I’ve decided to go through my MySpace and write stories about the pictures and other nonsense I find.
Last month I was working a marketing booth and the booth next to us was a lady who wrote and self published love novels. We chatted briefly before the event and she told me the books are basically sexual exploits from her wild and crazy 20’s. Throughout the night I kept staring at her thinking, you? I couldn’t wrap my mind around it. She seemed to homely, to vanilla, to…old. At times I feel the same way about looking back at some of my pictures and remembering the insanity that went along with them. They’re a relic from another time of another person. Not this person who is married and sits at home watching TV with her dog. I dread the day I recap these stories to a younger person and they feel this way about me. Her? She did those things?
Mortality is a strange thing.
Anyways, here we go.
Another from the notebook:
While rummaging through my organizer I find this! An old, handsome journal no doubt from the days of a higher disposible income or being bankrolled by the rents. Hard cover, a color green that looks like a lime that has seen better days but in a good way. Less than half used only to be prematurely retired. True to form writing has always been in and out of my life.
I figured I’d just pick up where I left off. Why rid yourself of the past! Thumbing through the pages a poem catches my eye. If I were reading this aloud there would be a long. Dramatic. Pause to let the magnitude of the word “poem” set in across the audience. I am not someone who writes pomes. My memory had completely blacked out this portion of my writing endeavors like a night after steel reserve.
A few pages deep and one thing became exceedingly clear. I would not be picking up where I left off. These pages had to go. I had to destroy any evidence of this ever having occurred.
From the other room I hear my husband ask what I’m doing. “Nothing!” I sing, why are you so nosy? I became frantic, foot steps coming my way, feverishly ripping out pages to cover my tracks.
My teenage years flash before my eyes. The crushing broken hearts, the antagonizing parental resentments, and that certainty Billy Corgan was singing solely to me. All those raw feelings makes one feel naked and silly under the scrutiny of adult eyes now dulled by a life lived. Panic sets in as I envision my husband reading this sad-sack Radiohead infused confessions from my teenage self.
Because there is a higher power, I am able to rip out the last few pages and regain calm before he enters the room.
and that is how I begin this writing project - full fucking circle. Let the outpour begin.
Hannibal Buress Performs Standup - YouTube -
I founds this in my brainstorming notebook from awhile back:
Went to Winter Ale Festival with my family over the weekend, which is always a shit show. As soon as I walked in a 40 year old man asked me if he looked like Justin Bieber. When I said no he was undeterred, and followed this up with “Well, what about Mark Wahlberg?”. I politely excused myself from the exchange but you can say that this set the tone for the rest of the night.
It’s a traditions at these Ale Festivals that people collectively “Woooo”. It starts off, as these things do, as a single cheer that erupts into a roar across the festival. My father, a few drinks in at this point partnered with some 20 somethings to get these going. It’s amazing to experience parents as an adult.
Later - I was in line at the porta potties, which is a horribly degrading thing to do when you’re not drunk. Even more agitating is when a plastered girl barrels past you and steps into the newly opened stall. After stepping in, she seemed to come to her senses. She looks up at me and says “Oh, I’m sorry. Here you go”. With restored faith in humanity, I stepped into the port potty to find that someone had projectile vomited on seemingly every square inch of the plastic bathroom. A seasoned drinker, I can forgive this. I’ve been there. The real disgust here does to the drunken fool who tried to disguise herself as a martyr instead of a cold hearted bitch. Not even a warning.
There are sociopaths among us.
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