I need to find something else to write about now.
This celebrity gossip, bubble-gum, “sweetie” laden text isn’t cutting it anymore.
No adult woman thinks like this.
And I don’t want to write for the ones that do.
Now… what next!
Category Archives: write
A Brush with Fame
My blog readership is up 50% for the month and I’ve hardly written anything. Strangers followed me on Twitter from reading my articles online somewhere. I was supposed to be training for a radio interview this week. Here’s the story:
An article I had written was reposted to a few sites, most noteworthy being Yahoo’s Shine. The amount of people reading my articles is more than the amount of people I have ever met, combined with the amount of people I have ever thought of or heard of. I can’t bring myself to say the number, for reasons below. It was exciting. Especially the Yahoo thing. That really hit me.
A Seattle radio morning show contacted the woman I freelance for, asking to interview me about the article. She was to start PR training with me.
Talk of being paid to edit for the site came up. Talk of being pushed forward to write content for larger sites, sites that have their articles published in USA Today and other large print publications came up.
Everything happened within a few days. A week. One week and it looked like everything was happening for me.
It was really scary. Everything happened so quickly, but I felt God tell me to just sit still, and to continue what I was doing. Do not make a move.
I didn’t want to boast, or brag, or feel like this was in anyway a credit to my writing. The idea of giving myself credit made me sick to my stomach. I became incredibly frightened of being anything but humble. I prayed to God, thanking him for this opportunity, all of these opportunities, and I glorified him for it. I told him that I know this is his doing, not mine. He is laying my path out for me, and any blessings that come from it are gifts. I have nothing to do with this. That is how I felt. How I still feel. I never expected this fear of boastfulness, or pride. I saw what that could look like on me and I hated it. I won’t be that.
I told God that if this were to all fall through, I would be grateful for the experience. The feeling of it alone. I believe that either way, it is His will. That is it. Just let your will be done, and help me to hear you to follow it.
The radio station hasn’t, to my knowledge, followed up. The paying for editing isn’t happening. Instead, the editing is used as payment for the expense this company is taking on in order to promote me- whatever that means (I really would be terrible at business).
The payment will come, eventually, maybe, as a result of advertising revenue. It will not be a large sum, but I knew that.
The opportunity of partnership with this larger, more connected website is still in the works. It’s me, this other girl, and the niece of a huge 70′s celebrity (I won’t say who out of fear of anyone ever Googling their way onto this blog). The three of us are being pushed forward, in hopes that the involved companies will make money while we get our names out there. I will have the opportunity to write original content. This is still a great opportunity.
But, that leaves me wondering- what do I want to write about?
First, why do I write? Because I enjoy it. I enjoy writing well, and I enjoy the praise. That is obvious. Writing is an ego booster. Let’s stay real about it. But even if no one ever read my writing, I’d still write. I enjoy it, it is a part of me.
But what do I want to write? If you have the opportunity to write about anything, and that something is going to be read by a lot of people, what do you say?
I thought this was my chance to leave bartending. Maybe it will be eventually, but as of right now, I’m still there every Saturday. And I still have to move, and I was feeling anxious. It took me some time to put my finger on my feelings, but that is what it was. Anxiety over trying to move out with someone who is still in school and has no money. Anxiety over not having much money myself and expecting to spend more on my living expenses in only four months. Fear because if I move too far, for the first time ever, Mark told me that it could affect our relationship. I wasn’t worried about that at all, but his response, as honest as it was, didn’t align with mine. I am grateful for that. With worries and honesty out in the open, I can make a wiser decisions.
Today I prayed while in the car. I feel peace over the situation my future roommate is going to be in. Peace over that, do not worry about her. Leave her be. I feel peace over my finances, God has never let me down. Be wise and don’t be wasteful. It will be okay.
And with writing and bartending: today was not my big break. I so badly want to be in the next chapter of my life, a chapter that doesn’t include two paying jobs and freelancing. I wanted to be past this. But I’m not. Thank God, because that was his plan. Thank God I was not granted what I wanted. This is my path, and it is still a good one. Perhaps a tiring one, perhaps one with a million different steps, but it is the one I’m to be on. And I will always be thankful, as obedient as I can be, and humbled with the knowledge that the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
I want to be the person that hands it to God to take, all of it. Whatever it is. Because none of it was mine to begin with.
But I am still excited, and happy. I still have my dreams. I think I am being led in the right direction. I guess I can say, I kind of know where I want to be, but I’m not ready to be there yet, and so I will just enjoy the journey, wherever it puts me.
short story
The cover of this latest seminar pamphlet showed the exposed breast of a woman who had chosen a loose, sheer cloth to cover her otherwise nude body. The one before it had pictured an aroused Socrates slipping his hand under the skirt of a topless Greek goddess. Before that, three men were portrayed gawking at a portrait of a topless woman tangled in bedsheets, surrounded by nymphs. Or were they angels?
My eyes darted from the cover of the text, to my blank note paper, and back again. Perversion always seemed so obvious, though not a person in that lecture hall knew my name or cared where my eyes were, as long as they weren’t planted on any particular person. The lecturer lifted up her novel. The book, torn and yellowed, thick with place markers, tattooed with penned notes and poured over like the family bible sat alive on her podium. Pulled apart slowly, aging from years of abuse, it would be torn to pieces, chewed on, and digested. It’s spine was cracked. It had been stripped from it’s binding.
“Death would be better than this,” she read from it.
I realized I had been too distracted by the printed flesh to understand this tangent. Or perhaps this was the entire purpose of her time in front of us. I had no idea how long she had been speaking. The other attendees began to stand, rudely or appropriately I wasn’t sure. I clapped with them. When they filed out, I followed.
A large poster stood outside the lecture hall. The woman, whose name I couldn’t remember and whose voice had led me to painted pornography, was plastered on the board, her mouth shaped like a wide U, her face thorn pricked with freckles. “The History of Art Language” was printed in large, white letters over the red suit jacket that hung shapelessly around her breasts.
“Mr. Orwell?” A man spoke to me. I did not recognize him, but these days I never recognized anyone.
“What?” I asked, abrasively. Defensively.
“You have a telephone call.”
“How?”
His face turned ugly. He pointed toward the name tag I had pinned to my suit. I had forgotten about it. My face almost reddened, but my apathy was overwhelming.
He walked me to the phone where my sister’s voice was already rattling. She told me it was time to come to the hospital. I hung the receiver back on it’s base before saying goodbye.
I walked into the ICU. A tired looking woman was sitting in the hallway, alone. Blond hair grew from the dark soil that laid atop her head. Her eyes were like marbles hidden behind two 20/20 inducing glass encasements. Our eyes fused and she began uploading her sentiments.
“You hung up on me.”
“Was there anything left to say?”
She rubbed her temples, her fingers leaving thick red marks on her over sunned face.
“Ask him what the ratio is between his DNA and the composition of steel in his body! Ask if he has hasn’t then already died. He should be in a warehouse, not a hospital. Tell him I refuse to continuously mourn over a broken microwave. His wires are frayed-“
I aborted her transfer of emotion by diverting my eyes. Uploader error. She bared her veneers. “I have things to do too,” she called behind me as I walked into my father’s room.
His skin was jaundiced and thin. Plastic tubes scrawled across his body as veins. The scar on his side from this last-ditch “life-saving” surgery was prominently displayed through plastic tape. All acted as evidence of the invisible nurses that had poured over him, as if he were a newborn child. Their absence commented on his quick aging from years of personal neglect. His spine cracked as he tried to sit up and he found himself unable to move, stripped of his dignity.
“Son, there’s no use in raging,” he breathed before the repetitious beeping of his monitor turned constant. Terminal malfunction. I turned to leave. My sister stood outside the doorway.
“What did he say,” she demanded.
“He would have me ask you the ratio of DNA to that of the silicone in your own body,” I responded just as a team of nurses came running down the hall toward that old microwave’s now closed door. The plastic that covered her nails shone under the florescent lights as she raised her hand to her open mouth. I walked toward the exit.
“Where are you going?” She howled behind me. “I can’t do this alone!”
Her voice trailed off as the ICU door buzzed and closed behind me.
The interstate was lined with billboards advertising fast food and gambling. I bypassed my exit and found myself heading toward the casino. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket before I turned it off. Talk radio blared in my ears. My GPS told me to turn left. I turned left and the radio grew loud with static. My nerves rested. The white noise was soothing as I coasted into the brightly lit parking lot.
The Blackjack table confronted me immediately, but it was covered in conversation, so I headed instead to the slot machines. A waitress with burlap skin greeted me without a smile. She returned with my whiskey and waited as I slipped my last five dollar bill into the machine.
“Asshole,” she muttered loudly before turning away.
A loud siren blared suddenly and red lights flashed. I felt like a criminal as a white receipt printed from my machine. I cashed my unwarranted winnings in at the ATM. The waitress watched as I put the $500 into my wallet. She gave me the finger. I wouldn’t have noticed had she not followed me, finger raised, all the way to the casino doors.
A man stopped me before I could reach the parking lot. He congratulated me on my winnings. He asked if I would like a complimentary lap dance at the adjoining nightclub. My mind trailed off to the pixelated beauties still dancing on my laptop screen, their videos on loop, their moans undoubtedly pouring out from my open bedroom window. I envisioned the disapproving looks my neighbors would give me, had I ever met them. I saw myself opening my front door, greeted by the sound of a woman simulating pleasure. I threw my jacket on the couch, Weird Science still paused on my DVR from when I had left it this morning. I would go to my room, sit in front of it’s only light source, and watch the nude screen move. It would entice emotion from me until I exploded and felt disgusted with it, and myself. It would cost nothing. I wouldn’t have to touch any one else’s skin. No fake conversation. No sequins falling into my pocket from some med school student’s bikini, only to be found days later in the middle of a business meeting. I’d rather my guilt be immediate. In fact, I’d rather everything be immediate.
“No,” I told him.
“What man turns down a free dance? What’re you, a fag?”
“My battery’s dead. I just need to recharge by myself.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
I couldn’t answer him. I had no idea what I was talking about. I had no idea what anyone had been talking about. I walked back to my car, the five hundred dollars weighing my pocket down. My cellphone was unusually quiet. I couldn’t remember turning it off until it was already back on. It buzzed with new voice mails. A new text message. Then, an event reminder. My calendar opened itself up. Three days away, February 8th. Dad’s Birthday. I turned the phone back off.
I pushed a rock with my foot. The sun made my leather seats look dangerously hot. I looked back at the casino’s nightclub. A sign blinked in the window. Video Screenings, Private Booths.
I turned back. I could sit in that booth tonight. For free. I’d order another whiskey.
I’d virtualize the rest of this hot day.
The night club pusher met me at the door. “Thought you’d forsaken your God given urges,” he laughed. I pushed past him and walked toward a topless dancer with a drink tray. I handed her a hundred dollar bill.
“I’m guessing it’s not water you’re looking for,” she smiled.
“Turn it into whiskey and keep it coming.”
I walked into the booth. The video screen made my skin glow blue. I turned the volume up, trying to drown out the bass of the dancer’s music. I forgot again why my phone was off.
I would like to have some happy poetry to look back on.
For crying out loud.
I’ll get on that.
Long, long, long nights spent tangling up my minds thoughts. Long, long, long times spent tangled up in these bed sheet knots. I ain’t got long lines behind me, waiting men swaying me, ain’t got many laying me…. roses at my feet. No rose petals trailing off to new cars in the street. No. They don’t even pick me up. And I need a pick me up, what, with this luck. Shit, that’s how girls go’n get knocked up. And then those boys,… they pass the buck, but not to us. I just want to be somebody’s baby… not some lady of the night, only seeing emotion in shuttered moon light, star light, star bright, I wish I may I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.. to be held while I fall asleep, ‘stead of making sure my tears don’t creep onto their pillow cases, only seeing O-faced faces, watching them tie their shoe laces as they walk me to the door. Common house hold name, common house hold whore. But what can you expect flaunting like I do in my tight t-shirts and how-do-you-do breasts peeking out from my v-necks. A figure like this is a hex on a woman.
Post-America-Recession-2009
Someone is somewhere
Doing something they love
Something I’d love to do
While I’m somewhere I tolerate
Doing something for learnin.
Something someone else wishes
They could do.
My sister is somewhere
Doing something for money
Something others are dying to do.
Love, tolerate money.
Love, wishes dying.
Somewhere, somewhere, somewhere.
Learnin.
God gave me this gift,
and I’ve used it for evil.
Tupac, Jr.
There are two aspects of the restaurant business that most people probably don’t pay much attention to; longevity and age. In every restaurant there is a pretty large group of people who have worked there for a long time (I’m talking three years or more) and all of them started out young and fresh-faced. Most of us were initially attracted to the obvious allure of walking out of work with a hundred dollars in cash every night, and it’s that same greedy appetite that keeps us from leaving long after our doe eyes have been replaced with dark cynical marbles of hate. However, the advantage of obtaining a job young and staying after puberty has passed is the unforgettable experience of watching your coworkers grow up and find their respectable places in life. The majority of servers use the restaurant as a stepping stone between college and adulthood and all are welcome to watch as they find their passions in life, move on to “real” jobs, get married, etc. Sometimes, however, people move on to places you never saw coming, which brings us to the story of Shane.
Shane started working with us during his sophomore year of college as a pre-med student. With strangely pre-pubescent looks and an easy-going demeanor, it was hard to hate him. That’s not to say everyone liked him, as the hyenas that run our restaurant make it a point not to like anyone, but no one hated him. Especially since a conversation with Shane is akin to having a conversation with your three-year-old cousin. Everything you say is hilarious. I’m talking mouth-open, eyes closed, legs bent laughing out loud hilarious. And I do mean everything. You make a funny face, he giggles. You tell a racist joke, he spits on himself. You bring toilet humor to the table, and Shane is rolling on the floor. Surprisingly though, Shane doesn’t just find fart jokes funny. He even catches on when you accidentally let some type of intelligent wit slip out of your mouth, which makes your chances of seeing this kid shit himself laughing even higher. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a confidence booster. I’m a real George Carlin around this kid. And it’s not even like he’s faking it to make friends. Shane is so genuinely amused that you’re legitimately afraid he’s going to burst blood vessels in his eye lids or puke on himself. But, in order for someone to be so easily amused there has obviously got to be something wrong him, right? Well, spend five minutes talking to Shane and you begin to understand why to him every day is like having front row seats at the Apollo.
Shane likes to smoke weed. In fact, he loves it. It’s all he talks about. He was so high yesterday, so high this morning and Lord as my witness, he’ll be high tonight. Shady characters walk in through the side door and Shane’s shaking their hands and calling them “bro” before buying a bag or two out of their oversized sweatpants pockets. He might just be a savant because he’s the only person I know who can get blazed out of their mind before taking a three-hour anatomy exam and still walk out with the highest grade in the class. I tried to keep up with him one night and smoked an entire blunt of some type of weed he gave me. By the end of the night I could see sounds. So, credit where credit is due. He’s obviously intelligent, but he’s also really, really dumb.
Now, Shane lives a good life. His dad’s a psychiatrist and his parent’s can afford to buy him anything he wants. He lives in one of those million dollar mini-mansions and has never felt the pang of need in his life. Yet, he still works. Not only does he work, but he shows up on time, gives it his all and is always offering a helping hand. This is something I can respect, because to be honest I wouldn’t have been at that restaurant for three years if I didn’t have to be. And it’s not like he has to work just to support his drug habit. His parents smoke more weed than you do. It’s nothing he has to hide. Shane just has a good work ethic, which is probably why he’s going to be a stellar dental student and make millions of dollars himself.
Nestled high in his little kingdom our hero, Shane the pre-dental Russian Jew, can’t even hear the roar of the New Jersey Transit through his double-glass windows, let alone see anything resembling a skyscraper. The only experience he’s ever had with “rough streets” was a scraped knee after eating it on his rollerblades. But, as previously mentioned, Shane does smoke weed. Not only does he smoke weed, but he likes to have sex. He once told me this story of a time when he was taking a girl’s virginity and she had started begging him to stop because “it hurt”, and so he grabbed the headboard and pummeled the broads vagina until he was covered in her blood. (Yeah, he might be a bit of a sociopath, but at least he can laugh about it). Not only does Shane smoke weed, have sex and make women bleed, but he also wears his baseball caps to the side. If you don’t see where this is going you’re just not using Shane’s definition of logic. Seeing as he has all these great hobbies and he knows how to speak English, Shane took the next obvious step in life and decided to become a rapper. I shit you not.
This is the story parents should tell their kids when they’re giving them the “Stay off of drugs” speech because it is more than obvious that Shane has most definitely suffered some type of brain damage. You see, as he was sitting on his patio one day, fantasizing about all the street-cred he’s about to get, Shane realized he needed a really amazing rap name. I’m talking a panty-drenching, gangster-scaring, record-deal obtaining name that screams “I’m Shane and my rhymes are going to melt your face off!” And just what name did our little hoodrat come up with? None other than Lil’ Booby. Again, I shit you not. Its decisions like this that give us the Carrot Top’s of the world. Some dumb-ass douche bag with a terrible idea that everyone just loves to hate.
My friend Dave had the best response to this terrible, awful, no good very bad name. When he heard Shane talking about his new dream of being a rapper and that he had finally decided on a name, Dave said, “Listen, before you tell me know that no matter what it is I’m going to make fun of you. So you better just hope it’s at least somewhat respectable. Now, go on.” (EDIT: I DON’T REALLY REMEMBER WHAT DAVE SAID SO THIS NEEDS TO BE FIXED)
Shane responded, “Lil’ Booby.”
Dave responded, “ LIL’ BOOBY?! Why the hell would you call yourself Lil’ Booby? No one likes little boobies! At least call yourself big booby…” But I digress, because now that Lil’ Booby had found his true calling, he needed to start writing something that would really get him the respect he deserved. And he did. In fact, he wrote this one rap in only a few hours and spent the rest of the day “rereading it over and over until I had it memorized.” It was thirty seconds long.
I wish I could rewrite his debut rhyme word for word but my mind was so blown that I was only able to remember a few things. For instance, his name is Lil’ Booby and he does rock, and all the ladies want to suck his cock. Also, he makes it rain. He goes to the clubs with his friends and drinks alcohol. And sometimes, he cums on girls and makes them take it. (This is debatable as many believe he’s the one getting his cavities filled… if you know what I mean). In retrospect, my mind might not have so much been blown as it was trying to turn my ears off.
There is another Jewish rapper at our store (yeah, apparently it’s a thing). The only difference is that guy is literally amazing. He’s more like the King of Words than a rapper. He’s the type of person who could even make Kanye embarrassed. Lil’ Booby swears he’s going to collaborate with the King. Yeah, King’s people will get back to you Lil’ Booby. So, if you are ever surfing around online and come across a free download for an album by someone named Lil’ Booby, keep surfing. There are far better ways to spend the minute it would take for you to download it, and other types of things you can use your hard drive’s memory for. Like porn. Or the first season of Wings. Or a three-hour lecture by John Kerry. Or anything, really.
I like the idea of surrounding yourself with all the whispered praises you’ve received. I need to do something with that idea.
Whispered worship?
But really, it would turn on you, as those voices fade. Then it would be like stagnant reminders of something that was once alive but is now so dead.
Ima write something gooood one-uh these days.
Life as Ordinary
My ankle is still sore but I was able to walk better on it today. I’m hoping tomorrow it won’t be killing me. First day back at work was okay, made $138. I had this one table though, these two innocent yet terrible girls who sat for almost a full hour and a half after closing. Dave and I had to then wait until Sue was done because she let the cooks go home. I like how I have a repore with the cooks these days. It makes everything easier. Nic called me while I was working and because Sue was there and this table wouldn’t leave, leaving me with nothing to do until they left, I took it. We talked about our sagas and it put everything into perspective. It’s not that bad, living life unattached. It looks worse than it is. And really it makes you stronger. To have the bravery and strength to let go is a beautiful thing, and sometimes you need to get to the point and say, “Enough is enough.” I’m excited about the unknown, it just sucks when life feels uneventful. But its then that you become yourself.
I’m looking forward to writing this book. I was thinking about getting published on my way back from dog sitting at my dads, and it made me cry. I guess I really want that, more than I knew.
The Feeling
It’s a fire, originating in your heart, moving straight up to your head. Past your face, where it lingers enough to give it a light buzz, and up to your brain. The fire roars inside your chest, down to your stomach, making your arms and shoulders warm. Your face is warm. Your body buzzes. It’s like electricity paired with flames. Your eyes are half open. You feel excited, and happy. At peace. You feel like talking a mile a minute. Almost like being on cocaine, except you could fall asleep if you wanted. It reminds you of being in love. This feeling. And you see why and how it is so addicting. And then, you feel slight remorse as it ceases to intensify. Like a ball thrown in the air, it only goes so high until it stops completely, midair. After that moment, it’ll only go downward. That’s where you are. You’re midair, as high as you can get, expecting nothing less. And then you begin to fall.
