Tuesday, April 30, 2002

Five Reasons Why I Should Curse my Mother's Womb:

1. Had to pry open the chest of a pigeon today and identify its heart, spleen, kidney, and all that other gray matter that looks like overcooked hamburger helper.

2. Had to pry open the chest of a pigeon today as my nose dripped yellow funk because of my cold, and I could do nothing but wipe away at it with my sleeve since my gloved hands were soaked in formaldehyde and pigeon intestine.

3. A Greek family friend of mine caught me reading Sex Between Men, a new book I bought today for three bucks which has a provocative photo of two nude men with coy faces hiding each other's genitalia.

4. On a binge, I ate a loaf of French bread to myself because (a) I felt like it, (b) I felt like it, and (c) I felt like it.

5. It's 1 am and I have yet to begin studying for a Chem exam tomorrow.

Besides the abovementioned technicalities in my life, everything's peachy.

Monday, April 29, 2002

Nothing's Gonna Change My World

From watching the sun rise from my suite balcony overlooking the San Francisco bay to finding out I was accepted to UCLA on the phone while crossing the Bay Bridge, there's not much more I could have asked for this weekend save for a tan, beautiful pecs, and, perhaps, someone to love.

The trip up north, tho long, had its moments. I was fortunate enough to be seated next to a long haired Classic Rock buff who took the liberty of bringing along his guitar and serenading us with all the Rolling Stones hits one could ask for. After a brief detour into Nortre Dame de something, a horrible school with, I believe, only ONE minority among its 1300-something student body, we found ourselves in Berkeley which instantly stole my heart and locked it away in a letterbox somewhere. I could easily picture myself in sandals, a 100% hemp backpack, a Timothy Leary book tucked underneath my arm strolling around the campus bitching about rampant consumerism and nuclear weaponry.

That night I saw the only woman with whom I can speak about my penis and her vagina with relative ease and comfort: Kirin! I could go into detail about how I drank too much, kissed a girl (shiver), and almost, were it not for Kirin's persuasive--almost scary--eyes as she said NO, accompanied some guy to his car for a few "party favors," but that would be too predictable of me, wouldn't it?

Rather, I want to confess something: I feel lost.

Well, not really lost but momentarily disoriented. For the past three years, as if I were in a comma, I've desperately been waiting for my life to begin. And now that it seems that my heart rate is beginning to rise and I'm coming to my senses, I find myself not knowing where I am or where it is I want to go. It's as if I were Tom Hanks in that god-awful movie Cast Away: stuck in a fork in the road with a past, tho painful and in need of being forgotten, nudging at your ankles like a found puppy you know you can't or shouldn't keep.

Half of me has its fanny pack on and is ready to tread through the terrain of my future, but the other half, the one that succumbs to late nights and nostalgic songs, is stubborn and refuses. It would rather sit there and unearth the relics of my life: the bestfriend who shattered my faith in friendships; the boyfriend who stole my faith in love; and the 18 year old me who let it all happen. It's natural, I've been told, to cling onto the past for whatever romantic reasons, but this is getting out of hand. My past is like a high school reputation or a bad rash I can't get rid of.

I don't think there will ever be a time when I will be able to come to terms with my past; I've accepted that. I just wish it would loosen it's grasp of me, even if it were only a hair's width. Sometimes I think that's all we really need: that extra breathing space that gives us perspective; that lets us know that even tho friends will always disappoint and that hearts were meant to be broken, life has a habit of working itself out.

Rationally, I understand and nod my head as I type this, but to quote Steel Magnolias, I just wish someone would explain it to my heart.

Thursday, April 25, 2002

I hate skinny people who eat as if they had the stomach capacity of Rosie O'Donnel, and I know this has been said before, but God do they get my panties in a wad.

I was having a moment with myself in the breakroom at work when I was disturbed by an emaciated looking Asian math tutor who proceeded to unravel and insane portion of lasagna which he heated in the microwave. "Oh, it must be pot luck day or something" I thought to myself and went about doing whatever it was that I was doing.
But then he sat down, the emaciated Asian math tutor, and, spoonful after greedy spoonful, ate his troth load of a lunch. And if that weren't enough, he reached into his bag and pulled out a burrito.

I don't understand it. I pass the day with protein smoothies, soy bars, and stomach cramps and yet it's ME that ends up looking like the perpetual heifer. And then, if THAT weren't enough, I was reading a book, How To Live with your Genes, which basically told me that you're screwed if you have the "fat gene." And let me tell you, I don't need no Human Genome to tell me I've had the luck of being born with the "fat gene."

Anyway. It's a Thursday night and it feels a little out of the ordinary to not be going out, to not be on the road somewhere already working on a rum and coke. But I've got bigger fish to fry: heading up to San Fran tomorrow morning. I've got some ruby slippers than need a'shining and dirty denim jeans that needs a'ironing. Yep, that's right, I'm coming out. And I want the world to know.

Monday, April 22, 2002

Well tie me up and plant leeches on my body!!!

I got my first acceptance letter from UCSB today.

Granted, Santa Barbara isn't a HIGHLY prestigious U.C, but seeing that this is the first acceptance letter I've EVER received, it was a pretty emotional experience. Though I don't intend on attending SB (still waiting on LA and Berkeley), it finally dawned on me that I will actually be leaving in a few months. Sure I have been planning on it for quite some while, but it had always been posited in the hypothetical. My plans of leaving and living freely are finally becoming actualized. Whether it be in Santa Barbara with herds of beautifully tanned surfers in highly revealing board shorts or LA or Berkeley, the almost delicious fact remains that I will be leaving.

It's times like these that can only be adequately summed up by either (a) interpretive dance, (b) wailing on a fender strat, or (c) profanity:

Fuck Yeah!

Friday, April 19, 2002

Call Me Young Duckling

The male of the species, excluding an elite portion of the homo population, is evil and should be destroyed, and let me tell you why.

I went to Tri City Park this afternoon thinking that I would have a serene and contemplative moment on a park bench by the manmade pond or lake or whatever it is you that you can call this very small body of water. So I was sitting there smoking and wishing that parents didn't bring their nosy and rock-throwing children to such places for entertainment (isn't that what Chuckycheese is for?), when I noticed a squadron of male ducks attempting to gang rape a defenseless female. At first, my interest was aroused. In a perverse way, I was actually looking forward to see each one copulate with the battered female one after the other. But then I detected these small brown figures frantically running around the female. I walked nearer for a closer looked and discovered that they were 5 to 6 young ducklings chirping for dear life. Then in the midst of the commotion, as one duck was straddling the female, a crow (or it could have been a raven) swooped down and snatched one of the ducklings by the neck, carried it a few feet away, and preceded to peck away at its frail, small body.

At this point, after having had an all too intimate view of the ways of the wild, Liberty, a die hard lesbian who can leap over boulders better than I, declared war on the male ducks, throwing rocks at them while yelling out, "You bastards!!!"

So it seems that it is always the case that, regardless of species, someone always gets hurt in the pursuit of some tail. What more can we do but look the other way, shift a branch that's poking at your ass, and conclude, "Hey, it's just nature"?

Thursday, April 18, 2002

I feel like Moufasa...dying

So I swore off mentioning asshole on this blog, but certain circumstances render me incapable of keeping to my word. In short, I was rejected---brutally rejected.

We had spent the entire day together in Newport beach, you know, wading around in the shallow water in khakis and white linen shirts, our shoes in our hands. And somehow, as if it were a fastforward into the future, we ended up in a dark corner in Oasis, drunk, fumbling, and kissing [insert applause and high five here].
But like a silent moment on Oprah (i.e., out of nowhere and unexpected), he pushed me away and gave me a I can't do this. And, being drunk, I pretended not to have heard and went on my merry way (i.e., hand still moving south of the belt border). But he insisted, and, quite honestly, it's hard enough trying to be smooth and romantic in a dark corner let alone having someone push your hand away. So I persisted: "What the hell's wrong?? What, the oasis palm tree theme not working for you? We could get a room--stay with me tonight."
But he would have none of it; he would call his friend--a drug feind no doubt--and have him pick him up. "It's not that...I just can't stay with you; I can't do this," he said. At this point he could have insulted Cher and burned a two-hundred dollar kenneth cole shirt in my presense; I was THAT furious.

I exchanged some words with him (ones which I would rather leave out because they make me, as they did the morning after, cringe) and, pretending as it there were a sea of men patiently holding their breaths to speak to me, walked away with the confidence of a blind man on a nude beach.

I'm fed up with boys; I'm done with them. Really, I am. Got a call from him this morning, but no, I won't do it. Not going there (shrugs head). At some point, when you've already given rationality and reason a go, you ultimatley have two resort to only two words the encompass both the literal and metaphoric actions ones must take:

Fuck it!

Tuesday, April 16, 2002

Eraseable pens defeat my purpose

Oh wow. How embarrassing. So I downloaded that last skin before that picture of the Asian girl clutching that pink pencil for dear life decided to load up on my screen. Not that I personally have anything against little Asian girls or pink pencils for that matter, I just don't see the connection between that and my all too often 9 Inches of Heaven post titles. I like this one, but the title of it, I felt, was a little abrasive: "Sandwiched Elephant".

Ok, who's been spreading rumors?

New Skin

So I changed my blog template again...
I'm just incredibly bored with myself at the moment, and I guess changing my template every other week beats getting a crazy hair dew, doing drugs, or calling up certain people in the middle of the night. right?

I don't know if I quite like it yet. I can't seem to figure out how to get rid of this Teddy character's personal information (see upper right corner). Any tips?

I was gonna write another longwinded love poem and add it to the love poems for no one in particular file, but, quite honestly, they make me feel sorta lame. I could understand if I was writing some novel and I gave birth to some great Russian love story, but when the "you" in a poem refers to absolutely no one, you can't help but feel a little psychotic.

My goal for next weekend is to find some fool willing to take me out on a dinner date. Not an Applebees and a movie date but a "let's wear a button down shirt and roll up the sleeves while we eat good Italian food and sip wine" kinda date...
You never know, more surprising things have happened. Like fat-free mayonnaise.

Sunday, April 14, 2002

Careless Whisper

Sometimes, when you've had one too many tequila shots and just finished spilling out your guts to someone and only getting a "I didn't know you still felt that way" response (not the right response), you can't help but crying into your 6 foot something friend's chest, wishing that you would somehow disappear into it...

And sometimes, when you're driving on the 10 West doing 90 something with all four windows down cause someone puked all over your passenger seat, you can't help but sink down into your seat, rest your head on your left arm, and mouth the lyrics, so I'm never gonna dance again, the way I danced with you...

Cause sometimes there's only so much intensity, that want to give yourself fully, that can build up within a person before it starts spilling out song after silly song...

Wednesday, April 10, 2002

Anal Probe Anyone?

Been up since six yet am incredibly hyper...
I looked at my aimster downloads today and noticed that I didn't have enough George Michael. So, for the past hour or so, I've been downloading George Michael's entire musical career. Most of the songs have that all too 80's saxophone solo in the background that just makes me feel like rolling up my checkered pants and doing a hand stand.

So I guess I'm renovating myself: threw a few old shirts away today and promised to no longer eat fried foods. I'm also considering interning at the local Psychiatric clinic that houses over 120 schizophrenics and bipolar wannabe Van Goghs. Sounds like fun.

But before I go, I've got a beef with songwriters: How come there hasn't been an Oh I Love You Angelo song ever? They got songs for all the Michele's, Alison's, Lucy's, and Daniel's in the world, but what about me? I guess I'll just have to live without having the man of my dreams call up the radio and dedicate a song with my name it for me, as I hug the speaker for dear life and think about all those poor suckers with names like Anaconda and Willis...

Tuesday, April 09, 2002

Enough with the Sappiness!!

Ok, so I admit it: I've been sounding like a helpless thirteen year old girl dealing with her parent's divorce...but it all ends here! After having Kirin feed me "But you're SO beautiful and SO much better than that" lines for an hour, I've finally decided to turn a new leaf or throw on a new turtleneck, or whatever it is you do to signify the end of something and initiate new beginnings---get a perm?

There will be no more Garrett mentioning in this blog from here on out, and that includes "asshole", "fuckface", "crayola poster child", or any other adjective resembling those. Even if my face turns purple and my fingers itch to write about crows and the way I feel when a hand slithers down my back, I will somehow restrain myself. Yes, Celine, I see the light in the dark too...

But in other news, my body is a wreck. Saturday I was on a bio fieldtrip rummaging through the Laguna tide pools searching for sea hares and seastars. While attempting to leap from one slippery wet rock to another, my Diesel sandals, tho not equipped with great traction complimented my rolled up faded jeans quite nicely, gave way thus sending me ass first into the water and with a purple sea urchin stuck to my hand. On the ride back, Shannon, an altogether sweet girl, helped me tweeze the purple spines out of my bleeding skin and pretended not to notice everytime I shrieked like a girl...

Also, went to Joshua Tree...AGAIN. This time John, who had an eeiiouuu! for every living thing that moved or didn't, came along. Maybe I was trying to unearth my butch side, but I attempted one too many Spider Man-esque maneuvers when climbing and my back is killing me now. But the killer was when a guy, who was accompanied by a sickly looking bottom wearing a Gay City shirt, asked: "Hey, you from Seattle?" Of course I said no and asked why: "You look like you're from Seattle." WTF?!? Was there a granola bar protruding from out my asshole or something?

Well...sigh...I did it! No Garrett mentionings...well, beside that one. But as my momma always says, one day at a time. That and My funeral invitations will read No Faggots Allowed, so take a good look at me now.

Saturday, April 06, 2002

In Limbo

I watched a crow chase another crow in mid-flight today for an entire half hour as I sat in a shady spot on campus trying to read, of all things, a book on the Dalai Lama. Since my biology class has not specifically covered the behavior of crows, I did not know whether the attacking crow was (a) marking its territory, (b) initiating a friendly game of Peck and Fly, or (c) attempting to mate with crow 2, each Kaahh a reason for why the timid female should enter into his nest. And since I was in an overly romantic mood, I opted for reason (c) and concluded that this was evidence that beasts, too, need someone to spend cloudy Thursdays with.

So I sat there, trying to look philosophical with a cigarette hanging from my lip, and felt envious of the pursued crow. What the hell was she flying away for? I don't know how it works in the fowl dating world, but it's not every day that you get an aggressive male who wants to share a sunflower seed with you in my world. And, in a way, I guess that's what I'm looking for: someone who will corner me on some telephone wire and say, whether you like it or not, you're mine.

Being the initiator, the predator, the one who finds, doesn't seem to appeal to me. I find the responsibility too much. I never know when to move in for the kill, what to say. There's something about consciously pursuing someone that feels foreign to me. I'd rather be like a pearl or a rare collectible baseball card: that which is found.

So I slept in Garrett's arms tonight and pretended to be that crow who, after being given a few shiny gum wrappers as a gift, finally gave in to temptation. How could I possibly resist the opportunity of feeling wanted, of feeling won-over? Like a beautiful maiden with red hair in an Arthurian tale, how could I not shiver at the thought of her knight slaying fire-breath serpents, pestering white-haired sorcerers, or anything else that got in the way of his love for her?

But around eleven, and as I began to sober up, I found myself not in a stonewalled castle but a nearly empty room with nothing but a Nascar poster decorating the bare walls. I was no maiden in Ireland coming her long, lustrous hair as she waited for the sound of her lover's galloping horse from the window. This was no adamant crow with puffed up feathers, promising me a life of love and earthworms, sleeping next to me. But I closed my eyes and, as if referring to an alarm clock, thought five more minutes.

Like a paralyzed man who walks in his dreams, why would I ever want to wake up?

Tuesday, April 02, 2002

Once my Flame and Twice my Burn

Even tho in The Mexican Julia Roberts said it's never the case, I sometimes feel like a schmuck you never knows when enough really is enough. Like a surfer who after being attacked twice by a shark insists on hanging ten every Sunday, my instincts for emotional self-preservation are seriously underdeveloped.

With that in mind, I helped Garrett move out of his apartment in Hollywood and back into his parent's home in Covina tonight. During the ride he used images of things slipping away to describe to me how he felt as if he had lost everything in his life, and that he appreciated how I had not abandoned him even after everything he had put me through. I was to thank for this sudden inclination for him to change his life, he said. Everything I told him in the midst of my fury that one night he dragged me along to his drug den made him realize how he had lost perspective of things.

Garrett: I've hit rock bottom, Angelo. I've hurt and lost the ones who have every meant something to me. I don't know who I am anymore. I don't like the way I am...

And even tho it was heartwrenching to see him in such a mess, I couldn't help but feeling as if I was beginning to position myself flat on the floor again, ready to be used as a doormat. Why is it that only after he's lost everything do I become appreciated and apologized to? Why is my worth only acknowledged when I'm helping him lug loads of laundry back to his house? Why is the only time he's ever said I love you and given me an honest and sweet kiss on the cheek the time when I'm consoling him over his situation?

But what do you do with those people who you once let have a piece of you, even though they decided to chew on you like a fresh stick of gum, discarding you after the taste, the excitement, was gone? Can you really say, "You've done me wrong, now go before I call my uncle Rocky who has a reputation of breaking people's legs"? What do you do when the man you've been waiting for a year to realize that what was offered to him was real and genuine, finally turns around and does just that?

I can see myself easily falling into that comfort zone where he becomes the center of my attention, and I wait, like ice skates in the garage during winter, waiting for his attention.

I just really don't want to end up like Fiona Apple, wailing on some piano how I don't go to sleep to dream...