Saturday. 1.24.15 11:10 pm
My first instinct is to hug you. You, having been the first boy I ever wanted to slow dance with, the first boy my mom recalls me asking after, hold a very strange place in my personal history...and I can tell, by the peculiar smile on your face, that I hold an unusual place in your history, too.
But then, my mother was the catalyst for your parents' divorce. More than wondering how your two little sisters (for whom I cared very deeply, before K started hating me for what my mom did, and before S grew older and the memories of me faded) are, or what led you to my town, I wonder why you don't hate me.
So I don't hug you. The situation--finding you at my front door, after having spoken with you just once during high school and zero times, before or after that, since we were just kids who spent a good deal of time together--throws me off more than a little bit, and that might add to it, but most of it is this pressing question; why don't you hate me? Why do you look happy to see me?
The whole way up the stairs to my apartment--above which you have friends you're visiting, you tell me--in fact, all you keep repeating, between small bursts of updates and questions, is, "Small world."
"Small world." It comes out in a sort of breath, like you aren't even really thinking about saying it, but more so marveling in some universal strangeness, still processing the fact that I walked up, unshowered and holding a McDonald's bag and a chocolate shake, after several years of radio silence--and I suppose I'm marveling, too, although a bit more at the fact that you look like you're happy to see me, rather than horrified that I look like something that was perhaps dragged several miles by a runaway horse.
And then taken to McDonald's in consolation of the incident.
In fact, I almost get the feeling that I'm making you unhappy by leaving (to a small degree, of course), when I say that I have to get inside to take a nap (true; I was on two hours of sleep and had a midnight shift). I can't say I don't feel kind of the same, after waking up and having a moment to think about it. I almost message you several times, but don't know what to say. I wasn't brushing you off, I just needed to go because I'm always busy and also felt totally weird about the whole situation? Sorry my mother was complicit in the destruction of your happy childhood, hope we can catch up soon?
Not exactly a way to ignore how our shared history came to a halt, after all. It's an elephant that grows with every additional question.
And it's too small a world for that.
Friday. 1.16.15 2:41 am
So disclaimer, this is the intro to what appears to be a gay porno. HOWEVER, it's the intro, and there's nothing really untoward, other than discussing boners very vaguely and one lewd comment.
WITH THAT SAID, this is Oscar-worthy and you should watch it.
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS A DAY, SEVEN DAYS A WEEK, FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIIIIIIFE
Wednesday. 1.7.15 8:34 pm
Random snippets of a phone conversation with one of my most trusted friends, who lives nowhere near me and is not midday, although they share a first name.
"I'm like, 'I have good news and bad news. The good news is, you're going to live a long and happy life. The bad news is, you'll be living it without me.'"
Steve finds this line hilarious, and repeats it several times throughout our conversation. I didn't even realize what I was saying, at the time, so, once it occurs to me, we both sit there giggling like we're six about the most terrible way to break things off with someone. "I'm gonna use that, for real," he tells me. I hope he doesn't, but I also kind of hope he does, because the phone call I'll get directly after the fact might be worth it.
"The octopuses invade, and they're like, 'I have bad news, and I have good news... Bad news, you're not going to live much longer. Good news is, you're going to live it with me...!'"
It gets to the point of total absurdity at an extreme pace. This is when it benefits to live 15 hours away.
We're talking about me mounting a yacht on the side of a mountain as a mountain home, and how it's especially absurd because no one would know how it got there or why--how it would be a total mystery to anyone who visits the mountain, why there is a yacht on the mountain.
"In typical [Unicornasaurus] fashion, you ask, 'Why aren't there more yachts on the mountain?'"
This is probably the biggest compliment anyone has ever accidentally given me, because I would love to be seen as that belligerently combative about valid questions.
"That sounds like a line from a Wes Anderson film," I tell him, trying to stop laughing because he's stopped laughing, and continuing to prolong the laughter can sometimes be weird.
We discuss befriending Wes Anderson and bringing him to visit my mountain yacht house.
The idea of the yacht, of course, originated from my frustration with people who read "inspirational" books on success and still do nothing to actually achieve success, and how I was going to take their great ideas and make a bunch of money off of them. "And when I buy my first yacht, you aren't invited," I say, referencing the people I'm making a bunch of money off of, in this scenario.
Anyway, I would probably still invite them.
I'd have good news and bad news; the good news is, they'd still live long and happy lives. The bad news is, they'd be living them WITHOUT DIS YACHT.
FULL CIRCLE, ALL RIGHT
sexy books for science, Toni Morrison for a girl
Tuesday. 12.23.14 4:43 am
Okay, first of all, acknowledging my commenters on the last entry: That was not an easy entry to comment on (or write, to be honest), and I really appreciate that you did. Thank you.
Second of all, PART OF AN ACTUAL ENTRY!
I read at a statistically above-average speed, which, essentially, makes me hella stupid when I'm sitting here at midnight with a brand new, 140K word book.
I had to finish it, though, because books. So here I am, having met my personal time limit with a twenty-minute remainder, and I decided it wouldn't hurt to put fifteen to good use talking about it here.
This is the second night I've pulled this trick, and probably the second morning I will feel a slight tinge of regret in pulling it. Even more unfortunate is the fact that there are still two more books in the series, and I'd say I'm unwaveringly bent on finishing them before Christmas. They're totally about sex, by the way, and I'm totally not going to apologize for that, because someone had to fact check Mara Wilson's assertion that they should be the standard, rather than Fifty Shades of Grey (a book I will, at some point, have to read in order to make comparison and argue for her kickass alternative--ugh). She made a direct suggestion, and I respect that enough to check them out, for science. Also, it totally freaks me out that women are reading literature that could potentially warp their view of healthy and consensual sex, so, like...
The plot is soap-opera-y...to an extent. I don't know what I expected, there, to be honest, because reading this sort of book is new to me. I didn't expect the writing to make me laugh, in places, because the author actually meant to be funny, so that was a great surprise. And holy guac in a shake, it was so deeply feminist and such a healthy portrayal of a sexual relationship, I can't complain about the plot being a little extreme, especially considering that it's fiction, and whatever. The writing is actually pretty sublime, even though some characters can be a little one-dimensional. Even there, I'm nitpicking (this is a phrase I never used before this break, during which I've been watching Food Network nonstop. One judge on Kitchen Inferno uses it, and I love it, so I have made it mine). I also may have cried and hugged my laptop upon realizing that the author canonically establishes that many main characters aren't straight (in a way where it's just conversational, like, "Oh, she kinda just likes whoever and doesn't worry about it," then the narrative goes back to concentrating on the main discussion, whatever that may be), and she even tackles body issues in a way that doesn't ignore fatness, and doesn't ignore high fashion stigma. Oh, and whipped cream on top of a sundae: It tackles cancer and doesn't try to pretty it up or make like everyone says the right thing and has the right answer, 100% of the time.
All in all...it represents women and queer individuals better than 99% of anything I've read otherwise (barring nonfiction from this estimation, because you know my library is stacked with lit on gender roles, feminism, etc., and that would just make it unfair). It's balanced, it's well-paced, and I would read it totally without the sexy parts, if they weren't clearly integral to the narrative.
As someone who has powered through some of the "most philosophical/" "most enlightened/" whatever novels of all time, I can say this without feeling like a total bon-bon munching, chihuahua-owning, celebrity-pining housewife: not bad books at all. Probably more along the lines of what I needed to be reading, really, despite my current romantic interest suggesting My Stroke of Insight (nonfiction, by a neuroanatomist who experienced a stroke and was lucky enough to live through, to be able to later analyse her experience through a scientific scope--right up my alley, and would look great wedged between my neuroanatomy coloring book and my unnaturally-large collection of Psychology Today magazines--habits die hard, and loving psychology is a very old habit) and something by Toni Morrison (whose writing, by the way, I do not naturally have a taste for. Let me be clear that I am reading this solely because I like this girl).
All things considered, not a waste of four and a half hours.
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