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Monthly Archives: September 2009

I can’t represent for shit. I got it backwards- I got an Oakland face with an LA booty. I’m sure you know what that means, and if you don’t, well, have fun with your imagination. It occurs to me that I spend a great deal of time thinking about my beauty or lack thereof and contemplating on the place of beauty in general. Most of these posts refer to it somewhere. Is it because I’m shallow? I don’t think so, but why else do I always come back to it? I suppose it is my central insecurity, and also the one thing I am least able to fix. Sometimes I think things would’ve turned out better if I were hotter, but then, that’s the problem isn’t it. I can’t really make myself much hotter. I am this hot. The irony is how much colder I really am than everyone else- I run at 96 degrees, beezy. I can’t pull off layering because I get too hot and want to pull it off. Besides, we know you skinny chicks are just trying to hide what you look like under all those damn clothes. Yeah, I’m doing it too. Maybe we shouldn’t be doing it. Maybe we should walk free under the sun, soaking up it’s rays and exciting the pricks on all the guys we meet. But hell, I can’t afford the sunscreen for that lifestyle. I mean, really, sunburned nipples? No thanks. The fairy dream of the sun as the life-giving force of the planet is great right up until it burns you. Or melts the wax in your wings. But that’s life, isn’t it? You can’t fall too much in love with any idea, anything, any person. Too much devotion to anything burns. Perhaps one day I’ll learn to live dispassionately; it would hurt a lot less. But oh, the sun feels so delicious on my skin, warming it and caressing it as I lay out and think of how nice it feels. And no matter how many times I’ve gotten burned, I still go out and smile when it hits my face. Maybe one day I’ll get tired of it- but somehow I don’t think so. I think getting tired of the sunshine would be like getting tired of the city or ice cream or people- you have a few bad experiences, but it’s worth it anyway. Maybe that’s life? Maybe I won’t know until it’s over. Oh I’m so trusting. I might be a cynical bastard, but let’s be real, I’m a bloody optimist by nature. If I feel like you appreciate me, you can ask for nearly anything. You might not get it, but I’m never insulted if you don’t try to insult me. Oh I love you. I just love people so much… too much maybe. Like the sunshine. Lucky I have my clothes to protect me, huh?


So here’s the deal. The most likely Americorps assignment called and told me they couldn’t offer me a position since they’ve got no money. Since no other Americorps people have contacted me and I’ve heard of all these college grads who are languishing with no Americorps positions, I just thought, screw it, I’m looking elsewhere. So I found this NGO called Projects Abroad and decided, hey, this doesn’t sound bad. Yeah, I have to pay out of pocket and I don’t get a scholarship or anything, but it sure beats sitting around here doing nothing. Plus, it’ll be teaching kids English. So I applied, I got in, and I’m leaving for Guadalajara around October 15th. I’ll be gone 3-5 months. I’m super-psyched about it.

I’m going to miss everyone, but I’ve already said goodbye to a lot of you and I’ve been getting antsy about sticking around. So off I go!

Sometimes I avoid people. Sometimes I avoid people I like because I don’t really want to talk about the things they want to know about me. Sometimes I suck myself into a ridiculous little cocoon and hope nobody notices what I’m doing, hope people will just leave me alone because although I have nothing to be ashamed of, I’m not really proud of myself anyway. Living without a deadline is killing me. Have you ever really thought about the word “deadline”? It kind of suggests what it is: this is the point at which something dies. It suggests mortality in general. There’s no life without death, and right now, I feel like I’m drifting through life because I’ve got no deadline. I suppose part of this problem is my overdeveloped sense of perspective- nothing REALLY bad happens when I miss a deadline. My life doesn’t get unbearably worse- it just doesn’t get better. I should want to get better way more than I do, but I think I’m overly grateful that my life isn’t terrible, so I’m too willing to settle for mediocrity. Perhaps I have a brain, but I don’t really have any use for it. I dislike being purposeless, but I don’t dislike it enough to really try to change it. My central quality and greatest sin is my own sloth. People want to know what I’m doing, people care about what I’m doing and I don’t answer them because I don’t really want to tell them that I’m doing nothing. My talent and my cute blue eyes and my charm and my humor are sitting here, whiling away the hours, not doing anything. I don’t really want to tell people that- they react badly. They always think that it’s through no fault of my own, because that’s the way I tell my own story. My habit of telling it more optimistically than it is comes to bite me in the ass now- I’m never going to be destroyed by outside forces. I am so powerful that the only person who can bring me down is myself. But good lord, it’s so likely…

My natural state of being seems to be sleeping in a box, like an abandoned kitten or something. That seems to be really apt, now that I think about it- I’m happy when I’m asleep, and when I wake up, I just want to be taken out of my box and loved, petted and told that I’m beautiful. So often, though, there’s no one to pick me up out of the box. So I scramble and scratch, trying to reach up the sides of the box, reach out to someone. Someone who might love me and talk to me and tell me about their day, maybe scratch me behind the ears, make me purr. And when I reach out, I usually can get that. I find someone to do all that for me. But when they’re done, they just put me back in the box. And the next time I want to leave the box, I have to do all this scrambling again. They always just put me back in the box, because I’ll be “safe” there. I want to get out of the box. I want to be out of the box, where all the nice people are. And for once, I don’t want to have to scramble to get out and find them- they don’t really come find me. I tip myself out of the box, they pick me up because I’m adorable, and then they put me back in the damn box as if I’m supposed to be in there. I hate the box. I don’t care if that’s where you found me, it’s my prison. But I can’t tell them about how much I hate the box, because all I can do is purr when I’m happy and mew when I’m sad- they don’t understand the pain in my little kitten eyes, they think I’m homesick or something, and so they think I should go back to my home, into my box. I wish one would just take me to their home. But you know something, they’d probably just put me in another kind of box. I don’t think I can ever win. All I can do is scramble outside and enjoy the freedom while it lasts. But I’m getting so tired of reaching out…