Archive | January, 2013

Timeline

30 Jan

January 20, 2012

 

11:55 Sitting at desk, pretending to write an article about Miss America pageant. 

12:00 Wander into office kitchen, take last chocolate chip cookie because you were just at the Miss America pageant and you deserve all the cookies. 

12:01 Notice that company’s HR rep is in the office, ask what is going on? No one will make contact.

12:02 You are called into the big boss lady’s office (okay she’s second in command) and, while still eating the last chocolate chip cookie, you are fired and given a reasonable but still insulting severance package. 

12:10: Drive home with biggest fucking grin on your face ever.

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The Story of My Stories

28 Jan

I began telling tales as soon as I could talk and I started writing them down not long after that. Like I’ve said before, I’ve always known what I was good at: writing. But I don’t necessarily think that this skill means anything – natural abilities are not to be bragged on because you didn’t earn them. 

But I have spent a long time writing, for piddly little newspapers and yeah a pageant magazine and this plot of narcissus. I’ve learned a lot, and the key thing is: being good isn’t good enough. It means very little to be good when there are other people who want it more, who have more time, and don’t have egos as large as mine (it’s huge seriously) who don’t retch at the thought of rewrites. 

I feel compelled to write and share because it’s the only thing I’ve ever been really good at it but I also hate it because god damn it what a stupid thing to be good at. There! That was a preposition! At the end of a sentence

I do it, on some level, because I have to. But I’m deathly afraid of being bad at it. Or else being good, or better, and having to keep doing it. I don’t want to do it every day, for money, like I did. I need to be more surefooted. I need to spend time on it rather than rewatching episodes of Criminal Minds. It’s so easy to do what’s not helpful. 

A Story About Falling

25 Jan

Another writing prompt from my course with Alice Bradley, in which I am a full week behind because I hate myself and my dreams in roughly equal measure. 

I have the falling dream a lot, which is really just a science-y feeling of drifting into sleep I guess? But I don’t fall off a cliff or even off patio trying to pick a rare flower like that girl in The Boy Who Could Fly. I trip down a set of stairs and break my freaking face off. Every single time, you guys. I have a pathological fear of breaking my teeth off into nubs which is one element of the dream but there’s also the super original element of losing control.

In my waking hours, I pick my way carefully down any set of stairs like a goat. During my senior year of high school, I went on a kiddy tour of Europe. Of course we went to the Eiffel Tour and of course I went to the top, because you have to. But the elevator doesn’t take you down – only up. I can still feel the flat panic of clinging to the rail and the metal grate stairs kind of swimming in my line of vision while my best friend screamed my name. Oh god. 

I am not delicate. I am not nimble. And I am deathly afraid to fall and hurt my face. It’s not like I have a particularly special face, though I do have quite nice teeth. Basically I don’t have much to lose in the visage department but every night, there I am – falling down someone’s uncle’s basement stairs, wondering if anyone I know has a bell tower I can live in for the rest of my days. 

Aside

Bound

21 Jan

ImageThis is me. I’m about to turn 30. I have no feelings about it other than my feelings about having no feelings.

My life does not look like I imagined it would when I was 20, but I was stupid when I was 20, and so that is a good thing.

I will most likely never have shiny hair or a really nice couch. Most times, I still feel like life is a joke that I just don’t get – but I’m still happy for some part of every single day.

I am a hardhearted woman and I do believe that the opposite of love is indifference. In my life, I have been happy to let bridges fall into disrepair rather than set them ablaze. I don’t know if that’s the right choice but I do know more and more the right thing is becoming a) clearer to me and b) easier to do.

I’ve lost the lust to be special and that’s a great relief. Crawling into bed with my fella after a few mimosas in the morning  or sitting in quiet, dark bar with a friend- these are moments when I think “This is it.” Like I’ve done something right because I’ve found myself in such good company. I am not sure I deserve those moments, but here they are and I will take them.

My heart has been broken since the day I was born but that’s more common that most of us even know. I have no idea what’s going to happen to me but I bet I will be poor again. My heart will heal and shatter a dozen more times. All that shit is going to happen whether I stay huddled in the house or not, so I’m going to fucking dance even though my feet hurt.

First Story

15 Jan

I’m taking a writing course with Alice Bradley to see if I want to continue writing or if that precious little ship has sailed. The first writing prompt I received asked me to tell a story about the first story I heard. Whaaaaaaaaaaat. What. 

But I figured it out. Church – duh. That’s really the first story I heard that wasn’t a children’s book, I think. The only church I ever attended as a pretty serious Pentecostal one in rural Mississippi – I’ve talked about it before. My older sister and I would go to Sunday school while my Mom and Grammy did the main service. One Sunday they wanted us to color pictures of, like fishes and loaves. Super boring. And I tried to get out of my chair and they told me that only bad girls get out of their chairs in church. They threatened to punish me. That’s the moment that God lost me. I was only 3 years old and I knew that these tongue-talkers were full of shit. I knew that bad was more than that, way more dangerous. 

Here’s to Another Goddamn New Year

4 Jan

What can I say, guys? Everything is going pretty great and that means I’m boooooring. Boring.

For a while now, I’ve been saying, “To better days,” whenever I lift a glass. I started that toast at a time in my life when it was essentially a prayer. Motherfucker, there have got to be better days ahead. 

But now they’re here! And I still say, “To better days,” because I’d be a real lucky bitch if I had better days than the ones I’ve been having lately.

I mean, I’m still afraid to die. I’m still afraid that all that I love will be carried away. I think that might be the human condition and not just a singular, personal fear.

For better or worse, it’s a new year. I made one resolution last year and that was to never return to the Miss American pageant again. Fucking NAILED IT, you guys.