasons why I'm shitty. If you told me I was shitty, I would look for reasons why I'm wonderful.
Wait. Don't tell me anything. Tell me a joke.
Long post tonight. I always have more to say when I'm alone. Which makes sense. Because the only person I can talk to is myself. Excluding God. But nobody was thinking about You anyway. Be careful, dear reader. My soliloquoy is starting to turn into a dialogue.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Chris McCandless Goes Vogue.
![[treespheres.jpg]](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrQRWB4NUcNayAKWQ5glTHj6y5S8lQuD2h9UkCua6tPELv50-vClKTl52BO9QzuW8rcr578F9EkDopVubZpFHYgXJhHSpTtW3cxX073eafWp_3GYLVA4r3Xqq-O34Jj_oyh5MOm_Dk0-dn/s1600/treespheres.jpg)
Rentable-micro-compact-vacation-homes-in-the-middle-of-any-forest-of-your-dreams.
Aka. "Tree Houses"
Are you for real?
Click the link. I dare you.
Found while trying to find a cheap copy of Manhatten Unfurled by Matteo Pericoli, which is also noteworthy of its aesthetic appeal.
Aren't we all.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The absolute value of the first derivative. (Speed.)
Calculus is over.
I'm bored.
I don't care about my other classes.
What else do I have to do?
There's a ton I should do.
I wouldn't mind getting a four on the national exam.
In lang and world.
I'm working really hard.
Working hard is synonymous to jack shit right?
No?
Just normal shit?
I wouldn't mind getting an A in chemistry.
Since when was this hard?
I think I've been sleeping too much.
Blogging deprived.
It's insane how much free time I have without facebook.
Wait. It's 8:30.
I just did math homework that I don't even have anymore.
I have a ton of stuff to do.
I'm bored.
I don't care about my other classes.
What else do I have to do?
There's a ton I should do.
I wouldn't mind getting a four on the national exam.
In lang and world.
I'm working really hard.
Working hard is synonymous to jack shit right?
No?
Just normal shit?
I wouldn't mind getting an A in chemistry.
Since when was this hard?
I think I've been sleeping too much.
Blogging deprived.
It's insane how much free time I have without facebook.
Wait. It's 8:30.
I just did math homework that I don't even have anymore.
I have a ton of stuff to do.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Read this.
Why? Because I didn't write it. And it's fucking brilliant. And I don't use that term lightly. I mean, it's pumping my pussy open brilliant. And I'm not just being crass. I'm quoting. From this. Which, if you didn't realize, is fucking brilliant. But it also makes me want to say the word 'fuck' in that certain way where my eyes are kind of glazed over and where even though I'm spitting it out like it's something crude and taking extra time to enunciate the 'k', the way I'm saying it makes it just another word. Fuck. It makes me want to talk like I'm some character in one of Chuck Palahniuk's books with some kind of drug addiction or identity crisis or as luck would have it, both. Or like I'm starring in some movie where I hate my life, the kind where I always look like I'm under fluorescent lighting even though I'm standing in the middle of a fucking playground at 3 o' clock in the afternoon. But most of those movies don't exist because most movies don't take place at 3 o' clock in the afternoon on a playground. Not even Recess. Because I'm pretty sure recess is right after lunch. And now I'm talking too much because when I read something that's fucking brilliant all I want to do is write. Including 'pumping my pussy open', I just used a variation of the word 'fuck' seven times.
This is by one of my sister's classmates in her college english class; this is arguably why we should go to college:
Neighbors
by Sarah Watts
I’m fucking Leighton Meester behind the couch when my wife walks in. Leighton Meester is that big-toothed chick from that show on the WB my wife makes me watch, and I wasn’t even aware, necessarily, that I was attracted to her until my wife walks in the door and I find myself fucking this big-toothed chick behind our sofa. I’m banging her so hard the floor lamp falls over and the light bulb breaks, but Dinah doesn’t seem to notice, and she’s carrying in groceries and unpacking them at the kitchen table, talking about organic fruit on sale and how that’s better for the baby. All the while I’m sticking my head over the back of the couch, trying to hold a conversation and fuck Leighton at the same time, and Leighton is moaning so loud I consider covering her mouth — but that would look weird, some psycho asphyxiation shit, so I don’t.
You’re fucking this girl on our wedding day? Dinah asks me suddenly, her face twisted up, a bag of potatoes in one of her arms. You’ve got a boner? On our wedding day? Listen, she says. Wake up.
Suddenly the house is shaking and everything is falling off the shelves. Leighton thinks I’m doing this and so she starts moaning louder, and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to keep plowing away or run out of the house. Leighton is shaking me suddenly saying, listen, and I pry open my eyes.
Dinah is next to me, holding herself up on one elbow and pumping my chest up and down with the palm of her hand, peering at the ceiling. She’s got her sleep mask wrapped around the back of her pony tail, and when I clear the sleep out of my throat she bolts upright, her neck craned upward. There is no noise but the birds outside the window.
“The birds?” I say, mashing the heel of my hand into my eye.
“God! Shh!” She says. Then, “no. Listen.”
Then there are low voices, a woman and a man. I think they’re talking at first, outside the window in the alleyway, but their voices swirl and settle in the ceiling. There are only mumbles at first, and then a sound breaks free, a woman’s voice, a singular note of pleasure-pain threading itself through the air. It lasts for what seems like a full ten seconds. One-mississippi seconds. Dinah turns to me like she’s expecting a prize.
“Are those the neighbors?” I ask. I stare at the ceiling too.
“No,” she says, “it’s the birds. Of course it’s the neighbors. At least, who else could it be?” As soon as she says it, the woman’s voice is severed, and we’re completely still like we don’t want to scare them away. We hold our breaths. After a minute the woman starts up again, her voice rising and falling. I hear the man moan something through the ceiling.
“Sick,” I say, and start to get out of bed. Dinah pinches the back of my shirt and tugs me back in.
“Do you hear what she’s saying?” Dinah asks, her eyes wide. “I think she’s saying something like, fuck me, fuck me. Or maybe, do me? It’s hard to hear.” She sits upright on her knees and her sleep mask falls out of her hair. “Damn, I wish I could hear!” The headboard of their bed starts knocking lightly against their wall.
“He’s really giving it to her,” I say.
“Yeah, now you listen,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Now it’s interesting.”
“I don’t hear her saying anything,” I say. “I just hear the guy.”
From the other room, Carter starts babbling in his crib. When I lift my butt off the bed to get him, Dinah snaps the back of my boxer shorts. “Wait!” She says. “Do you hear it? God, that’s hot. I think she’s saying, ‘fuck me.’ How come we’ve never heard them before?”
I shrug. “Maybe they don’t have sex all that often,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dinah snorts. “Not once? Not once in the two years we’ve been here? I doubt it.”
The headboard knocks on the wall and suddenly it’s quiet. I hear their spring box grunt as someone steps off the bed and onto the floor. Someone walks into the bathroom and starts running water.
“That’s it?” I say. Dinah shakes her head in disbelief.
“What a rip,” she says. “I don’t even think she came.”
“Jesus, Dinah,” I say. The baby is calling now, anxious. “Carter’s up,” I say, and shuffle out into the living room where we keep his crib. I hope he hasn’t heard anything. I hope he doesn’t internalize it somehow and then start mimicking it when he gets to kindergarten or something. Dinah sits on the bed a moment, disappointed, and then she staggers out into the living room, her arms outstretched to the baby.
* * *
When Dinah works her shift at Dunkin Donuts, Carter and I have a schedule. No TV. My mom gets subscriptions to these parenting magazines, something that really cracks up Dinah since a) she’s not even a parent anymore, not in that sense, and b) the money she uses toward parenting magazines could more practically go toward Carter’s formula, or the house fund — both of which that would benefit Carter directly, she says. I agree with Dinah in a way, because as far as I’m concerned mom doesn’t see Carter enough to make a magazine subscription worthwhile, but had it not been for her magazines I would not have known this: kids who watch television at a really young age have a way higher chance to develop ADD and ADHD and shit like that. The article said something about synapses in the brain not being wired correctly, and since television episodes are half-an-hour, they grow up thinking all problems get solved in a half-an-hour, or something, and so their conflict-resolution gets all fucked up as well. So no TV. I puree his baby food in the blender. We play with his little blocks. His stuffed moose. I get out the stroller and we walk around the nice subdivision on the far end of the park. When we get back to the apartment, with the two windows and the mold growing above the shower, I feel like a rotten liar. Worse.
By three we are usually on the tail-end of naptime, and I kind of putter around the house trying not to wake the baby. Sometimes have a beer. Sometimes I put him to bed in this bassinet we keep at the foot of our bed, just so I can do the dishes or something. He’s in there when out of nowhere I hear the neighbors upstairs, three in the afternoon, pounding away, and I run in there like they’re doing it on our bed instead of one floor above. Thankfully it’s just their mattress squeaking, and it’s kind of muffled through the wall, but still. Still. I look at Carter and he’s breathing deep, his eyeballs twitching underneath his eyelids. And then I hear that guy moaning again, these long-winded moans that stretch and stretch.
“Mother effer,” I grumble. Carter keeps sleeping. Seven in the morning on a Sunday, sure, I can understand. Like me and Dinah don’t do it in the morning every great once in a while. But naptime? Three o’clock? And yeah, I admit, I feel like a real jerk here, but it wouldn’t be half as bad if it weren’t just that guy I could hear. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much if it were just the woman. It would sound pretty, even. But now it’s creepy. Like this guy is in the room with him. Moaning.
Dinah walks in early off her shift when Carter is still sleeping and the neighbors are still going at it. She notices me standing vigil at our bedroom door, and she frowns, putting her Dunkin Donuts box on the table. She’s still got her hairnet on and a strand of her hair flops out of it.
“I got Munchkins,” she says. “What?”
I motion for her to come closer. “The neighbors are doing it again.”
“Yeah?” She whispers, brightening up. She peeks her head in and out. “They didn’t wake the baby, at least. Has he been out for long?”
I make the number one with my pointer finger. “Since one,” I say. “Listen. I don’t like hearing that guy through the walls. In my kid’s bedroom. It’s gross.”
Dinah peeks her head in again and waits, then goes over by the basinet and looks down at Carter, concentrating. She comes back out and closes the door until it’s open just a crack.
“I don’t hear any guy,” she says. “I hear the woman. And the floorboards sort of scraping. Should we call them?”
“Wait,” I say. “You hear the woman?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Should I call?”
I tip-toe over to the basinet. Again, the guy moaning. Carter’s eyelids flutter. I tip-toe out again.
“Go in there and listen,” I say. There’s no woman. There’s no floorboards. There’s just the guy. Go listen.”
When she comes back outside her face is scrunched up like she smells a fart. “What are you talking about?” She says. “You need one of those earwax cleaners. It’s the girl up there, and their bed is scraping on the floor. I’m actually surprised Carter’s still sleeping, they’re so loud. I can’t believe you don’t hear them.”
“I hear the guy,” I say, stabbing my finger at the door. “I only hear the guy, I swear to God. I’ve been listening for twenty minutes. How come you get to hear the girl and I have to hear this dude?”
“How come I get to?” Dinah asks.
“You know,” I say. Dinah shrugs.
“I think men and women hear differently,” she says. “Different frequencies. Or something. She’s more high-pitched and I have better hearing. I read about it in Parenting.” By now the neighbors are finishing up — or at least the guy is, from the sound of it — and Carter is sighing, waking gradually. Dinah pushes back the door and goes in to tickle the paunch of his stomach with her fingertips.
* * *
By the end of next week we conclude that the neighbors are on a schedule: Carter wakes up around seven and they start doing it. They finish by the time he’s done with breakfast. In between gloppy spoonfuls, I run into the bedroom and stand on a chair, hoping I can hear the woman, or the headboard again, or anything except that guy moaning, saying oh feels so good, in the room where my kid sleeps. Once I got the gumption to clear my throat loudly when I was standing on the chair. I even knocked the handle of the broom on the ceiling like an old lady would do, which shut him up for a minute, but not much longer than that. At the end of his naptime, they start back up. Carter sleeps through it. Around eight, when Carter is asleep in the basinet and Dinah and I are watching TV in the living room, we hear them faintly, always the same. She hears the woman, groaning, screaming stuff about her asshole and how bad she wants it, and I hear the guy, moaning, shaking the bed. It’s goddamn disgusting. Every day.
“It’s not their fault,” Dinah tells me one night when we’re holding hands on the couch, trying to find something to watch. “It’s this piece of shit apartment complex. The walls are paper-thin. I’m sure they’ve heard us too, you know.”
I put the remote down. On the channel is some game show with Regis Philbin, but I don’t care. “First of all,” I say, “we definitely don’t sound like them. We’re not loud like them. We don’t do it like five times a day. Once or twice we hear them, okay, I understand. This is still America, last I checked. But holy shit, it’s like they’re on their honeymoon or something? Second, Carter’s not deaf, last I checked. He’s going to internalize all of this. Subconsciously. His first words are going to be about assholes and fucking, and he’s going to get kicked out of playgroup.” I realize I’m almost standing. My butt is an inch off the couch, I’m getting so worked up. Dinah puts her hand on my arm and I deflate.
“Okay, first of all,” Dinah says, “if Carter could understand a damn thing right now, that would be a different story. But he’s five months old, Wade. He’s just a baby. I’m sure babies don’t mimic their parents when they hear them fucking.” She reaches over to swig out of my beer. “Second,” she says, swallowing, “maybe they are on their honeymoon? And in that case, it’s kind of sweet. Vulgar, okay, but sweet. Remember our honeymoon, for Christ’s sake? The lake? Weren’t we loud?” Her eyes look misty. “It’s kind of sweet.”
Dinah can be a hard-ass, but she’s emotional. She cries at those ASPCA commercials. With the dog and his one fucking eye. She reads chain-emails about kids with cancer and she cries. When we found out we were having a boy, she started crying, said we had to name him Carter because she had a dream her dead Grandpa came to her and said to name the baby Carter, and so that’s what we did. Carter Eliot, after T.S. Eliot. She reads him sometimes too, and cries. Me, personally, I can’t stand him. All this bullshit about hollow men and mermaids singing to each other? But she was crying, so what could I do.
When we hear a knock on the door, we almost think it’s the neighbors’ headboard except behind the door there’s a throaty voice that says “Just me,” and taps again for emphasis. Dinah gets up and wedges her pajama shorts out the crack of her ass. She unbolts the door and jerks it open. Brad from next door is standing there with his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels.
“Howdy,” he says. “Fuck, I didn’t wake the baby, did I?”
Dinah shakes her head and steps out of the doorway so that he can come in. Brad and his wife Sonia and their four-year-old Chloe are the only family in the complex young as we are. Brad comes over to drink beer sometimes when Sonia is out selling Avon. Sonia and Dinah drink rum and root beers on the front porch in the summer, flicking their cigarette ash in the parking lot.
“Sonia wants to know if she can borrow your blender,” he says. “The shake machine at McDonalds is busted.” Brad hesitates. “If we run the thing, it won’t wake Carter up, will it?”
I shake my head and Dinah goes to the kitchen to unplug the blender. She rinses the baby food out of the bottom and rubs it down with a paper towel. “If the upstairs neighbors don’t wake him, you sure as hell won’t,” I say.
Brad frowns. “What neighbors?”
I gesture to the ceiling with my beer. “The newly-weds. They fuck non-stop. Listen.” I turn the volume down on the TV. Faintly, you can hear the mattress squeak.
“I don’t hear,” Brad says.
Dinah comes back from the kitchen with the blender and hands it over. I push mute on the screen and you can’t hear anything but some kids outside in the parking lot smoking cigarettes, the hum of the television, the krr-chunk! krrr-chunk! of the neighbors’ mattress. We all crane our necks toward the bedroom, silent.
Brad shakes his head, totally lost, like, you guys are fucking crazy.
“You guys are fucking crazy,” he says. “I don’t hear anything.”
Dinah takes him by the sleeve and drags him into the bedroom, careful to walk with the balls of her heels so Carter doesn’t stir. They stand for a minute and Dinah stares at him expectedly. When they walk back out, Brad is still shaking his head.
“Go get Sonia,” Dinah says, and he does, returning a minute later with her and Chloe in tow. Sonia barely gets in the front door before she scrunches up her face like Dinah does. Her face jerks up toward the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting!” she says. She pivots Chloe by the shoulders and shoves her out the door. “Go wait in the apartment. Lock the door behind you,” she snaps. When Chloe scampers out, Sonia backhands Brad across the chest.
“Real appropriate for your daughter, I’m sure, Brad,” Sonia barks. She stares disbelievingly at Dinah. “You have to listen to this all night? This filth? Real good for Carter in there, I’m sure.”
“What do you hear?” Dinah asks.
Sonia’s mouth drops open. “What, you can’t hear? Sure.” She points at the ceiling. ‘Pump my pussy open?’ Are you kidding me with that? There are children in this building,” she hisses in the direction of Carter’s basinet.
“I don’t hear anything,” Brad says, still holding the blender.
“I hear the woman,” Dinah says.
“I just hear the mattress,” I say.
We stand in the living room in complete silence for about a minute and a half. Then Dinah says, “This is like one of those miracle medical shows.”
“How is this a medical miracle?” I ask her. “This?”
“Bet your ass,” Dinah says. “All of us hearing different things at the same time? That’s medical. I’ve never heard of it before. It’s a medical miracle.”
“Kind of a shitty miracle,” Sonia adds.
“The only miracle is that Carter can’t hear it,” I say. “I don’t think he can anyway.”
“Can’t understand it, anyhow,” Dinah says.
Brad shakes his head. “This is so fucked. I’m gonna go plug this baby in.”
When he leaves, Sonia and Dinah prowl around the apartment like crazy ghosts, flitting back and forth in the tiny living room on the balls of their feet, hissing at each other what they hear and what they don’t hear. Dinah is right. It is some sort of medical miracle, how four grown people can hear four different things at the same time. Brad is right too. The situation is fucked. I tell the girls I’m going to bed, but instead I close the bedroom door and stand by Carter’s crib, long after the mattress stops creaking and Sonia goes back to her apartment, after Dinah un-mutes the television and starts watching PBS. I’m sad for Carter, and I couldn’t tell you why, just sad there’s a couple fucking right above his head in the first place, and sad that maybe Dinah doesn’t want to call upstairs and ask them to stop because if it weren’t two neighbors fucking it’d be some dope dealers in the parking lot or some car alarm or some other ugliness in the same world as our baby where it doesn’t belong. I lean over Carter’s bed and watch him for I don’t know how long.
* * *
Dinah brings home Prudence Bijarani after her shift the next day around three, and I’ve moved Carter’s basinet to inside the hall closet, just in case he can hear the neighbors fucking, by some chance. Prudence is exceptionally quiet, the few times I’ve met her, but Dinah is one of her closest work friends and she has two kids near Carter’s age. I know exactly why she’s brought Pru to the house instead of, say, Mandy Fullwiler who works the same shift or her friend Corrine. Prudence sells holistic ear candles on ebay, the kind that you light on one end and it sucks out all your impurities into the candle. Fucking disgusting. Pru does like two of those a week, which is more than you’re supposed to, I think, but her ears are completely void of wax and other impurities. Dinah tells me she has excellent hearing.
“Now look,” Dinah says. “Come here, Pru.” She positions Pru in the middle of our bedroom, or as close to the middle as she can, since our bed takes up most of the space. Dinah takes a couple of steps backward and looks down at her watch. She’s still got her hairnet on and a strand of her hair flops out of it.
“And,” she says. “Now.”
Sure enough, the neighbors start fucking. Pru frowns. After a while she shakes her head.
“I don’t know,” she says, and Dinah slaps her hands together.
“I knew it,” she says. “I knew this was some kind of medical miracle. What do you hear? I hear a woman talking about how big this guys dick is and how she wants him to stick it in her asshole. Is that what you hear?”
Pru cringes. “I hear several women,” she says. “Not talking about assholes.”
“Women?” I say. “You hear more than one?” Figures, I think. I would so much rather be hearing women fucking, even though it’s still depressing as hell to know they’re fucking right above your kid’s basinet. Compared to the moaning guy, though, hearing a bunch of women orgasming in tandem would be like a lullaby.
“I want to bring my sister over here,” Pru says. “She and her husband are medical doctors, still in school. I don’t know why we are all hearing something different. Maybe one has studied this.”
“Bring her over,” Dinah says. “And her husband too. Twenty bucks.”
Pru and I turn our attentions from the ceiling and stare at Dinah. Her lips are pursed together. “Each,” she says.
“What?” Pru asks.
“Jesus, Dinah,” I say.
“Twenty bucks,” Dinah repeats, jutting out her hip like she does when she’s set in her ways. “From the both of them. This is a god damn medical miracle, don’t you think? This is like Ripley’s Believe it or Not shit! Word gets out, this house will be a zoo. Like a fucking shrine. This apartment will be fucking Lourdes. Twenty bucks is insurance.” She raises her eyebrows at Pru as though she expects the money to be in her hands already.
At first Pru acts really offended, huffing and rolling her eyes, saying why she shouldn’t have to pay a dime and nor should her sister and brother-in-law, out of common courtesy — I did you a favor coming over here in the first place anyway, she huffs. But in the end Dinah wins out, and Pru walks back over to the Dunkin Donuts parking lot to get her car and drive uptown to her sister’s place. Secretly, I’m steaming. When Pru leaves, I stalk over to the kitchen and start unloading the dish rack, trying to slam the dishes in there to emphasize how goddamn mad I am, but not overly so as to wake the baby.
“What the fuck, Dinah?” I say after a minute.
“What?” She’s just standing in the middle of the living room, same as when Pru left, staring off.
“You’re charging people to come to our house?” I say, and I pluck baby nipples out of the sink and fasten them to the ends of bottles, knowing that I look probably beyond retarded right now yelling at my wife and waving baby nipples in her direction. “We have friends and this is how you treat them? You charge them? Like, admission?”
“I can’t think about that right now,” Dinah says, cocking her head toward the hall closet. “I got him to think about.”
When Pru and her sister and her sister’s husband arrive at eight, Pru forks over two twenty-dollar bills, and the three of them stand near the middle of our bedroom with their heads cocked like birds. I sit at the kitchen table feeding Carter a bottle, trying not to hear the guy above me fucking like mad.
* * *
Two weeks later, Dinah quits her job at Dunkin Donuts. The girls on her shift along with the manager throw her some party in the breakroom with this banner that says We’ll Miss You Dinah!!!!!! and little munchkins in the shape of hearts. It’s sweet of them, I think, but I know they’re still a little miffed at her for having to pay twenty bucks to come over and hear the neighbors. Dinah makes $600 the first week and $1260 the next, all from friends-of-a-friend who want to crowd in and verify that they’re all hearing something different. Totally fucks with Carter’s naps. I take him to the park two, three times a day when people are over. Dinah is social, but we only know maybe a hundred people in town. Two hundred tops, if you’re talking real distant acquaintances. I hoped the first week we would have run past the list of people we knew, or at least the list of people we knew who were willing to spend twenty bucks to hear people fucking, but the second week I noticed strangers filing in and out. Listening. Giggling. Saying things like Fuck my butthole around my kid. Stuff that he can’t understand anyway but it’s the principal of the thing. Kids repeat things, last I checked. Dinah clears two grand the following Monday. She takes us out to Red Lobster. She waves a twenty in my face and points to the lobster tank. That, she says. That is what I’m fucking having tonight.
* * *
When we get home from Red Lobster, our landlord is pacing outside of our apartment. Geoff is a huge sweaty motherfucker from Poland, whom I’ve only ever seen when someone gets robbed in the parking lot and he has to come file a complaint. Dinah’s got the baby in her arms when we’re walking up to the door and she hands him off to me without looking.
“Is there a problem, Geoff?” She says, and he whips around, his bald head gleaming. She marches up to Geoff like she’s going to sock him.
Geoff points to the doorway. “You have too many visitors,” he says, and shakes his head. Come to think of it, he might be from Russia. It’s impossible to tell. His have sounds like haff. Like Chanukah.
“I’m having family over,” Dinah says, and Geoff shakes his head.
“There are too many,” he says, still shaking. “And some of them black. You can’t run business here.”
Dinah looks back at me. I’m still a few feet behind her with the baby and I give her a look like, what do you expect me to do about this? Carter fusses and I bounce him around.
“Wait a minute,” Dinah says. “I’m not running a business. I had a couple friends over, we hung out, they’re gone. It’s not illegal to have friends over.” Dinah keeps whipping her head around from me to Geoff, her voice starting to shake. “I mean it’s not illegal to have friends over, is it?”
Geoff holds both his hands out in front of him like he’s directing traffic and waves them at our faces. “Someone called and complain, say you was charging interest, admission, something like that. That’s a business. You can’t run business here. You can’t sell drugs here.” My heart sinks. Drogs, I think, and I almost laugh. I feel dizzy. Drogs. You cahnt sell yor drogs here.
“Drugs!” Dinah’s arms flap up and down like she’s a chicken, and she looks at me like, can you believe what this sweaty motherfucker just said to me? Except she looks terrified too when he says drogs. “Drugs!” She screams.
“You could get evicted. I could evict you,” Geoff says, trying to talk over Dinah’s screams. “You have business here, I am not asking what is, I just say it has to stop. It stops now. I see it again, I call the police.”
“I’m a mother,” Dinah screams, and the kids at the other end of the parking lot turn to look at us. “I work at Dunkin Donuts. I don’t fucking use and I don’t fucking sell! Who do you think you are?”
“I see again and Ima call the police,” Geoff says, flapping his hands.
“Fuck you,” Dinah says, and reaches for Carter. “Give me the baby. I don’t do drugs. Ask those kids over there who fucking uses. I’m a mother.” She brushes past him and jams the key in the door with her spare hand. We both run inside and she slam the door in Geoff’s face, loudly enough to make Carter cry.
“I’m sure as shit not stopping,” she says when we’re back inside. “Sure as shit.”
* * *
The next day at three, more people come over. The neighbors fuck away upstairs and I take Carter to the park. I push him in the swing. We walk around the nice neighborhood with the stroller and there’s this kid selling lemonade and she’s so cute I buy a cup, even though it’s fifty cents and it tastes like ass.
Here’s the thing: I love Dinah. Love Dinah. She’s so good to me, and I love her, and she’s cute as hell. When we found out she was expecting I wanted that baby to be a girl. I wanted it to look like Dinah. I wanted a miniature-Dinah that I could spoil, a Dinah that wasn’t so hardened around the edges sometimes, even though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire her for it. She doesn’t take any goddamn guff, from anyone. If she hates you, she’ll tell you. And it was growing up poor that made her like this. And when she told her ma she was pregnant, her mom started crying right there on the phone, saying that she was going to be poor the rest of her life. And I said some bullshit about how we were a double-income family, because I had a job back then, and how — what, I’m gonna let my family starve to death? I’m gonna let my son grow up hungry in some ghetto, even if we both worked at Dunkin Donuts, that was going to make us unfit parents somehow? And Dinah kept covering the receiver with her hand, swatting me with the other, crying.
* * *
On the landing outside our neighbor’s apartment, I stand facing the door, one arm raised in the air like I’m about to knock them the fuck out, or at least knock the door the fuck down. And I think about Carter and his first day of pre-school, and what if he walks over to some cute little girl and asks if he can please put it in her asshole, God forbid, or starts talking this horrible talk, this filth, like, this is how people interact now? This is how he thinks grownups interact? Because who knows what he can hear?
I raise my hand to knock and I wait. What do I say? Hi, my wife and I can hear you guys fucking every day? Why do you fuck on a schedule? Why do you fuck right above my kid? Could you please stop fucking so loud so my wife and I don’t get arrested for running a business out of our home? Can you not fuck so loud so my kid doesn’t get nightmares? I don’t know what to say. Carter is asleep in the stroller beside me. I put my arm down. Wonder how long we can do this without Geoff ratting us out. I think of Dinah. Her mother. I think of our house fund.
I raise my arm again and knock.
This is by one of my sister's classmates in her college english class; this is arguably why we should go to college:
Neighbors
by Sarah Watts
I’m fucking Leighton Meester behind the couch when my wife walks in. Leighton Meester is that big-toothed chick from that show on the WB my wife makes me watch, and I wasn’t even aware, necessarily, that I was attracted to her until my wife walks in the door and I find myself fucking this big-toothed chick behind our sofa. I’m banging her so hard the floor lamp falls over and the light bulb breaks, but Dinah doesn’t seem to notice, and she’s carrying in groceries and unpacking them at the kitchen table, talking about organic fruit on sale and how that’s better for the baby. All the while I’m sticking my head over the back of the couch, trying to hold a conversation and fuck Leighton at the same time, and Leighton is moaning so loud I consider covering her mouth — but that would look weird, some psycho asphyxiation shit, so I don’t.
You’re fucking this girl on our wedding day? Dinah asks me suddenly, her face twisted up, a bag of potatoes in one of her arms. You’ve got a boner? On our wedding day? Listen, she says. Wake up.
Suddenly the house is shaking and everything is falling off the shelves. Leighton thinks I’m doing this and so she starts moaning louder, and I don’t know whether I’m supposed to keep plowing away or run out of the house. Leighton is shaking me suddenly saying, listen, and I pry open my eyes.
Dinah is next to me, holding herself up on one elbow and pumping my chest up and down with the palm of her hand, peering at the ceiling. She’s got her sleep mask wrapped around the back of her pony tail, and when I clear the sleep out of my throat she bolts upright, her neck craned upward. There is no noise but the birds outside the window.
“The birds?” I say, mashing the heel of my hand into my eye.
“God! Shh!” She says. Then, “no. Listen.”
Then there are low voices, a woman and a man. I think they’re talking at first, outside the window in the alleyway, but their voices swirl and settle in the ceiling. There are only mumbles at first, and then a sound breaks free, a woman’s voice, a singular note of pleasure-pain threading itself through the air. It lasts for what seems like a full ten seconds. One-mississippi seconds. Dinah turns to me like she’s expecting a prize.
“Are those the neighbors?” I ask. I stare at the ceiling too.
“No,” she says, “it’s the birds. Of course it’s the neighbors. At least, who else could it be?” As soon as she says it, the woman’s voice is severed, and we’re completely still like we don’t want to scare them away. We hold our breaths. After a minute the woman starts up again, her voice rising and falling. I hear the man moan something through the ceiling.
“Sick,” I say, and start to get out of bed. Dinah pinches the back of my shirt and tugs me back in.
“Do you hear what she’s saying?” Dinah asks, her eyes wide. “I think she’s saying something like, fuck me, fuck me. Or maybe, do me? It’s hard to hear.” She sits upright on her knees and her sleep mask falls out of her hair. “Damn, I wish I could hear!” The headboard of their bed starts knocking lightly against their wall.
“He’s really giving it to her,” I say.
“Yeah, now you listen,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Now it’s interesting.”
“I don’t hear her saying anything,” I say. “I just hear the guy.”
From the other room, Carter starts babbling in his crib. When I lift my butt off the bed to get him, Dinah snaps the back of my boxer shorts. “Wait!” She says. “Do you hear it? God, that’s hot. I think she’s saying, ‘fuck me.’ How come we’ve never heard them before?”
I shrug. “Maybe they don’t have sex all that often,” I say.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dinah snorts. “Not once? Not once in the two years we’ve been here? I doubt it.”
The headboard knocks on the wall and suddenly it’s quiet. I hear their spring box grunt as someone steps off the bed and onto the floor. Someone walks into the bathroom and starts running water.
“That’s it?” I say. Dinah shakes her head in disbelief.
“What a rip,” she says. “I don’t even think she came.”
“Jesus, Dinah,” I say. The baby is calling now, anxious. “Carter’s up,” I say, and shuffle out into the living room where we keep his crib. I hope he hasn’t heard anything. I hope he doesn’t internalize it somehow and then start mimicking it when he gets to kindergarten or something. Dinah sits on the bed a moment, disappointed, and then she staggers out into the living room, her arms outstretched to the baby.
* * *
When Dinah works her shift at Dunkin Donuts, Carter and I have a schedule. No TV. My mom gets subscriptions to these parenting magazines, something that really cracks up Dinah since a) she’s not even a parent anymore, not in that sense, and b) the money she uses toward parenting magazines could more practically go toward Carter’s formula, or the house fund — both of which that would benefit Carter directly, she says. I agree with Dinah in a way, because as far as I’m concerned mom doesn’t see Carter enough to make a magazine subscription worthwhile, but had it not been for her magazines I would not have known this: kids who watch television at a really young age have a way higher chance to develop ADD and ADHD and shit like that. The article said something about synapses in the brain not being wired correctly, and since television episodes are half-an-hour, they grow up thinking all problems get solved in a half-an-hour, or something, and so their conflict-resolution gets all fucked up as well. So no TV. I puree his baby food in the blender. We play with his little blocks. His stuffed moose. I get out the stroller and we walk around the nice subdivision on the far end of the park. When we get back to the apartment, with the two windows and the mold growing above the shower, I feel like a rotten liar. Worse.
By three we are usually on the tail-end of naptime, and I kind of putter around the house trying not to wake the baby. Sometimes have a beer. Sometimes I put him to bed in this bassinet we keep at the foot of our bed, just so I can do the dishes or something. He’s in there when out of nowhere I hear the neighbors upstairs, three in the afternoon, pounding away, and I run in there like they’re doing it on our bed instead of one floor above. Thankfully it’s just their mattress squeaking, and it’s kind of muffled through the wall, but still. Still. I look at Carter and he’s breathing deep, his eyeballs twitching underneath his eyelids. And then I hear that guy moaning again, these long-winded moans that stretch and stretch.
“Mother effer,” I grumble. Carter keeps sleeping. Seven in the morning on a Sunday, sure, I can understand. Like me and Dinah don’t do it in the morning every great once in a while. But naptime? Three o’clock? And yeah, I admit, I feel like a real jerk here, but it wouldn’t be half as bad if it weren’t just that guy I could hear. Maybe I wouldn’t mind as much if it were just the woman. It would sound pretty, even. But now it’s creepy. Like this guy is in the room with him. Moaning.
Dinah walks in early off her shift when Carter is still sleeping and the neighbors are still going at it. She notices me standing vigil at our bedroom door, and she frowns, putting her Dunkin Donuts box on the table. She’s still got her hairnet on and a strand of her hair flops out of it.
“I got Munchkins,” she says. “What?”
I motion for her to come closer. “The neighbors are doing it again.”
“Yeah?” She whispers, brightening up. She peeks her head in and out. “They didn’t wake the baby, at least. Has he been out for long?”
I make the number one with my pointer finger. “Since one,” I say. “Listen. I don’t like hearing that guy through the walls. In my kid’s bedroom. It’s gross.”
Dinah peeks her head in again and waits, then goes over by the basinet and looks down at Carter, concentrating. She comes back out and closes the door until it’s open just a crack.
“I don’t hear any guy,” she says. “I hear the woman. And the floorboards sort of scraping. Should we call them?”
“Wait,” I say. “You hear the woman?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Should I call?”
I tip-toe over to the basinet. Again, the guy moaning. Carter’s eyelids flutter. I tip-toe out again.
“Go in there and listen,” I say. There’s no woman. There’s no floorboards. There’s just the guy. Go listen.”
When she comes back outside her face is scrunched up like she smells a fart. “What are you talking about?” She says. “You need one of those earwax cleaners. It’s the girl up there, and their bed is scraping on the floor. I’m actually surprised Carter’s still sleeping, they’re so loud. I can’t believe you don’t hear them.”
“I hear the guy,” I say, stabbing my finger at the door. “I only hear the guy, I swear to God. I’ve been listening for twenty minutes. How come you get to hear the girl and I have to hear this dude?”
“How come I get to?” Dinah asks.
“You know,” I say. Dinah shrugs.
“I think men and women hear differently,” she says. “Different frequencies. Or something. She’s more high-pitched and I have better hearing. I read about it in Parenting.” By now the neighbors are finishing up — or at least the guy is, from the sound of it — and Carter is sighing, waking gradually. Dinah pushes back the door and goes in to tickle the paunch of his stomach with her fingertips.
* * *
By the end of next week we conclude that the neighbors are on a schedule: Carter wakes up around seven and they start doing it. They finish by the time he’s done with breakfast. In between gloppy spoonfuls, I run into the bedroom and stand on a chair, hoping I can hear the woman, or the headboard again, or anything except that guy moaning, saying oh feels so good, in the room where my kid sleeps. Once I got the gumption to clear my throat loudly when I was standing on the chair. I even knocked the handle of the broom on the ceiling like an old lady would do, which shut him up for a minute, but not much longer than that. At the end of his naptime, they start back up. Carter sleeps through it. Around eight, when Carter is asleep in the basinet and Dinah and I are watching TV in the living room, we hear them faintly, always the same. She hears the woman, groaning, screaming stuff about her asshole and how bad she wants it, and I hear the guy, moaning, shaking the bed. It’s goddamn disgusting. Every day.
“It’s not their fault,” Dinah tells me one night when we’re holding hands on the couch, trying to find something to watch. “It’s this piece of shit apartment complex. The walls are paper-thin. I’m sure they’ve heard us too, you know.”
I put the remote down. On the channel is some game show with Regis Philbin, but I don’t care. “First of all,” I say, “we definitely don’t sound like them. We’re not loud like them. We don’t do it like five times a day. Once or twice we hear them, okay, I understand. This is still America, last I checked. But holy shit, it’s like they’re on their honeymoon or something? Second, Carter’s not deaf, last I checked. He’s going to internalize all of this. Subconsciously. His first words are going to be about assholes and fucking, and he’s going to get kicked out of playgroup.” I realize I’m almost standing. My butt is an inch off the couch, I’m getting so worked up. Dinah puts her hand on my arm and I deflate.
“Okay, first of all,” Dinah says, “if Carter could understand a damn thing right now, that would be a different story. But he’s five months old, Wade. He’s just a baby. I’m sure babies don’t mimic their parents when they hear them fucking.” She reaches over to swig out of my beer. “Second,” she says, swallowing, “maybe they are on their honeymoon? And in that case, it’s kind of sweet. Vulgar, okay, but sweet. Remember our honeymoon, for Christ’s sake? The lake? Weren’t we loud?” Her eyes look misty. “It’s kind of sweet.”
Dinah can be a hard-ass, but she’s emotional. She cries at those ASPCA commercials. With the dog and his one fucking eye. She reads chain-emails about kids with cancer and she cries. When we found out we were having a boy, she started crying, said we had to name him Carter because she had a dream her dead Grandpa came to her and said to name the baby Carter, and so that’s what we did. Carter Eliot, after T.S. Eliot. She reads him sometimes too, and cries. Me, personally, I can’t stand him. All this bullshit about hollow men and mermaids singing to each other? But she was crying, so what could I do.
When we hear a knock on the door, we almost think it’s the neighbors’ headboard except behind the door there’s a throaty voice that says “Just me,” and taps again for emphasis. Dinah gets up and wedges her pajama shorts out the crack of her ass. She unbolts the door and jerks it open. Brad from next door is standing there with his hands in his back pockets, rocking back on his heels.
“Howdy,” he says. “Fuck, I didn’t wake the baby, did I?”
Dinah shakes her head and steps out of the doorway so that he can come in. Brad and his wife Sonia and their four-year-old Chloe are the only family in the complex young as we are. Brad comes over to drink beer sometimes when Sonia is out selling Avon. Sonia and Dinah drink rum and root beers on the front porch in the summer, flicking their cigarette ash in the parking lot.
“Sonia wants to know if she can borrow your blender,” he says. “The shake machine at McDonalds is busted.” Brad hesitates. “If we run the thing, it won’t wake Carter up, will it?”
I shake my head and Dinah goes to the kitchen to unplug the blender. She rinses the baby food out of the bottom and rubs it down with a paper towel. “If the upstairs neighbors don’t wake him, you sure as hell won’t,” I say.
Brad frowns. “What neighbors?”
I gesture to the ceiling with my beer. “The newly-weds. They fuck non-stop. Listen.” I turn the volume down on the TV. Faintly, you can hear the mattress squeak.
“I don’t hear,” Brad says.
Dinah comes back from the kitchen with the blender and hands it over. I push mute on the screen and you can’t hear anything but some kids outside in the parking lot smoking cigarettes, the hum of the television, the krr-chunk! krrr-chunk! of the neighbors’ mattress. We all crane our necks toward the bedroom, silent.
Brad shakes his head, totally lost, like, you guys are fucking crazy.
“You guys are fucking crazy,” he says. “I don’t hear anything.”
Dinah takes him by the sleeve and drags him into the bedroom, careful to walk with the balls of her heels so Carter doesn’t stir. They stand for a minute and Dinah stares at him expectedly. When they walk back out, Brad is still shaking his head.
“Go get Sonia,” Dinah says, and he does, returning a minute later with her and Chloe in tow. Sonia barely gets in the front door before she scrunches up her face like Dinah does. Her face jerks up toward the ceiling.
“Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting!” she says. She pivots Chloe by the shoulders and shoves her out the door. “Go wait in the apartment. Lock the door behind you,” she snaps. When Chloe scampers out, Sonia backhands Brad across the chest.
“Real appropriate for your daughter, I’m sure, Brad,” Sonia barks. She stares disbelievingly at Dinah. “You have to listen to this all night? This filth? Real good for Carter in there, I’m sure.”
“What do you hear?” Dinah asks.
Sonia’s mouth drops open. “What, you can’t hear? Sure.” She points at the ceiling. ‘Pump my pussy open?’ Are you kidding me with that? There are children in this building,” she hisses in the direction of Carter’s basinet.
“I don’t hear anything,” Brad says, still holding the blender.
“I hear the woman,” Dinah says.
“I just hear the mattress,” I say.
We stand in the living room in complete silence for about a minute and a half. Then Dinah says, “This is like one of those miracle medical shows.”
“How is this a medical miracle?” I ask her. “This?”
“Bet your ass,” Dinah says. “All of us hearing different things at the same time? That’s medical. I’ve never heard of it before. It’s a medical miracle.”
“Kind of a shitty miracle,” Sonia adds.
“The only miracle is that Carter can’t hear it,” I say. “I don’t think he can anyway.”
“Can’t understand it, anyhow,” Dinah says.
Brad shakes his head. “This is so fucked. I’m gonna go plug this baby in.”
When he leaves, Sonia and Dinah prowl around the apartment like crazy ghosts, flitting back and forth in the tiny living room on the balls of their feet, hissing at each other what they hear and what they don’t hear. Dinah is right. It is some sort of medical miracle, how four grown people can hear four different things at the same time. Brad is right too. The situation is fucked. I tell the girls I’m going to bed, but instead I close the bedroom door and stand by Carter’s crib, long after the mattress stops creaking and Sonia goes back to her apartment, after Dinah un-mutes the television and starts watching PBS. I’m sad for Carter, and I couldn’t tell you why, just sad there’s a couple fucking right above his head in the first place, and sad that maybe Dinah doesn’t want to call upstairs and ask them to stop because if it weren’t two neighbors fucking it’d be some dope dealers in the parking lot or some car alarm or some other ugliness in the same world as our baby where it doesn’t belong. I lean over Carter’s bed and watch him for I don’t know how long.
* * *
Dinah brings home Prudence Bijarani after her shift the next day around three, and I’ve moved Carter’s basinet to inside the hall closet, just in case he can hear the neighbors fucking, by some chance. Prudence is exceptionally quiet, the few times I’ve met her, but Dinah is one of her closest work friends and she has two kids near Carter’s age. I know exactly why she’s brought Pru to the house instead of, say, Mandy Fullwiler who works the same shift or her friend Corrine. Prudence sells holistic ear candles on ebay, the kind that you light on one end and it sucks out all your impurities into the candle. Fucking disgusting. Pru does like two of those a week, which is more than you’re supposed to, I think, but her ears are completely void of wax and other impurities. Dinah tells me she has excellent hearing.
“Now look,” Dinah says. “Come here, Pru.” She positions Pru in the middle of our bedroom, or as close to the middle as she can, since our bed takes up most of the space. Dinah takes a couple of steps backward and looks down at her watch. She’s still got her hairnet on and a strand of her hair flops out of it.
“And,” she says. “Now.”
Sure enough, the neighbors start fucking. Pru frowns. After a while she shakes her head.
“I don’t know,” she says, and Dinah slaps her hands together.
“I knew it,” she says. “I knew this was some kind of medical miracle. What do you hear? I hear a woman talking about how big this guys dick is and how she wants him to stick it in her asshole. Is that what you hear?”
Pru cringes. “I hear several women,” she says. “Not talking about assholes.”
“Women?” I say. “You hear more than one?” Figures, I think. I would so much rather be hearing women fucking, even though it’s still depressing as hell to know they’re fucking right above your kid’s basinet. Compared to the moaning guy, though, hearing a bunch of women orgasming in tandem would be like a lullaby.
“I want to bring my sister over here,” Pru says. “She and her husband are medical doctors, still in school. I don’t know why we are all hearing something different. Maybe one has studied this.”
“Bring her over,” Dinah says. “And her husband too. Twenty bucks.”
Pru and I turn our attentions from the ceiling and stare at Dinah. Her lips are pursed together. “Each,” she says.
“What?” Pru asks.
“Jesus, Dinah,” I say.
“Twenty bucks,” Dinah repeats, jutting out her hip like she does when she’s set in her ways. “From the both of them. This is a god damn medical miracle, don’t you think? This is like Ripley’s Believe it or Not shit! Word gets out, this house will be a zoo. Like a fucking shrine. This apartment will be fucking Lourdes. Twenty bucks is insurance.” She raises her eyebrows at Pru as though she expects the money to be in her hands already.
At first Pru acts really offended, huffing and rolling her eyes, saying why she shouldn’t have to pay a dime and nor should her sister and brother-in-law, out of common courtesy — I did you a favor coming over here in the first place anyway, she huffs. But in the end Dinah wins out, and Pru walks back over to the Dunkin Donuts parking lot to get her car and drive uptown to her sister’s place. Secretly, I’m steaming. When Pru leaves, I stalk over to the kitchen and start unloading the dish rack, trying to slam the dishes in there to emphasize how goddamn mad I am, but not overly so as to wake the baby.
“What the fuck, Dinah?” I say after a minute.
“What?” She’s just standing in the middle of the living room, same as when Pru left, staring off.
“You’re charging people to come to our house?” I say, and I pluck baby nipples out of the sink and fasten them to the ends of bottles, knowing that I look probably beyond retarded right now yelling at my wife and waving baby nipples in her direction. “We have friends and this is how you treat them? You charge them? Like, admission?”
“I can’t think about that right now,” Dinah says, cocking her head toward the hall closet. “I got him to think about.”
When Pru and her sister and her sister’s husband arrive at eight, Pru forks over two twenty-dollar bills, and the three of them stand near the middle of our bedroom with their heads cocked like birds. I sit at the kitchen table feeding Carter a bottle, trying not to hear the guy above me fucking like mad.
* * *
Two weeks later, Dinah quits her job at Dunkin Donuts. The girls on her shift along with the manager throw her some party in the breakroom with this banner that says We’ll Miss You Dinah!!!!!! and little munchkins in the shape of hearts. It’s sweet of them, I think, but I know they’re still a little miffed at her for having to pay twenty bucks to come over and hear the neighbors. Dinah makes $600 the first week and $1260 the next, all from friends-of-a-friend who want to crowd in and verify that they’re all hearing something different. Totally fucks with Carter’s naps. I take him to the park two, three times a day when people are over. Dinah is social, but we only know maybe a hundred people in town. Two hundred tops, if you’re talking real distant acquaintances. I hoped the first week we would have run past the list of people we knew, or at least the list of people we knew who were willing to spend twenty bucks to hear people fucking, but the second week I noticed strangers filing in and out. Listening. Giggling. Saying things like Fuck my butthole around my kid. Stuff that he can’t understand anyway but it’s the principal of the thing. Kids repeat things, last I checked. Dinah clears two grand the following Monday. She takes us out to Red Lobster. She waves a twenty in my face and points to the lobster tank. That, she says. That is what I’m fucking having tonight.
* * *
When we get home from Red Lobster, our landlord is pacing outside of our apartment. Geoff is a huge sweaty motherfucker from Poland, whom I’ve only ever seen when someone gets robbed in the parking lot and he has to come file a complaint. Dinah’s got the baby in her arms when we’re walking up to the door and she hands him off to me without looking.
“Is there a problem, Geoff?” She says, and he whips around, his bald head gleaming. She marches up to Geoff like she’s going to sock him.
Geoff points to the doorway. “You have too many visitors,” he says, and shakes his head. Come to think of it, he might be from Russia. It’s impossible to tell. His have sounds like haff. Like Chanukah.
“I’m having family over,” Dinah says, and Geoff shakes his head.
“There are too many,” he says, still shaking. “And some of them black. You can’t run business here.”
Dinah looks back at me. I’m still a few feet behind her with the baby and I give her a look like, what do you expect me to do about this? Carter fusses and I bounce him around.
“Wait a minute,” Dinah says. “I’m not running a business. I had a couple friends over, we hung out, they’re gone. It’s not illegal to have friends over.” Dinah keeps whipping her head around from me to Geoff, her voice starting to shake. “I mean it’s not illegal to have friends over, is it?”
Geoff holds both his hands out in front of him like he’s directing traffic and waves them at our faces. “Someone called and complain, say you was charging interest, admission, something like that. That’s a business. You can’t run business here. You can’t sell drugs here.” My heart sinks. Drogs, I think, and I almost laugh. I feel dizzy. Drogs. You cahnt sell yor drogs here.
“Drugs!” Dinah’s arms flap up and down like she’s a chicken, and she looks at me like, can you believe what this sweaty motherfucker just said to me? Except she looks terrified too when he says drogs. “Drugs!” She screams.
“You could get evicted. I could evict you,” Geoff says, trying to talk over Dinah’s screams. “You have business here, I am not asking what is, I just say it has to stop. It stops now. I see it again, I call the police.”
“I’m a mother,” Dinah screams, and the kids at the other end of the parking lot turn to look at us. “I work at Dunkin Donuts. I don’t fucking use and I don’t fucking sell! Who do you think you are?”
“I see again and Ima call the police,” Geoff says, flapping his hands.
“Fuck you,” Dinah says, and reaches for Carter. “Give me the baby. I don’t do drugs. Ask those kids over there who fucking uses. I’m a mother.” She brushes past him and jams the key in the door with her spare hand. We both run inside and she slam the door in Geoff’s face, loudly enough to make Carter cry.
“I’m sure as shit not stopping,” she says when we’re back inside. “Sure as shit.”
* * *
The next day at three, more people come over. The neighbors fuck away upstairs and I take Carter to the park. I push him in the swing. We walk around the nice neighborhood with the stroller and there’s this kid selling lemonade and she’s so cute I buy a cup, even though it’s fifty cents and it tastes like ass.
Here’s the thing: I love Dinah. Love Dinah. She’s so good to me, and I love her, and she’s cute as hell. When we found out she was expecting I wanted that baby to be a girl. I wanted it to look like Dinah. I wanted a miniature-Dinah that I could spoil, a Dinah that wasn’t so hardened around the edges sometimes, even though I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire her for it. She doesn’t take any goddamn guff, from anyone. If she hates you, she’ll tell you. And it was growing up poor that made her like this. And when she told her ma she was pregnant, her mom started crying right there on the phone, saying that she was going to be poor the rest of her life. And I said some bullshit about how we were a double-income family, because I had a job back then, and how — what, I’m gonna let my family starve to death? I’m gonna let my son grow up hungry in some ghetto, even if we both worked at Dunkin Donuts, that was going to make us unfit parents somehow? And Dinah kept covering the receiver with her hand, swatting me with the other, crying.
* * *
On the landing outside our neighbor’s apartment, I stand facing the door, one arm raised in the air like I’m about to knock them the fuck out, or at least knock the door the fuck down. And I think about Carter and his first day of pre-school, and what if he walks over to some cute little girl and asks if he can please put it in her asshole, God forbid, or starts talking this horrible talk, this filth, like, this is how people interact now? This is how he thinks grownups interact? Because who knows what he can hear?
I raise my hand to knock and I wait. What do I say? Hi, my wife and I can hear you guys fucking every day? Why do you fuck on a schedule? Why do you fuck right above my kid? Could you please stop fucking so loud so my wife and I don’t get arrested for running a business out of our home? Can you not fuck so loud so my kid doesn’t get nightmares? I don’t know what to say. Carter is asleep in the stroller beside me. I put my arm down. Wonder how long we can do this without Geoff ratting us out. I think of Dinah. Her mother. I think of our house fund.
I raise my arm again and knock.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Grow up. No.
I'm home alone so much that sometimes I forget I'm not an adult. I feel so grown up sometimes that I feel like I don't need to go to school because I already know everything there is to know. Statements like that really help my case. Not.
But when all I feel like doing is cooking and cleaning and leisure reading and even working, just not studying...I feel like this is it. I'm in my thirties. My life is over. In the good way--my life is stable. For the one hour and a half it takes me to prepare the crepes and the meat for Crepes de Estilo Jalisco, I feel mature. Yet for the past two months since the first day of February I have been Highschool Girl. I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want. I want everything. I want everyone. I love attention. Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. Calculus? No, just boys.
Eastery Sunday.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I wanted to go to church today. But sleeping took precedence...over God.
Good, God. I'm taking this nominal Christian thing to a whole notha level. Isn't it unfortunate that there is a huge line between believing in God and being a Christian? Dios mio. Oh God. Oh my God. God damn.
Stupid videos.
I have seven interviews. And the rest of my spring break diary. Work. Work now!
Penis fucker. They won't work.
But when all I feel like doing is cooking and cleaning and leisure reading and even working, just not studying...I feel like this is it. I'm in my thirties. My life is over. In the good way--my life is stable. For the one hour and a half it takes me to prepare the crepes and the meat for Crepes de Estilo Jalisco, I feel mature. Yet for the past two months since the first day of February I have been Highschool Girl. I don't know what I want. I only know what I don't want. I want everything. I want everyone. I love attention. Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. Calculus? No, just boys.
Eastery Sunday.
Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I wanted to go to church today. But sleeping took precedence...over God.
Good, God. I'm taking this nominal Christian thing to a whole notha level. Isn't it unfortunate that there is a huge line between believing in God and being a Christian? Dios mio. Oh God. Oh my God. God damn.
Stupid videos.
I have seven interviews. And the rest of my spring break diary. Work. Work now!
Penis fucker. They won't work.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Chillin' like Cheesecake
Today was one of those I don't really feel like doing anything so I'm just going to stay home and clean and read and run and cook and do all the things I like to do when I'm alone. It was a really great day. And now my room is clean. Which is fantastic. I'm getting really mad because my videos aren't uploading! Which is why I haven't posted in awhile. I reallly want you guys to hear my socially awkward self during these interviews!
Blah. Tomorrow, I am hanging out with my poppa. I think he finally got it. But we'll see for how long. Tomorrow should be just as good as today--except busy.
Sunday is going to be a work day. Oh hello calculus, oh hello spanish, oh hello world, oh hello yet another essay, oh hello procrastination.
School's almost over... CRAZYTOWN! But isn't it kind of cool or something all the different ways you can measure a year? (cue Rent?)
...like books
...or maybe t-shirts
or maybe even crafts?
This year was wonderful and fantastic and strange and new and horrible and old and different. I'm going to miss the seniors. A lot.
Blah. Tomorrow, I am hanging out with my poppa. I think he finally got it. But we'll see for how long. Tomorrow should be just as good as today--except busy.
Sunday is going to be a work day. Oh hello calculus, oh hello spanish, oh hello world, oh hello yet another essay, oh hello procrastination.
School's almost over... CRAZYTOWN! But isn't it kind of cool or something all the different ways you can measure a year? (cue Rent?)
...like books
...or maybe t-shirts
or maybe even crafts?
This year was wonderful and fantastic and strange and new and horrible and old and different. I'm going to miss the seniors. A lot.
Home, Sweet Something
I'm sorry. Really? No. No. No. No, I'm not sorry. It's really selfish of me to hate expectations. It's really selfish. But selfish people don't care about being selfish, so I'm just going to go ahead and be selfish:
I can't take any more talk about the the Right College, the Acceptable College, the One That Will Land You A Job...supposedly Harvard, MIT, other schools I can't and don't want to get into.
Dear God, dear someone.
Tell me the name is not everything?
What if I want to go to college to, you know, learn, get that holistic experience that sounds so nice? It's true. I legitimately want to learn.
Is this impractical? Is this old-fashioned?
Everything Linda says is perfectly logical, true, makes sense. But ahhhhhhhh!!!!
People who attend certain colleges are certain brands of people. When I pay for college I'm paying for the brand. True. All true. It's even reflected in the students' brand of clothing. You can shop at places like Hollister and Pac Sun or you can shop at places like J. Crew and Ralph Lauren, with your golden sperry's and your grandmother's pearls and your Nine West tote and fuck me in the ass I might just kill myself. I'm not shopping for a husband. I'm not. I'm trying to further my education. Sorry Mom and Dad, that you raised such a fuck-up. I'm so backwards. Sorry. Really? No. I'm not sorry.
It is unfortunate that the things I have passions for is steeped in impracticality.
"I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, and you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, then it is beautiful. If not, it can't be helped.”
Frederick Perls quotes (German born American psychiatrist, 1893-1970)
editing videos from trip..
I can't take any more talk about the the Right College, the Acceptable College, the One That Will Land You A Job...supposedly Harvard, MIT, other schools I can't and don't want to get into.
Dear God, dear someone.
Tell me the name is not everything?
What if I want to go to college to, you know, learn, get that holistic experience that sounds so nice? It's true. I legitimately want to learn.
Is this impractical? Is this old-fashioned?
Everything Linda says is perfectly logical, true, makes sense. But ahhhhhhhh!!!!
People who attend certain colleges are certain brands of people. When I pay for college I'm paying for the brand. True. All true. It's even reflected in the students' brand of clothing. You can shop at places like Hollister and Pac Sun or you can shop at places like J. Crew and Ralph Lauren, with your golden sperry's and your grandmother's pearls and your Nine West tote and fuck me in the ass I might just kill myself. I'm not shopping for a husband. I'm not. I'm trying to further my education. Sorry Mom and Dad, that you raised such a fuck-up. I'm so backwards. Sorry. Really? No. I'm not sorry.
It is unfortunate that the things I have passions for is steeped in impracticality.
"I am not in this world to live up to your expectations, and you are not in this world to live up to mine. You are you and I am I, and if by chance we find each other, then it is beautiful. If not, it can't be helped.”
Frederick Perls quotes (German born American psychiatrist, 1893-1970)
editing videos from trip..
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Submit. More Boys.
I’m ugly when I cry. I am not pretty to begin with (and I’m not just being modest) but when I cry, I am ugly. Bright red splotches splatter my already acne-ridden cheeks, the right corner of my mouth and the right corner of my mouth alone drags all the way to hell, and my eyebrows are permanently furrowed while my nose seems like it suffers from epilepsy as it shudders and whimpers and gasps for oxygen. And snot. And my already soaking sleeve wiping away the snot. And my hand that attempts to replace my sleeve but is vain for trying. No. I am not good looking when I cry. I discovered this a week and a day after my eleventh birthday—a week and a day after my parents’ divorce. I didn’t even know I was sad until I put down my sparkly notepad, paused for just a minute, and began gushing. Everything came all at once. No gradual ascent, no subtle transition from quivering lip to full on heaving; I was a broken dam and I was drowning. Somewhere among the wreckage, materialized the carnal desire to look at my reflection, because at eleven years, one week, and a day, I longed to see myself at my most pitiful state. And I was not disappointed. Just shocked. It was hard to try to take it all in as I pulled at the fraying carpet, staring at the full length mirror. My features were swollen and distorted underneath homemade bangs recklessly matted to the side of my head, and I could no longer distinguish from exactly which portal the most fluid was being excreted. I was a mess. I was a monster. I was pathetic. I was just enough to convince myself to avoid this vulnerable state of being at all costs or at least never let anyone else see me so susceptible to pain. So that’s exactly what I did: I replaced tears with laughter and suddenly, the weight of the world became lighter, everything became a joke, and the heaviest substances became my best material. Who cares if I’m sad, I just want to be funny. What began as a meager way to cope has indisputably become a part of me and slowly converted into a renewed sense of optimism. Even in the worst of times, I know that as long as I can crack a joke, I will be okay. I am not so terribly against the idea of crying anymore either, because every once in awhile, that’s what it really takes. Plus, I am continually comforted by the fact that after three rolls of toilet paper and an entire sleeve of Girl Scout cookies, somewhere out there is a one-liner that will keep me sane and keep me smiling.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Red is the color of...
Curry.
Or maybe curry is more of a rust orange. It's along the same lines. I decided that blogging is for those who are in the hopes of sharing something they create, something they're good at it, something they love. Feelings and thoughts alone aren't really substantial enough for other people to care. Well, I love food. And today I cooked. Wait. Nobody cares. Today I cooked my mom's sauteed eggplants served with Cajun Rainbow Trout. Wait. Nobody cares. I'm not a cook. I'm a sixteen year old girl. Hmmm....well it was still yummy! Maybe one day when I think people care, I'll include a recipe. Maybe that'll be the day I surpass ten followers.
Fashion.
Insomnia.
It's unfortunate because I do not rock the bloodshot look. Sleep is so hard to come by when you have the guilt of impending papers to write and tests to study for on your mind. One more day. Holy. Shit.
Or maybe curry is more of a rust orange. It's along the same lines. I decided that blogging is for those who are in the hopes of sharing something they create, something they're good at it, something they love. Feelings and thoughts alone aren't really substantial enough for other people to care. Well, I love food. And today I cooked. Wait. Nobody cares. Today I cooked my mom's sauteed eggplants served with Cajun Rainbow Trout. Wait. Nobody cares. I'm not a cook. I'm a sixteen year old girl. Hmmm....well it was still yummy! Maybe one day when I think people care, I'll include a recipe. Maybe that'll be the day I surpass ten followers.
Fashion.
OBSESSED.>
J. CREW, SPRING 2010 COLLECTION>
PEARLIZED SEQUINED SILK DRESS, $650>
I spend too much time virtually window shopping. If I had a credit card, minimum wage would gradually lead to utmost nirvana. Lately I keep looking at ideeli, which is an invite only shopping community. Invite only. How legit is that? I'll probably buy my prom dress from there... because it's designer clothes with a tonnnnnn of discounts. And then there's J. Crew and Urban. Can't wait till I have a real job. I love clothes. I love the color red.
Insomnia.
It's unfortunate because I do not rock the bloodshot look. Sleep is so hard to come by when you have the guilt of impending papers to write and tests to study for on your mind. One more day. Holy. Shit.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Fitz & Dizzyspells
"There is something awe-inspiring in one who has lost all inhibitions."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald
There is nothing awe-inspiring in one who who has lost all motivation...
Spring break. Three days, four tests, one essay. Three days.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
On Blogging & Menopause.
I can barely understand anything with a computer chip in it. But I guess I'll give this a shot. Dear Facebook, you've been replaced. Just another distraction. Supposed to be writing an essay, not a blog post. Eh. Later.
Moms on Menopause.
I'm pretty positive this is where the idea of Satan was contrived.
No, this is not melodrama at its finest, this is not an epitome of exaggeration. This is truth.
bloop. bloop. bloop. that's the sound of me drowning.
10:03pm on a school night: Attempting to go on a run... when will I stop being a gimp?
Wait. No, I'm not. It's raining.
Moms on Menopause.
I'm pretty positive this is where the idea of Satan was contrived.
No, this is not melodrama at its finest, this is not an epitome of exaggeration. This is truth.
bloop. bloop. bloop. that's the sound of me drowning.
10:03pm on a school night: Attempting to go on a run... when will I stop being a gimp?
Wait. No, I'm not. It's raining.
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