Tuesday, October 31, 2006

Happy Halloween

Findagrave.com has the somewhat peculiar feature of allowing you to rate a dead celebrity's famousness on a scale from one to five. I'm not entirely sure what the point of this is, but of course that didn't stop me from giving George Eliot five stars.

Did you notice how haunted the moon looked tonight?

Sunday, October 29, 2006

Triptych

An entry in which I vaguely allude to yet another instance of being made to feel demoralized and embarrassed:


version 1: there is only enough time in the any given day to do everything that needs to be done as halfhearted and half-assed as possible.

version 2: on second thought, fuck off.

version 3: these emotions are like rabbit holes. Do you know what I mean?

There are days when even the excessive amounts of caffeine, the countdown to winter, and the words of comfort from people who care aren't quite enough. There are days that feel inconsolable, they threaten to devour everything in their path. It seems like the people who often end up making me feel like a bad human being aren't the people who really have a right to even make me feel like this to begin with, so why do I let this shit bother me?

Oh: because these comments have a way of tapping into that ever-present fear of being a disappointment.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Things That Suck And Blow

That new Justin Timberlake video was on my little brother's TV when I left to do laundry. When I returned, the video was starting over. So I'm assuming my complex's laundry room is some kind of space-time vortex similar to a blackhole but with directly inverse properties.

There can't be any other explanation.

Robert U. Terwilliger (I Almost Forgot To Mention It)

Yesterday at work I sold a book to a man with the same name as Sideshow Bob and I was all holy shit, my head just exploded.

Just thought I'd mention it.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

Have A Nice Day.

Result of a misspelled Google search for The Sorrows of Young Werther:

Did you mean Sorrowful Weather?


So much time has been spent wishing for friendships that come to nothing. Do you know what I mean? Maybe once every few years or less, you meet someone and think to yourself that this person must be part of your life, you're not certain that you have the room or time but you want to try to find both, you want to offer them a space to snuggly fit into like a jigsaw piece, and you want them, of course, to accept it.

It hardly ever happens this way, as far as I can tell. I'm not sure how to convince such people to be my friend if they weren't already inclined to be, and I feel vaguely discouraged and overwhelmed when trying to think of the possible ways to try to make this happen, how to make myself more important to someone.

In the past few months I've tried to convey something like this, in so many mumbled words, to three different people I like very much. In the first instance the reply was a laugh and an indefinite promise "to have lunch sometime," which turned into a guarantee to be "cordial the next time we see each other, but that's as far as it's going to go." The second instance was strong and almost inpenetrable, an imperative need to meet, which is still up in the air. In the third instance, there was no reply.

Thursday is going to be good for me. A little bit of Long Beach goes a long way.

Saturday, October 21, 2006

Bob Ross? Bob Ross!

Where the hell is the The Joy of Painting? It's 7:30 in the morning on a Saturday and I'm 21 years old. Why the hell else would I be up right now, watching PBS? I expected to see a meek, white Christian with an afro telling me about happy little trees and secret squirrels. Instead, I've got Thomas the Tank Engine and his idiot friends perpetually going off the tracks. My heart is broken.

Saturday, October 14, 2006

(I) Wish (I) List

Sitting in my chair listening to a story on NPR about failed plans to create an elevator that can go in more directions than just up and down. Not entirely unlike the Wonkavator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the voice over says.

After work (2:30am) D and I headed to Ralph's to get some groceries because the real shopping doesn't fit into our schedules until the middle of next week (and also because Ralph's is conveniently open 24 hours). While I'm standing there staring at the frozen vegetables, two young men approach the items next to me. The tall man (slightly resembling Trent from MTV's Daria) says to the other that he wants a girlfriend and is considering asking for one for Christmas.

Before I smile I try to make sure that no one is looking.

Sunday, October 8, 2006

Thought For Food?

Hadn't thought about them in a long while, those conversations I used to have with M. We were always competing against one another for who could seem the more doomed for life. It's weird, to be 18 and talk so incessantly about being finished, over and done with, to claim that you won't ever have another relationship because who would ever notice you, anyway? It's even weirder to have this kind of conversation with someone who you are theoretically, abstractly, impossibly entangled with. I remember being alone again after a relationship that felt like a year long experiment, and M. had said something like See? You were wrong. You have a chance. We were always talking to each other like that. As if we were a pair of invalids or characters in a Beckett play instead of just a couple of lonely kids.

I guess there are weirder ways to spend your night after work, but reading these old teenaged notes and then systematically splicing them up into tiny, tiny pieces has to be one of the stranger pastimes. But when you accidentally find high school relics, what else can you really do with them? One set consisted of notes I had written back and forth to a girl who sat across from me in an English class. Another was from a friend who (in retrospect) seemed to write exclusively about potentially flattering hairstyles for herself and which boys found her attractive. The last set, the ones I actually spent time really rereading, were from the best, best friend who wrote of anything and everything, whose notes were hilarious and ridiculous and smart and affectionante and cruel. When I was younger I had always thought I would someday grow up nd have this really solid group of friends, a karass or something, but there have only ever been a couple of moments where it felt like this could happen, was happening, and then so quickly it'd fall apart, never for ordinary, manageable reasons, but because someone dropped out or had a breakdown or became a junkie or got pregnant.

It occurred to me today that I'm technically too old for this business, at this point, no one in their early 20s thinks this much about making or keeping or losing friends, do they? It seems like people are maybe more worried about finding partners, pairing off.

While I was in Berkeley I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what my problem was, how I could feel lonesome yet remain so ambivalent about meeting people, especially ones I'm technically supposed to have things in common with. Did I find these people boring, or was I worried that I maybe bored them? I spent most of my time with a girl whom I had a class with. She talked about Persian culture as if she were sort of madly in love with it; I liked the way she said my name.

Sometimes it is so easy to feel sorry for myself about it, to think about how much I really want a best girl friend, how much I really miss having one and how impossible it seems in this age and moment to find anything close to that. And then always, it strikes me: let's not get greedy.