You Can Laugh Now.

Outside Temp: 48 degrees

Feels like: 46 degrees

Jacket/longsleeveshirt/scarf forecast: still in the mail.

Now That I Don’t Have John Keeping My Blog Stats Up, I Gotta Post My Own Crap

I have four bloody holes in my mouth. They’re not really bleeding, anymore, per se, but they’re gaping holes nonetheless. Which is uncomfortable, and so I’ve continued sticking gauze in my mouth because then it doesn’t feel like i have gaping holes in my mouth. Gross, yeah. But, (and I swear I haven’t had any hardcore drugs in 10 hours) it sort of made me think, wow, I wish I had gauze to stick in the other holes in my life. Okay, emo, a little, I’ll admit. But it would be nice anyway. Except for the part that then I continued this thought process, and wondered whether or not I already was doing that in some way or another. All I know is Hillary told me I looked like a sad puppy when she came over, and i was like nooooo i’m not sad, but maybe i was wrong. But that’s beside the point. I actually started this post weeks ago but other things came up and I couldn’t quite figure out what I meant to say.

It’s weird, but ever since we began the autobiography presentations for our English final I’ve been thinking a lot about myself. Or rather, I’ve felt the need to tell stories about myself. It’s incredibly egotistical actually. Maybe it’s because I no longer have a person that I’m just overcome with the urge to tell everything to, since the candidates don’t care or already know what there is to know.

I’ve had multiple non fiction writing projects in mind in this vein. First, I thought I would write letters to everyone I knew, inspired by the blog full of love letters Cathy posted about. But then I realized that was essentially what all my yearbook entries were, and I wouldn’t really be able to say anything original. Then, later, I had this idea where I thought I would talk about all the places that I associate with particular memories. Unfortunately, the place that happened to inspire this thought is somewhere I’m not ready to talk to the world wide interwebs with about at the moment.

Instead we’re going to talk about my car. I just came to the realization today that I’m going to miss my car. A lot. I was so ready to get rid of it. The lights are always blinking at me telling me to get something fixed (how I regret the “no, none of my tail lights are out” comment I made to my dad at autozone the other day) and it always needs coolant and oil and air conditioning to me now means driving 80 mph and hoping the cool air will force itself into my car. Even so, even with all the maintenance i don’t do and its dirty, dingy permanently bird crapped exterior, I love my car. It drives like butter, and is a home away from home. I remember when we first got it and my mom wouldn’t let us eat in it…if that had continued i probably wouldn’t get such unpleasant surprises every time (admittedly not often) i go digging around in the backseat. There are points in my life when it literally contains all I need to survive, from changes of clothes to blankets and pillows and swimsuits and sunscreen to makeup and food and at least $20 in change that Alex spilled that one time playing with my cupholder, which subsequently ended up under my floormats and between my seats.

I don’t know if this project is going to work, because I don’t know that I can really explain these places. But what, praytell, am I going to do without my car next year? Where am I going to sing loudly and badly without annoying anyone but myself? If I’m having a good day, I’ve probably realized that it’s a good day while driving. If I’m going to, I usually hit contentment between Petit and Saticoy on Foothill. Most of my writing ideas come to me while passing the Government center just about to get on the freeway to go home. I’ve stopped taking the freeway home, though, cause I like enjoying the longer drive. Perhaps that’s why I haven’t had any writing ideas in a while. (Well, I’ve written a few poems but we know how poetry and I work; they’re totally worthy of The Pain Tree.) I’ve had a lot of important conversations within my car, or directly outside it. I’ve locked people in it, and locked people out of it, used it and abused it in every way possible, and I have few doubts that if I ever crash it, (despite its thus far indestructible outer shell) it will be 95% because Alex is trying to turn up the radio.

Damn, why is it everything I love drives me absolutely fricking crazy? But yeah, I guess this is my love letter to Sven. Because cars don’t buy yearbooks.

Ego Boost of a Day

As of this moment, I’ve been accepted to 4/7 colleges I applied to. 3 I have yet to hear from.

So, Davis will give me money, Berkeley will give me 4 years in NorCal with lots of hobos at the best public school in the nation, Brandeis will give me an artsy fartsy small jewish liberal arts school degree in creative writing, and Northwestern will freeze off my toes and give me a large school experience with the top journalism program. I don’t know what I want anymore. Tell me what I want.

a) this feels like cryptomnesia. b) too happy for me, but i needed happy.

Ginger Ale

They were sitting on the floor of Becca’s room: Charlie leaning against her bed with his long legs stretched out in front of him, Becca sitting neatly cross-legged in the middle of the rug. The walls of the room were obscured completely by posters, photographs, flyers, and poems, and Charlie had given up on trying to read each one. His ass was falling asleep.

“Want to play the question game?” Becca asked him.

Charlie opened one eye first, then the other. “The question game?”

“You ask me a question. I answer. I ask you a question. You answer. I figured it was self explanatory.” She placed her elbows on the floor in front of her, leaning forward to rest her head in her hands.

“Sounds like a conversation to me,” Charlie replied, skeptical.

“You would be surprised at how long you can go in a conversation without a question. People like to talk about themselves, if you’ve noticed.” she countered.

“Fine.” he agreed. There were worse things to do on a Wednesday night, he supposed, and though there was a barely started research paper waiting for him back in his room, Becca flashed him a grin, and he found himself saying “you first.”

It started out simple. Cake or pie? If you had to choose, would you rather choose to never use a fork again or never use a spoon? You have a plane ticket to anywhere in the world; where do you go? What’s the longest time you’ve ever spent in a car? Do you have an embarrassing nickname?

Finally, Charlie asked, absentmindedly, “Best gift you’ve ever gotten?”

Becca had spent 5 minutes mulling over the merits of spoons versus forks, but this time her answer was immediate. “A case of ginger ale.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A case of ginger ale? Really? You live a thrilling life,” he said, laughing.

She sighed. “Don’t you know anything?” She looked him in the eye. He pretended it was a rhetorical question. “It’s not the gift that matters,” she said, playing with the ragged shoelace on her faded Converse. They had writing all over them, checkered Sharpie patterns on the rubber soles, black ball point pen squiggles and quotes and stick figure drawings on the green canvas sides. “It’s the fact that someone thought to give you a gift. It didn’t matter that he spent three dollars buying me a 12 pack of soda. What mattered is he did something spontaneous with the single intention of making my day better.”

“You’re saying it’s the thought that counts?” He was skeptical.

She cocked her head to the side, thinking. “Sometimes.”

“Wait, what?” He jumped into debate mode. “Sometimes the gift matters but sometimes it doesn’t? That makes no sense.”

“No, it’s like—well, for your birthday. That matters. Because you know you’re getting gifts. You would be pissed if you didn’t. What I’m talking about are the unexpected ones, the ones that aren’t required or asked for or even necessary. Even mediocre friends will buy you a birthday gift—but how many people would think to buy you a case of your favorite soda just cause they thought you’d like it? How many people even know what your favorite soda is?”

He thought a moment. “I got nothin’ for you.” He shrugged.

“Well, then, I guess you’ve never been in love.” She shrugged back at him.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

A slow smile crept over her face. “Haven’t you ever watched a movie?” she asked him. “It’s the challenge.”