Last week brought to my college town the onslaught of "June Gloom," where, like clockwork, a dense, dewy, hair wrecking mist descends over Southern/Central California inhabitants. And we all look to the ocean longingly, sighing.
Also, I just bought and energy drink called NEUROSONIC.
But in the midst of this spectacularly melodramatic weather, I have had few moments to revel in this prime emotional-inducing surrounding, which is a tragedy. I am in the last bit of my finals before I graduate from college.
Did i say Tragedy? I meant HORROR, like over articulated, linear Edgar Allen Poe horror, like Stephen King on PCP horror. Like Linda Blair is my new roomie horror.
I am graduating.
Mufassa
You know that episode of Sex and the City (all my roommates are gagging) where Carrie forgets the men (paha) and dates the city for an episode? I feel like I have just realized that I have been in a four year relationship with college. And now he's dumping me, telling me to "move on" and "welcome to your future" and "this was the best time of your life, good luck finding temp work, say hello to your mom now that I'm kicking you out of your adorable, lovable living situation"
Even though I am in the gloomy midst (JUNE GLOOM JOKES AL DAY LONG) of a break up, I don't want to remember college like this; me drunk outside college's door burning the t-shirts he left at my place while screaming the lyrics to "our song." I want to remember the reasons I fell in inconvenient love with him in the first place.
I am sure this will be the first of many weepy Word documents I will fill as I swill good wine form my mother's crystal, holding my mini poodles at home close, telling them about that time I was drunk with all my friends having the best time of my life. But for now I just want to think of college the way I'd think of a boyfriend whom I loved very much, who I can no longer be with.
BITTERLY.
Just kidding. I think of you when I can't sleep, which is often, as I am half cat. When I am rolling around in my bed getting getting pissed off, emitting strangled, annoying sobs in frustration. There comes a point where I play a little game called "try to recall what makes you happy." When I was little I would think of playing in the sand with my cousins in Hawaii and eating Kahlua pig with poi, or eating berries with cream with my Oma in Germany (wow, see where my 10 yr old priorities were).
Now I think of you, ex bf-as-college-metaphor, to feel happy and peaceful at 3 in the morning. I remember how nice you were to me once I got my act together and took all my piercings out. How you took me from Keystone light to something bottled and darker. How we used to eat shitty sushi until we stepped it up a notch and discovered places in old town. How you told me about people from faraway places, like LA and Chico. How I pretended never to like you and wanted to transfer to Davis until it was too late and now I want to cling to a eucalyptus tree until some bewildered UCSB maintenance worker drags me away.
I can't imagine going away from you. My post-you existence seems as dense and foggy as June Gloom (told you). Most people look at you, your natty-lite can littered streets, freshman filled house parties, the textfromlastnight website, long distance relationships, walk of shames, drunken brawls and think "What a brute." But when I think of you I remember cheap wine, family dinners, hearing smart people speak for free (kind of), mood lighting, TERRIBLE sex, AMAZING sex, political arguments where nobody knows what they're talking about, and sharing funny books. I hope we keep in touch, but I'm sure you will be calling me. I am your Alum, after all.
I love you.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Dream On.
The other night I had one of the most vivid dreams. The type where your subconscious is trying to coerce you to sleep in just so it can find out what happens. I don't want to divulge the nature of this fancy pants dream (wizards, pot, magic school buses, college and a castle) because I believe that one day I will write it down and it will be the coolest, most money making story in the world. Then I will will have yellow tail tar-tar, as many platforms as I can drool over aligned in my closet like little foot soldiers, a gorgeous black standard poodle named Kristopherson, a German Shepard names Max or Wolfgang, and lots of over priced candles.
Anyway, I awoke reluctantly that morning and forced my boyfriend to wake up. Filled with sleepy enthusiasm I committed to relaying to him the eventual source of my enviable income!
"And then the girl...wait I have to figure that part out, I mean in the dream she was me, but I am not going to make her me...She might have brown hair but you know how I like brunettes. Anyway she is tired of going to class all the time because this guy is really boring. Are you listening? (Yes) Okay LISTEN, so she hasn't gone to class for like 3 weeks and finally one day...okay wait maybe five weeks, oh I don't know somewhere deep in the quarter, Oh wait do you think it should be on semester? Semester are more relatable don't you think? Shit okay well anyway she finally gets to the class..."
This continued for about ten minutes until I noticed I was losing his attention. I started to make up parts of my dream that hadn't happened in order to keep the room alive, but then I would lose track of my story. It began to get disjointed.
"And then there were DOLPHINS! yeaaaah dolphins and they were jumping in and out of the water as they crossed this greaaaat bridge...Wait I am not sure if they were on a bridge I mean that seems ridiculous, okay so I have to figure that part out but there was an ocean and somehow they got to an island...okay there may or may not have been dolphins..."
It finally ended with a plaintive "And there's drugs!" to which he looked nonplussed.
"What do you think," I asked, my eyes alight with a pleading excitement. "Good, huh?!?"
"Yeeeah," my boyfriend yawned. Then proceeded to tell me about his dream. Which involved a flying plank and a not-that-hot blond female co-pilot. Or something.
I don't really know. I guess I wasn't listening.
:)
Anyway, I awoke reluctantly that morning and forced my boyfriend to wake up. Filled with sleepy enthusiasm I committed to relaying to him the eventual source of my enviable income!
"And then the girl...wait I have to figure that part out, I mean in the dream she was me, but I am not going to make her me...She might have brown hair but you know how I like brunettes. Anyway she is tired of going to class all the time because this guy is really boring. Are you listening? (Yes) Okay LISTEN, so she hasn't gone to class for like 3 weeks and finally one day...okay wait maybe five weeks, oh I don't know somewhere deep in the quarter, Oh wait do you think it should be on semester? Semester are more relatable don't you think? Shit okay well anyway she finally gets to the class..."
This continued for about ten minutes until I noticed I was losing his attention. I started to make up parts of my dream that hadn't happened in order to keep the room alive, but then I would lose track of my story. It began to get disjointed.
"And then there were DOLPHINS! yeaaaah dolphins and they were jumping in and out of the water as they crossed this greaaaat bridge...Wait I am not sure if they were on a bridge I mean that seems ridiculous, okay so I have to figure that part out but there was an ocean and somehow they got to an island...okay there may or may not have been dolphins..."
It finally ended with a plaintive "And there's drugs!" to which he looked nonplussed.
"What do you think," I asked, my eyes alight with a pleading excitement. "Good, huh?!?"
"Yeeeah," my boyfriend yawned. Then proceeded to tell me about his dream. Which involved a flying plank and a not-that-hot blond female co-pilot. Or something.
I don't really know. I guess I wasn't listening.
:)
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Another Failed Relationship
I use too much toilette paper. I have a strange relationship with this instrument of cleanliness. I have clogged many a porcelain with its dotted squares; yet as much as I rely on that paper I feel as if it hates me back. It's an honestly sad unrequited love story.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
I was retelling my sister an anecdote the other day of how I was sixteen and on an airplane to Germany. I had to use the restroom, so I went, all sleepy and delirious about seven hours into the flight. International coach is literally a joke. I'm not kidding, I think the architects must have sat around their blueprints stoned eating tacos laughing their heads off as they imagined row after row of disgruntled tourists and snoring grandpas forced to reside is such proximity for ungodly amounts of time. Anyway, I came back from the bathroom , enlivened, feeling good. Also, I think I was strutting a bit as I noticed a few male gazes on my backside. Naturally, it was because I was awesome. When you're sixteen you think you're super fine, and everyone looks at you because you are so super fine.
Then I sit down in my sad isle seat and realize I have a tail. A six foot snake of blindingly white toilette paper is protruding from the waistband of my pants, down the length of my airplane seat, to the floor, and across the isle. Hum. I begin to pull it out of my jeans, and it's like one of those magician's scarves that keeps growing. As each dotted line passes through my hands my horror exponentially grows, till I finally reach the end. I realize I have enough of the stuff lay strewn about my lap to mimic an Olympian ribbon dance up and down the now snickering isle. I sink into my seat, destroyed.
2)Another time, a homeless man told me I had a tail as I drunkenly waited outside of a club.
3)I had toilette paper on my shoe for two hours when covering a school district meeting.
4)I once thought I had a toilette paper tail when walking to class on campus, but thought if I ignored it, it'd go away. Nope. I went to the bathroom on a whim, and there it was. No longer fluttering like I imagine it was as I briskly made my way to my discussion, but laying there against my leggings, like a infuriatingly docile creature.
(Editor's note: I promise these tails have been merely surplus and not, um, used. I don't think I could tell this story otherwise ha...).
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
In reviewing this script, my dear readers must think "What in God's name is wrong with you?" And yes, it is slightly unfortunate. Apparently I am pretty careless when it comes to, erm, wrapping things up. But something happened in the line for a club a couple of weeks ago, a sort of victory for the victim of universal embarrassment at the hands of potty humor.
I know (and by know I mean I can recognize him and vice versa) a bouncer at the club that my ladyfriends and myself end up when we HIT DA BARZ. I got separated from my group and was wandering over to said club to meet up with a girlfriend. The line at midnight is very bad. Luckily my bouncer acquaintance knows what I look like drunk and he let me in. I made a halfhearted attempt to look for my friend, but lost interest when I realized I had to pee. Then my drunklogic told me she was ACTUALLY outside again (she wasn't). So I leave the nice and warm stuffy club to find my girl, stomping around in new platform wedges that are now decorated with, yes, (fanfare) toilette paper!
As I am earnestly searching the line for my girlfriend (who was currently dancing with a trannie btw) a young gentlemen and his eyeliner-ed pink tube top wearing gf inquire of me a delicate question.
"AY, YOU USED THE BATHROOM RECENTLY OR WHAT?!?" (jokey joke jokey joke)
As I looked down, even my liquid courage couldn't prevent the spreading of shame to all my appendages. And then I look back up at the group of six of seven people who think my misfortune is hilarious. And I think to myself, this is a common human experience. We all do it. The only reason it's so funny is because it is funny. If I wasn't so drunk, I'd imagine all those folks with toilette paper on their shoes and realize Life's not so bad.
Unfortunately I was intoxicated. So instead of forgiving the young man wearing a pinstriped button down, I instead saw him as a giant toilette paper tail, taunting me. Quickly, like in a movie, my relationship with the thing underneath my heel makes a montage of blush-worthy memories that play out in my head. I am tired of being taken for a fool by this comedic social construct. Social constructs are bullshit. Gender ain't real. Race is fake. I'm Mad! So, I monologue.
"Well well well, isn't that hiiiillariouss ," I began. "I went to the bathroom and I peed. What like you've never done that? Are you immuunee to peeing. Do you just pee out your nose? Are you an alien?"
"Umm, no."
"Well, Alien, Let me tell you something. When humans pee out their urethras we use toilette paper. And sometimes that toilette paper gets on your high heels."
Then I realize that I look clinically insane. I also realize that the group I am embarrassing myself in front of is about 45 minutes from getting into the club. I ALSO realize that my bouncer friend is still working.
"Well it was nice shooting the shit with you ET. But I am going to go get into the club now."
Then I march defiantly, ass paper and all, to the front of the line. My bouncer pal looks at me curiously, then shakes his head and pulls back the velvet rope.
Toilette paper: 7 Sonia: 1/2 Dignity: -4
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Fast Food Family
My sister and I eat out a lot. And by eat out I mean fast food. When we have Subway we're like OH! God! I'm faint. I'm like ana right now. Where my fries at?
It's something that I think we are sort of disgusted at, but at the same time don't really want to escape the lure of bbq sauce and salt. It got to the point where one of her roommates jokingly suggested she give up fast food for lent. We looked at each other like Aw. Hell. Naw. Christ gave his life.... well...Did Christ ever have a cheeseburger animal style with extra grilled onions? I don't think so. Kate Moss hath once spewed "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels." Really? Clearly she hasn't had anything fried. ever. Dumb. (Wow Jesus to Kate Moss in two sentences. LOOK AT THAT TRANSITION)
Anyway, my sister recently told me an anecdote that I feel sums up our love-hate-secretly love relationship with all that is devilish for the corporal self. One evening she and her roommate decided to play racket ball at the school's gymnasium. My sister's roommate (I shall name her Christina) got there early and worked out before hand. My sister (I shall name her Sasha) drove to the gym.
Christina was kind of tired from her previous exertion and my sister just sort of watched the ball bounce and half heartedly chased it. After a while of playing glorified fetch with rackets, the girls decided they were hungry. Since they had clocked some time in sweating and such, they decided to treat themselves to Mexican food. Also known as Taco Bell. Luckily, Sasha had driven.
After Mexican Pizzas and Double Deckers (briefly, a taco named after a bus. Do we even notice this shit?) the fearless consumers ascertained that they really weren't that full.
"I'm not really thaaaat fauoll"
"Me neither"
"Wanna go to Jack in the Box?"
I am sure the conversation was more in depth than that. I am just projecting how it would be if Sash and I were talking to one another in this situation. (Y'all are like yeah effing right. YOU ARE CHRISTINA). Thus they traveled to stop number two and hastily bought curly fries and onion rings. My sister described the instance as one of sadistic consumption. "Were weren't even hungry anymore, it didn't taste good. I just didn't know what else to do but eat. Ahhheeeeh," she moans to me, in reflection. And mimes putting a french fry to her mouth, face twisted into a remorseful and terribly sad expression.
When they got home the girls started to realize that they had overdosed. My sister describes the scene as one of greasy pain and temporary horror. I say temporary because as Sasha finished retelling me the story, she added one final detail of her trauma.
"It was so bad," she whimpers as I am rolling on the bed laughing. "I couldn't eat until like" (Brief Pause) "Eleven p.m."
I love my Family.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Boys Boys Boys
Today I went to an unspeakably lovely beach in Montecito. It was impromptu, but I was feeling antsy and had two hours to kill before class. So I drove like someone on PCP to the ocean and finished (and by finished I mean started) my first massive overhaul of academic reading.
I had found a particularly nice spot in which I was laying slightly propped up by a slopping rock. This rock was also surrounded by many other stony spheres (haha), which blocked the wind a bit. It was a perfect situation. However, I was not the only one who realized this. Two adorable little boys in red and blue swim shorts were also enjoyed the bevy of boulders. I could feel them eyeing the opportune adventurous climbing situation. Unfortunately I was sitting directly in the middle of their cool time, and I am assuming their WAPSY upbringing didn't allow them to immediately trample my beached ass. It is a fitting metaphor; man has always wanted to conquer nature, but there is always one obstacle: women.
I had found a particularly nice spot in which I was laying slightly propped up by a slopping rock. This rock was also surrounded by many other stony spheres (haha), which blocked the wind a bit. It was a perfect situation. However, I was not the only one who realized this. Two adorable little boys in red and blue swim shorts were also enjoyed the bevy of boulders. I could feel them eyeing the opportune adventurous climbing situation. Unfortunately I was sitting directly in the middle of their cool time, and I am assuming their WAPSY upbringing didn't allow them to immediately trample my beached ass. It is a fitting metaphor; man has always wanted to conquer nature, but there is always one obstacle: women.
I tired to ignore them, but their precious Elmer Fudge speak started to permeate my reading (which wasn't difficult as I was sloughing my way through Ovid's Metamorphosis eeuuchh).
"Bwu-thurrr."
"We can't climb the rwocks. She will see us."
"But look at that one!"
"But we will be cwaught. She will see usssss."
Great. I was Dark Lord Sauron. Preventing innocence and beauty from having its day. I wanted to move, but then I felt the furtive glances of their mother back at where they were playing. I didn't want to seem rude, like her children were obnoxious, because they weren't and I don't even really like children. But I also wanted to move. It was a great spot. I felt bad for being in their way. Oh and I don't like children. IT WAS REALLY DIFFICULT.
I also started questioning to myself (super secret, like in my head) how can something so cute turns into such a demon being? They looked so precious and harmless, like puppies. But when I think about all the boys I have known, the past puppies that have turned into dogs (haha!), I am wary of such cuteness. It doesn't last. I know what you will become.
Then one of the little hobbit boy puppies decided enough was enough. Like the generations of men before him, he was going to survey the land and no two-bit female was going to stop him. Hobbit puppy then took a small bucket full of sand, and dumped it on my back.
Needless to say, I moved.
Image Credit: martianchronicles
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The Grotesque
My southern literature professor (lord i reference that class a lot on this blog) repeatedly asks us this question: What is the most grotesque institution?
(I love it when teachers ask those broad questions where the whole class is supposed to chime in and answer. Because what comes back to our learned professor is some mumbled, murmured, scattered semblance of words so that suddenly "southern rape complex"sounds to the ears in the room like "mish rerera merragenoo". It's as if the phrase doesn't want to leave our voice boxes, so the whole time its fighting for air our larynx gives it the old one-two. Then the Professor claps her hands and rings our the answer for everyone to hastily scribble in their notebook. Next time she asks, I am just going to contribute a whispered "FISH AND CHIPS", "ring a ding ding" or "down by the bay")
Anyway, the answer to her question is slavery. Slavery is the most grotesque institution because it commodified the human soul to the point that one being owned another's. Slavery seems to me almost as the dead embodiment of grotesque, as if the word was solely created to accurately depict slavery in the English language.
But it also got me thinking about the.. mini-grotesque? I mean those everyday situations where we are bombarded by something disgusting, vile, or wrong but we take a strange and often masochistic liking to it. For instance: my weird obsession with making Linda Blair references, watching Cat House with my roommates while eating prunes, consuming obscene amounts of ice cream right before I go to bed while watching reality television on line and feeling the aftereffects at 3 am when I dream about Patty Stanger shooting me in the shin with a gun made of leather and spoons...(?) LESS SPECIFICALLY reality TV, horror films, infidelity, S&M, all the nasty shit.
Or perhaps most commonly, when you do something you know is wrong. And for a while you can't help yourself because of it's magnetic pull; it's wrong, but it's so intoxicating and exhilarating that you can't stop. Like a junkie, you start to justify your action so you can keep going. Until one day you look in the mirror and realize you are grotesque.
I think a healthy fascination with all that is bad is what keeps us human. But it seems to me finding the balance between the grotesque and your own goodness is the most important thing. Because while I think we are hedonistic beings, I am also in love with one. And that is enough to keep the grotesque at bay.
(I love it when teachers ask those broad questions where the whole class is supposed to chime in and answer. Because what comes back to our learned professor is some mumbled, murmured, scattered semblance of words so that suddenly "southern rape complex"sounds to the ears in the room like "mish rerera merragenoo". It's as if the phrase doesn't want to leave our voice boxes, so the whole time its fighting for air our larynx gives it the old one-two. Then the Professor claps her hands and rings our the answer for everyone to hastily scribble in their notebook. Next time she asks, I am just going to contribute a whispered "FISH AND CHIPS", "ring a ding ding" or "down by the bay")
Anyway, the answer to her question is slavery. Slavery is the most grotesque institution because it commodified the human soul to the point that one being owned another's. Slavery seems to me almost as the dead embodiment of grotesque, as if the word was solely created to accurately depict slavery in the English language.
But it also got me thinking about the.. mini-grotesque? I mean those everyday situations where we are bombarded by something disgusting, vile, or wrong but we take a strange and often masochistic liking to it. For instance: my weird obsession with making Linda Blair references, watching Cat House with my roommates while eating prunes, consuming obscene amounts of ice cream right before I go to bed while watching reality television on line and feeling the aftereffects at 3 am when I dream about Patty Stanger shooting me in the shin with a gun made of leather and spoons...(?) LESS SPECIFICALLY reality TV, horror films, infidelity, S&M, all the nasty shit.
Or perhaps most commonly, when you do something you know is wrong. And for a while you can't help yourself because of it's magnetic pull; it's wrong, but it's so intoxicating and exhilarating that you can't stop. Like a junkie, you start to justify your action so you can keep going. Until one day you look in the mirror and realize you are grotesque.
I think a healthy fascination with all that is bad is what keeps us human. But it seems to me finding the balance between the grotesque and your own goodness is the most important thing. Because while I think we are hedonistic beings, I am also in love with one. And that is enough to keep the grotesque at bay.
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