Hey! It's time for an update. On my life. How very exciting.
I've been hanging out with Maritza quite a bit. That's not her name, but it's close enough. I figure she might want some confidentiality. I don't know what she wants sometimes. Anyway, I met her in 1998. I was 15. She was 17. This was right after I had my nervous breakdown and stopped eating and going to school. My parents dragged me to the psychiatric ward at Miami Children's Hospital because I wouldn't snap out of my comatose state. It really wasn't so bad at the hospital. I mean, the first couple of days were really bad because I wasn't participating, and if you don't participate, you go in solitary. Yes, solitary. Confinement. Just like in Oz! There was flourescent lighting that never went off in a little square room with white walls and a bare mattress on the floor. I think the inmates at Oz actually have it nicer. Plus, Beecher and Keller look really hot when they kiss. But when they let me out of "the hole," my roommate Maritza told me to snap out of it and to jump through the hoops, and I'll be out of there in two weeks. And I was.
Mostly, during my stay, I felt guilty. Maritza had spent her childhood in an abusive household and was bouncing around from foster home to foster home until she finally was adopted by a nice pair of lesbians. Then there was another girl -- I forget her name -- she was my age. Her baby was just taken away from her, and she was in between foster homes at the time. Then again, I'm totally violating this asshole's confidentiality, but I don't care -- Robin John Gibb was there. I went to middle school with him. He's a son of a Bee Gee. I'm not sure if his father just died. Anyhow, he's a lot more well off than I am, and his father was really nice, and he went around getting into fights and endangering his life anyway. So. I wasn't the most well off kid there.
I jumped through the hoops. I went to group therapy. I smiled and nodded. I responded to the meds they had me on. I did a little dance and said YES TO LIFE. I got up early in the morning and watched Sailor Moon with Melanie, another girl I had befriended. Melanie, Maritza, myself, and this bipolar dude named John who lived in a trailer and was really fucking cute -- we were friends, and we're still in contact. He had violent outbursts sometimes, and I recall him getting shot in the thigh with horse tranquilizers and thrown in solitary. He had a mohawk. I had a crush on him, but I knew he was bat-shit crazy. Well, crazier than I am. He chased after his dad with a shotgun. I mean, come on.
During the night, when the staff during the night shift stopped checking on us, and they were certain we were sleeping or had fallen asleep themselves, Maritza and I had our fun.
Maritza was really smart. She had graduated from high school early, and she was on leave from college. Her mommies had sent her to Berklee College of Music because she was a really good musician. Her biological family was really well off, but they were fucked up, too. Before she got out of that mess of a house, she had been trained to be a little Paganini. She can play anything with strings. She was on leave because she had attempted suicide. She came home, and her moms sent her to the same place my parents sent me.
We've been in a really weird relationship ever since. I sometimes feel completely inadequate and unworthy around her, and when I ask her why she likes me, she calls me stupid. But in a nice way. Our relationship obviously isn't exclusive. Sometimes we go months without seeing each other. She's a successful musician now. She works for Sony in the studios down here in Miami and plays whatever instruments their artists need her to play. Sometimes she's requested. She does string arrangements, too. Meanwhile, I'm an idiot child walking around like a zombie at the University of Miami. I'm not completely sure what I want to do, but I'm leaning toward an MSW and a life as a clinical social worker.
We went out on Saturday. It felt like a date. I still don't know how she feels about me, if she loves me, or if she just likes being with me, or what. Sometimes I think I love her. We watched Confessions of a Dangerous Mind in one of those snazzy theaters with the love seats. We cuddled. We watched the movie. We made out during the scenes with Horsetooth Magillicutty because Julia Roberts really bores us, and we weren't interested in watching her "act." Then we went to her apartment, and I spent the night. We've been together for about six years. Sometimes I have stupid girly- girl dreams where we're married and living in Vermont. I might has well write "M + L 4 EVA!!" on my Trapper Keeper. But I don't have a Trapper Keeper. Ha. Other times I think she is intentionally trying to break my heart.
Enough of that. No more plaintive wailing.
On a less maudlin note, I get parking lot rage. I follow around a person who walks to their car, I ask if s/he's leaving, and if s/he is, I follow this person and stop my car at a reasonable distance so this person can leave and give me their space. I put on my turn signal so the suckers who don't have a parking space will not steal mine. This happened to me once. During freshman year, some fuckstain came around the other way and waited for the guy to pull out and took the space anyway even though the dude clearly pointed at me and shouted that he's giving me his parking space because I waited for him. Yes, I yelled at that fucknut. Yes, curse words were used. Now, if someone tries to take my parking space, I gesticulate wildly and inaudibly curse and splutter and say stupid things like, "THIS IS MY PARKING SPACE, BITCH, GETCHYER OWN." On my windows are rolled up, and my radio's on, so they can't hear me. This only happens on campus.
I drive a lot, too. From school to my house. Without traffic, it's a fifteen minute drive. But that practically never happens. It's usually more like a half-hour to 45 minute drive depending on whether the dicksmack legislators of Miami-Dade decide to work on US1 and close off a lane and fuck up traffic for miles. Well, at least I can watch other cars. I recently saw a car with a "Feynman Lives!" bumper sticker. That made me happy. When I was maybe 11 or 12, I read Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! and What Do You Care What Other People Think? I briefly wanted to be a physicist, but then I remembered that I'm crap at maths and advanced sciences. I can do psychopharmacology and psychobiology and biology and chemistry and biochemistry and all that stuff, but my brain makes a little fwoop sound as it leaks out my ears when I try to understand much of physics. I'm stupid like that sometimes.
I made a silly CD Mix for the swap. I shipped them out today. Here is the track list:
Run D.M.C. - Together Forever
David Cross - Sex on the Internet
Dead Milkmen - I dream of Jesus
Johnny Cash - Boy Named Sue (uncensored)
They Might Be Giants - Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
Shel Silverstein - It Does Not Pay to be Hip
Jad Fair and Daniel Johnston - Casper the Friendly Ghost
Wesley Willis - Rock 'n Roll McDonald's
The Ramones - Rock and Roll High School
Atom and his Package - Punk Rock Academy
Sifl & Olly - Trying Out for Menudo
El Vez - Graciasland
David Candy - Listen to the Music
Tullycraft - Pop Songs Your New Boyfriend's Too Stupid to Know About
Anal Cunt - 311 Sucks
The Halo Benders - Don't Touch My Bikini
Les Sans Culottes- Balzac 7502
Bertrand Burgalat - Sunshine Yellow
Death By Chocolate - Ice Cold Lemonade
Three Berry Ice Cream - K-L-M Line
Papas Fritas - Hey Hey You Say
P.E.E. - I Hate All Vegetables
Shonen Knife - Do the Bartman
The Moldy Peaches - Who's Got the Crack?
Ren and Stimpy - Happy Happy Joy Joy
I hope the people who receive my gift of joy will enJOY it. DARE TO DREAM. I really want a tee shirt or a hat for my birthday that says DARE TO DREAM. If I get that and nothing else for my birthday, I will be happy.
Yesterday, my brother left to go back to Oberlin. Later that evening, I TiVo'd Alias and Oz so I could watch Groundhog's Day with my dad. That's "our movie." My mom thinks it's a really stupid movie. It is, but Bill Murray is funny and cracks our shit up.
I later watched Alias because that is the best show on network TV, and if it gets cancelled, I will surely cry. They've been doing a lot of stunt casting lately. I was trying to figure out if there's any method to the madness that is their stunt casting, and then my paranoid brain figured it out: they're casting all my former 12-year-old stupid girl crushes. Recently, there was a three episode run with Faye Dunaway. I used to have a big crush on her. She was a great actress. Now her face has been Botoxed to hell, and she can't move her upper lip. She sounds like she always sounds, but if you try talking like Faye Dunaway without moving your upper lip? Yeah, that's how she sounded. Last night they had Ethan Hawke on. He has the same forehead wrinkles that Michael Vartan has. When they were in the same scenes, it was like a BATTLE OF THE FOREHEAD WRINKLES. I think Vartan won because he's so pretty. Also, he doesn't pretend that he can write books. Dear Mr. Hawke, if I was trapped on a desert island, and I only had your crappy books to read, I would use the pages from your books as kindling in my bonfire. It would make a good smoke signal. Ooh! Next week they're going to have Christian Slater! YEAH! I fucking loved Heathers. They played that movie a million times on Comedy Central when I was an adolescent, and I fucking fell in love with him. My brother gave me a limited edition Heathers DVD for my birthday once. It comes with a "yearbook" and a ruler in a cute little pencil tin. I love it. And now this is just conjecturing, but I think in a couple of weeks they're going to cast Morrissey as a special agent of the FDA or something. MEAT IS BAD.
Ooh. I still have to watch Oz. I hope Keller and Beecher kiss some more. And I hope there is a minimal amount of bodily fluids shown. Please.
Thank you.
If you actually read all of this doggerel, um... I commend you? If you enjoyed it, I thank you, and I also suggest you check yourself into a hospital.
I've been hanging out with Maritza quite a bit. That's not her name, but it's close enough. I figure she might want some confidentiality. I don't know what she wants sometimes. Anyway, I met her in 1998. I was 15. She was 17. This was right after I had my nervous breakdown and stopped eating and going to school. My parents dragged me to the psychiatric ward at Miami Children's Hospital because I wouldn't snap out of my comatose state. It really wasn't so bad at the hospital. I mean, the first couple of days were really bad because I wasn't participating, and if you don't participate, you go in solitary. Yes, solitary. Confinement. Just like in Oz! There was flourescent lighting that never went off in a little square room with white walls and a bare mattress on the floor. I think the inmates at Oz actually have it nicer. Plus, Beecher and Keller look really hot when they kiss. But when they let me out of "the hole," my roommate Maritza told me to snap out of it and to jump through the hoops, and I'll be out of there in two weeks. And I was.
Mostly, during my stay, I felt guilty. Maritza had spent her childhood in an abusive household and was bouncing around from foster home to foster home until she finally was adopted by a nice pair of lesbians. Then there was another girl -- I forget her name -- she was my age. Her baby was just taken away from her, and she was in between foster homes at the time. Then again, I'm totally violating this asshole's confidentiality, but I don't care -- Robin John Gibb was there. I went to middle school with him. He's a son of a Bee Gee. I'm not sure if his father just died. Anyhow, he's a lot more well off than I am, and his father was really nice, and he went around getting into fights and endangering his life anyway. So. I wasn't the most well off kid there.
I jumped through the hoops. I went to group therapy. I smiled and nodded. I responded to the meds they had me on. I did a little dance and said YES TO LIFE. I got up early in the morning and watched Sailor Moon with Melanie, another girl I had befriended. Melanie, Maritza, myself, and this bipolar dude named John who lived in a trailer and was really fucking cute -- we were friends, and we're still in contact. He had violent outbursts sometimes, and I recall him getting shot in the thigh with horse tranquilizers and thrown in solitary. He had a mohawk. I had a crush on him, but I knew he was bat-shit crazy. Well, crazier than I am. He chased after his dad with a shotgun. I mean, come on.
During the night, when the staff during the night shift stopped checking on us, and they were certain we were sleeping or had fallen asleep themselves, Maritza and I had our fun.
Maritza was really smart. She had graduated from high school early, and she was on leave from college. Her mommies had sent her to Berklee College of Music because she was a really good musician. Her biological family was really well off, but they were fucked up, too. Before she got out of that mess of a house, she had been trained to be a little Paganini. She can play anything with strings. She was on leave because she had attempted suicide. She came home, and her moms sent her to the same place my parents sent me.
We've been in a really weird relationship ever since. I sometimes feel completely inadequate and unworthy around her, and when I ask her why she likes me, she calls me stupid. But in a nice way. Our relationship obviously isn't exclusive. Sometimes we go months without seeing each other. She's a successful musician now. She works for Sony in the studios down here in Miami and plays whatever instruments their artists need her to play. Sometimes she's requested. She does string arrangements, too. Meanwhile, I'm an idiot child walking around like a zombie at the University of Miami. I'm not completely sure what I want to do, but I'm leaning toward an MSW and a life as a clinical social worker.
We went out on Saturday. It felt like a date. I still don't know how she feels about me, if she loves me, or if she just likes being with me, or what. Sometimes I think I love her. We watched Confessions of a Dangerous Mind in one of those snazzy theaters with the love seats. We cuddled. We watched the movie. We made out during the scenes with Horsetooth Magillicutty because Julia Roberts really bores us, and we weren't interested in watching her "act." Then we went to her apartment, and I spent the night. We've been together for about six years. Sometimes I have stupid girly- girl dreams where we're married and living in Vermont. I might has well write "M + L 4 EVA!!" on my Trapper Keeper. But I don't have a Trapper Keeper. Ha. Other times I think she is intentionally trying to break my heart.
Enough of that. No more plaintive wailing.
On a less maudlin note, I get parking lot rage. I follow around a person who walks to their car, I ask if s/he's leaving, and if s/he is, I follow this person and stop my car at a reasonable distance so this person can leave and give me their space. I put on my turn signal so the suckers who don't have a parking space will not steal mine. This happened to me once. During freshman year, some fuckstain came around the other way and waited for the guy to pull out and took the space anyway even though the dude clearly pointed at me and shouted that he's giving me his parking space because I waited for him. Yes, I yelled at that fucknut. Yes, curse words were used. Now, if someone tries to take my parking space, I gesticulate wildly and inaudibly curse and splutter and say stupid things like, "THIS IS MY PARKING SPACE, BITCH, GETCHYER OWN." On my windows are rolled up, and my radio's on, so they can't hear me. This only happens on campus.
I drive a lot, too. From school to my house. Without traffic, it's a fifteen minute drive. But that practically never happens. It's usually more like a half-hour to 45 minute drive depending on whether the dicksmack legislators of Miami-Dade decide to work on US1 and close off a lane and fuck up traffic for miles. Well, at least I can watch other cars. I recently saw a car with a "Feynman Lives!" bumper sticker. That made me happy. When I was maybe 11 or 12, I read Surely You're Joking, Mr. Feynman! and What Do You Care What Other People Think? I briefly wanted to be a physicist, but then I remembered that I'm crap at maths and advanced sciences. I can do psychopharmacology and psychobiology and biology and chemistry and biochemistry and all that stuff, but my brain makes a little fwoop sound as it leaks out my ears when I try to understand much of physics. I'm stupid like that sometimes.
I made a silly CD Mix for the swap. I shipped them out today. Here is the track list:
Run D.M.C. - Together Forever
David Cross - Sex on the Internet
Dead Milkmen - I dream of Jesus
Johnny Cash - Boy Named Sue (uncensored)
They Might Be Giants - Istanbul (Not Constantinople)
Shel Silverstein - It Does Not Pay to be Hip
Jad Fair and Daniel Johnston - Casper the Friendly Ghost
Wesley Willis - Rock 'n Roll McDonald's
The Ramones - Rock and Roll High School
Atom and his Package - Punk Rock Academy
Sifl & Olly - Trying Out for Menudo
El Vez - Graciasland
David Candy - Listen to the Music
Tullycraft - Pop Songs Your New Boyfriend's Too Stupid to Know About
Anal Cunt - 311 Sucks
The Halo Benders - Don't Touch My Bikini
Les Sans Culottes- Balzac 7502
Bertrand Burgalat - Sunshine Yellow
Death By Chocolate - Ice Cold Lemonade
Three Berry Ice Cream - K-L-M Line
Papas Fritas - Hey Hey You Say
P.E.E. - I Hate All Vegetables
Shonen Knife - Do the Bartman
The Moldy Peaches - Who's Got the Crack?
Ren and Stimpy - Happy Happy Joy Joy
I hope the people who receive my gift of joy will enJOY it. DARE TO DREAM. I really want a tee shirt or a hat for my birthday that says DARE TO DREAM. If I get that and nothing else for my birthday, I will be happy.
Yesterday, my brother left to go back to Oberlin. Later that evening, I TiVo'd Alias and Oz so I could watch Groundhog's Day with my dad. That's "our movie." My mom thinks it's a really stupid movie. It is, but Bill Murray is funny and cracks our shit up.
I later watched Alias because that is the best show on network TV, and if it gets cancelled, I will surely cry. They've been doing a lot of stunt casting lately. I was trying to figure out if there's any method to the madness that is their stunt casting, and then my paranoid brain figured it out: they're casting all my former 12-year-old stupid girl crushes. Recently, there was a three episode run with Faye Dunaway. I used to have a big crush on her. She was a great actress. Now her face has been Botoxed to hell, and she can't move her upper lip. She sounds like she always sounds, but if you try talking like Faye Dunaway without moving your upper lip? Yeah, that's how she sounded. Last night they had Ethan Hawke on. He has the same forehead wrinkles that Michael Vartan has. When they were in the same scenes, it was like a BATTLE OF THE FOREHEAD WRINKLES. I think Vartan won because he's so pretty. Also, he doesn't pretend that he can write books. Dear Mr. Hawke, if I was trapped on a desert island, and I only had your crappy books to read, I would use the pages from your books as kindling in my bonfire. It would make a good smoke signal. Ooh! Next week they're going to have Christian Slater! YEAH! I fucking loved Heathers. They played that movie a million times on Comedy Central when I was an adolescent, and I fucking fell in love with him. My brother gave me a limited edition Heathers DVD for my birthday once. It comes with a "yearbook" and a ruler in a cute little pencil tin. I love it. And now this is just conjecturing, but I think in a couple of weeks they're going to cast Morrissey as a special agent of the FDA or something. MEAT IS BAD.
Ooh. I still have to watch Oz. I hope Keller and Beecher kiss some more. And I hope there is a minimal amount of bodily fluids shown. Please.
Thank you.
If you actually read all of this doggerel, um... I commend you? If you enjoyed it, I thank you, and I also suggest you check yourself into a hospital.
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I generally do not translate well to text. I'm a much more dynamic face to face speaker, if a tad hyper talkative.