Monday, November 17, 2008
I'm g'wan to Louisiana, my true love for to see
You never thought these two worlds would collide did you?
I'm going to Louisiana to visit Emily on Friday! Countdown to LA and Twilight starts now!
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Friday, November 07, 2008
The Second Time
By Krisserin Canary
It was the second time, but she would never get used to it.
Her mother was in the next room, either pretending not to know what was happening or willfully allowing it to take place. She hated her for it. To her it was her mother's fault. Her mother told him about the bowl of Halloween candy hidden under her bed, that she'd eat snack sized bar after snack sized bar before sleep. She was being punished, but she knew she didn't deserve it. No twelve year old does.
A light hung above her lazily illuminating the room. She squeezed her eyelids shut, blocking out the familiar shapes and haunting shadows. She refused to watch him do it, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing him fear.
He sat down next to her and placed his hand on her cheek. It was warm despite who it belonged to.
"Relax. It shouldn't hurt too much."
Her face radiated heat from the pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth, wide, before he could ask. She knew what he wanted, and didn't want to hear his voice again. She prayed it would be over soon.
There was pressure, a pinch. Her mind fumbled trying to think of other things. Her birthday was next week. Maybe grandma would make her a cake.
She could hear him turn on his favorite toy, the whining and buzzing closed in on her from a distance. This was the part that always hurt the most. She anticipated the pain.
She went numb.
School parties with cupcakes covered with rainbow sprinkles. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of milk. Oreos and milk. Chocolate milk. His scent accosted her. Her eyes rolled upwards, away. Her eyelids fluttered.
His sterile smell stung her nose. He'd swabbed himself with alcohol in an attempt to disinfect the evidence of previous tortures. It failed to mask his ripe odor. What would he smell like after he was done with her? She hoped he smelled like blood. A rancid metallic sting that would prove to her mother that he'd hurt her, maimed her.
She gave up hope quicker than she took it up. Her mother didn't care.
He leaned in closer and the heat of his breath mushroomed. It was wet and smelled of processed cheese. She squeezed her eyes harder until her temples throbbed. He was too close, his hand pressing down on her shoulder. A small yelp escaped her throat, giving her away. His hand was on her cheek again, patting it as you would an obedient dog. She tried to understand why he felt the need to touch her face.
Fatigue was catching up with him. His breath sped up; she could feel the exhales increase on her cheek. He was almost finished. He always got like this when he was close.
The buzzing stopped, the pressure of his hand disappeared. Feeling returned to her fingers. Her lips tingled. She closed her mouth, the corners torn from being stretched beyond their limits. She kept her eyes shut until she was sure he'd left the room. Thankfully, he hadn't felt the need to say anything.
Her mouth was sore. Globs of drool lay heavy on her chin. He must have really enjoyed himself this time.
A few minutes later her mind settled down. It was over. Hopefully it would be awhile before it happened again. Maybe this was the last time. She contemplated a life without pain.
A minute later she swung her feet over the edge and made her way out into the hall, tiptoeing to the bathroom. When she emerged a strange woman was waiting for her. She was smiling.
"Sarah?"
"Yes."
"Please come with me."
The woman opened a file with Sarah's name on it and ran her finger down the middle of the page.
"I think that's it for now. We'll see you in six months for your regular cleaning."
She considered the possibilities. Six months of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Pop tarts in front of the television. Cool Cokes on hot summer days spent next to the pool. She swallowed it, nodded in acceptance.
A glass bowl filled with sweets lay glistening on the counter before her. She grabbed a purple sucker and stuck it in her mouth on her way towards the door. The sugar seeped into the sores in her mouth and stung.
A lot of damage can be done in six months.
It was the second time, but she would never get used to it.
Her mother was in the next room, either pretending not to know what was happening or willfully allowing it to take place. She hated her for it. To her it was her mother's fault. Her mother told him about the bowl of Halloween candy hidden under her bed, that she'd eat snack sized bar after snack sized bar before sleep. She was being punished, but she knew she didn't deserve it. No twelve year old does.
A light hung above her lazily illuminating the room. She squeezed her eyelids shut, blocking out the familiar shapes and haunting shadows. She refused to watch him do it, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of showing him fear.
He sat down next to her and placed his hand on her cheek. It was warm despite who it belonged to.
"Relax. It shouldn't hurt too much."
Her face radiated heat from the pounding in her chest. She opened her mouth, wide, before he could ask. She knew what he wanted, and didn't want to hear his voice again. She prayed it would be over soon.
There was pressure, a pinch. Her mind fumbled trying to think of other things. Her birthday was next week. Maybe grandma would make her a cake.
She could hear him turn on his favorite toy, the whining and buzzing closed in on her from a distance. This was the part that always hurt the most. She anticipated the pain.
She went numb.
School parties with cupcakes covered with rainbow sprinkles. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of milk. Oreos and milk. Chocolate milk. His scent accosted her. Her eyes rolled upwards, away. Her eyelids fluttered.
His sterile smell stung her nose. He'd swabbed himself with alcohol in an attempt to disinfect the evidence of previous tortures. It failed to mask his ripe odor. What would he smell like after he was done with her? She hoped he smelled like blood. A rancid metallic sting that would prove to her mother that he'd hurt her, maimed her.
She gave up hope quicker than she took it up. Her mother didn't care.
He leaned in closer and the heat of his breath mushroomed. It was wet and smelled of processed cheese. She squeezed her eyes harder until her temples throbbed. He was too close, his hand pressing down on her shoulder. A small yelp escaped her throat, giving her away. His hand was on her cheek again, patting it as you would an obedient dog. She tried to understand why he felt the need to touch her face.
Fatigue was catching up with him. His breath sped up; she could feel the exhales increase on her cheek. He was almost finished. He always got like this when he was close.
The buzzing stopped, the pressure of his hand disappeared. Feeling returned to her fingers. Her lips tingled. She closed her mouth, the corners torn from being stretched beyond their limits. She kept her eyes shut until she was sure he'd left the room. Thankfully, he hadn't felt the need to say anything.
Her mouth was sore. Globs of drool lay heavy on her chin. He must have really enjoyed himself this time.
A few minutes later her mind settled down. It was over. Hopefully it would be awhile before it happened again. Maybe this was the last time. She contemplated a life without pain.
A minute later she swung her feet over the edge and made her way out into the hall, tiptoeing to the bathroom. When she emerged a strange woman was waiting for her. She was smiling.
"Sarah?"
"Yes."
"Please come with me."
The woman opened a file with Sarah's name on it and ran her finger down the middle of the page.
"I think that's it for now. We'll see you in six months for your regular cleaning."
She considered the possibilities. Six months of sleeping in on Saturday mornings. Pop tarts in front of the television. Cool Cokes on hot summer days spent next to the pool. She swallowed it, nodded in acceptance.
A glass bowl filled with sweets lay glistening on the counter before her. She grabbed a purple sucker and stuck it in her mouth on her way towards the door. The sugar seeped into the sores in her mouth and stung.
A lot of damage can be done in six months.
Alright Wolcott, you hate Stephenie Meyer, we get it.
I was compelled to pick up this month's issue of Vanity Fair for several reasons. First, Kate Winslet is on the cover and I love Kate Winslet. Second, there is a large spread for Nike and LIVESTRONG.com in this month's issue. Lastly and most importantly, there was an article about the upcoming film version of Twilight.
Where I was hoping to read about the movie I was disappointed to find a half-assed under-researched criticism of the Twilight Saga by James Wolcott. I'll be the first to admit that the books have their faults, but Wolcott's review did little to shed new light on the series or the phenomenon of its cult status. Instead he chose to compare it to Buffy and the slew of young-adult vampire books that have hit the stores since Twilight became a mega-success--touching on points that have been discussed and making comparisons that had been made years ago when the books first came out. It wasn't well written (he referenced Sarah Palin for christ's sake), and most of the article was wasted on quoting passages from the book that do little more than criticize Meyer's writing style. Here are some choice quotes:
"Happily, the forthcoming film of Twilight (based on a sample tasting) sweeps away the trite chatter of Bella's interior monologue and the clumpy pace of Meyer’s storytelling with one swoop of the camera across the mist-wreathed pine forests of the Pacific Northwest..."
But wait, there's more:
"Meyer’s "Twilight Saga" is light on bloodsucking lore, heavy on high-school humdrum. "My fourth hour class got out late, and the lunch table I always sat at was full by the time I arrived. Mike was there, Jessica and Angela, Conner, Tyler, Eric and Lauren. Katie Marshall, the redheaded junior who lived around the corner from me, was sitting with Eric, and Austin Marks—older brother to the boy with the motorcycles—was next to her." Glad we got those seating arrangements sorted out!"
"In the novels it gets monotonous having Bella sigh over how breathtaking Edward is every time he materializes, subjecting the reader to dumb-bunny clunkers such as this beaut: "Edward stood in the halo of the porch light, looking like a male model in an advertisement for raincoats.""
So he didn't like the books. He thought they were poorly-written. Fine. Explain it with a little less disdain. Give me reason to take your opinion seriously. I felt like I was reading a book review in the Daily Bruin rather than Vanity Fair. Read it for yourself and let me know what you think.
Where I was hoping to read about the movie I was disappointed to find a half-assed under-researched criticism of the Twilight Saga by James Wolcott. I'll be the first to admit that the books have their faults, but Wolcott's review did little to shed new light on the series or the phenomenon of its cult status. Instead he chose to compare it to Buffy and the slew of young-adult vampire books that have hit the stores since Twilight became a mega-success--touching on points that have been discussed and making comparisons that had been made years ago when the books first came out. It wasn't well written (he referenced Sarah Palin for christ's sake), and most of the article was wasted on quoting passages from the book that do little more than criticize Meyer's writing style. Here are some choice quotes:
"Happily, the forthcoming film of Twilight (based on a sample tasting) sweeps away the trite chatter of Bella's interior monologue and the clumpy pace of Meyer’s storytelling with one swoop of the camera across the mist-wreathed pine forests of the Pacific Northwest..."
But wait, there's more:
"Meyer’s "Twilight Saga" is light on bloodsucking lore, heavy on high-school humdrum. "My fourth hour class got out late, and the lunch table I always sat at was full by the time I arrived. Mike was there, Jessica and Angela, Conner, Tyler, Eric and Lauren. Katie Marshall, the redheaded junior who lived around the corner from me, was sitting with Eric, and Austin Marks—older brother to the boy with the motorcycles—was next to her." Glad we got those seating arrangements sorted out!"
"In the novels it gets monotonous having Bella sigh over how breathtaking Edward is every time he materializes, subjecting the reader to dumb-bunny clunkers such as this beaut: "Edward stood in the halo of the porch light, looking like a male model in an advertisement for raincoats.""
So he didn't like the books. He thought they were poorly-written. Fine. Explain it with a little less disdain. Give me reason to take your opinion seriously. I felt like I was reading a book review in the Daily Bruin rather than Vanity Fair. Read it for yourself and let me know what you think.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Prepared
By Krisserin Canary
Sarah Palin checked and re-checked her poof in the mirror. The hairstylist had only left five minutes ago, but she felt compelled to make sure that every hair was in its place, her bangs perfectly spaced on her forehead. Everything was amplified to appear perfect on the television screens across America.
She had her points down, but went over them again in her head. Looking at herself in the mirror, she recited the lines one by one—trying to remember which words her speech coach had told her to say louder, the way she was supposed to move her lips with the vowels and where her tongue should start and stop on the consonants. She was ready.
"You are ready," her reflection confirmed.
She had been picking at her cuticles, and her left thumb was bleeding. Running over to her purse she delicately sifted through her tools till she found a Kleenex and blotted away the evidence.
She returned to the mirror to practice her smile. 'This is what America is going to see.' She had to be okay with it. Not just okay, confident. She was a pit bull, a maverick, despite the thudding in her chest that gave away her anxiety. She'd be nervous, but nervous with a smile. Hopefully no one would notice.
She looked at her wrist to check the time but there was no watch. She had taken it off when her stylist had come to dress her.
"You don't want to be checking the time while Biden is speaking, it'll look like you're bored."
She placed her right hand on her wrist and felt the absence. She reached for her phone, it was 5:55 p.m., five minutes to go. She checked to see if there were messages of encouragement from her family. Just one from her handler, "Smile, tilt, wink. You got it!"
She was all alone. She walked over to the couch and faced the door, her feet separated from the cold linoleum of the classroom by the thin netting of her stockings.
The door flew open to break the silence, "Governor Palin, we're ready for you." The girl with the mic attached to her ear didn't look up at her, eyes fixated on the clipboard in her hands.
She followed the girl to the edge of the stage, and in the darkness tried different variations of her first line, smiling to herself.
"Can I call you JOE?"
"Can-I-call-ya-Joe?"
"Can I call you Joe?"
She heard a few chuckles come from behind her and her heart sped up. She took the last few seconds in the darkness to try to get her heart to slow down. Her eyelids lay soft on her face – a bit heavy from the mask her make-up artist had applied. She pressed her hands flat on her hips, moving them up and down to wipe off the sweat. The light from the stage and voices of the crowd faded away as she focused on that one line.
-------------------------------------------------------
This story originated from a writing exercise in my introduction to fiction class. We were supposed to choose one character (from the many options including Chewbacca and Richard Simmons) and write a story about them. Of course I chose Sarah Palin, and I thought I would share it with you. Enjoy!
Sarah Palin checked and re-checked her poof in the mirror. The hairstylist had only left five minutes ago, but she felt compelled to make sure that every hair was in its place, her bangs perfectly spaced on her forehead. Everything was amplified to appear perfect on the television screens across America.
She had her points down, but went over them again in her head. Looking at herself in the mirror, she recited the lines one by one—trying to remember which words her speech coach had told her to say louder, the way she was supposed to move her lips with the vowels and where her tongue should start and stop on the consonants. She was ready.
"You are ready," her reflection confirmed.
She had been picking at her cuticles, and her left thumb was bleeding. Running over to her purse she delicately sifted through her tools till she found a Kleenex and blotted away the evidence.
She returned to the mirror to practice her smile. 'This is what America is going to see.' She had to be okay with it. Not just okay, confident. She was a pit bull, a maverick, despite the thudding in her chest that gave away her anxiety. She'd be nervous, but nervous with a smile. Hopefully no one would notice.
She looked at her wrist to check the time but there was no watch. She had taken it off when her stylist had come to dress her.
"You don't want to be checking the time while Biden is speaking, it'll look like you're bored."
She placed her right hand on her wrist and felt the absence. She reached for her phone, it was 5:55 p.m., five minutes to go. She checked to see if there were messages of encouragement from her family. Just one from her handler, "Smile, tilt, wink. You got it!"
She was all alone. She walked over to the couch and faced the door, her feet separated from the cold linoleum of the classroom by the thin netting of her stockings.
The door flew open to break the silence, "Governor Palin, we're ready for you." The girl with the mic attached to her ear didn't look up at her, eyes fixated on the clipboard in her hands.
She followed the girl to the edge of the stage, and in the darkness tried different variations of her first line, smiling to herself.
"Can I call you JOE?"
"Can-I-call-ya-Joe?"
"Can I call you Joe?"
She heard a few chuckles come from behind her and her heart sped up. She took the last few seconds in the darkness to try to get her heart to slow down. Her eyelids lay soft on her face – a bit heavy from the mask her make-up artist had applied. She pressed her hands flat on her hips, moving them up and down to wipe off the sweat. The light from the stage and voices of the crowd faded away as she focused on that one line.
-------------------------------------------------------
This story originated from a writing exercise in my introduction to fiction class. We were supposed to choose one character (from the many options including Chewbacca and Richard Simmons) and write a story about them. Of course I chose Sarah Palin, and I thought I would share it with you. Enjoy!
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
What it's like to be a woman
What I want is for you to write fuck me on your chest. Write it. Do it. And then I want you to walk out that door and walk down the street. And anybody that wants to fuck you say sure, sure no problem, and when they do you have to say thank you very, very much and make sure that you have a smile on your face and then you stupid fucking coward you're going to know what it feels like to be a woman."
-Jenny, The L Word
Monday, September 29, 2008
I can see Russia from my house
*note to self, buy this copy of the New Yorker
There are a couple reasons why I decided to post this New Yorker cover. Can you guess them?
There are a couple reasons why I decided to post this New Yorker cover. Can you guess them?
Friday, September 26, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
We Will Become Silhouettes
Krisserin spent the day head down admiring her shoes. She admired the snake skin texture, it was the small distinction she was looking for when she was shopping for her new black flats. She admired them while she walked out to take a smoke break. Sitting down on the concrete planter she peered down at them and lit her cigarette. It was the last one she was going to smoke. She hoped she enjoyed it.
It was one of those Fridays that never seemed to end. Sure she had work to do, but she didn't want to do it. She was distracted. Tired maybe. Ready to start the weekend and curl up on the corner of the couch she favored when reading a new book. She imagined tucking her toes between the cushions trying to keep them warm.
Would she be interrupted? Would she have to mindfully put her book on her lap and look up at her husband, try to follow his excited mumblings about physics, math and the incompetence of his classmates? Would she have to try hard not to seem like she wanted to find a hasty retreat back into her book? Would she have to pretend that she wouldn't rather escape into story land?
When she escaped into a book the story formed a veil over her. Time and place disappeared when she read the story. She could paint a vivid picture of the landscape of her book. Could feel the pine needles crack under the feet of her heroine. Could imagine using her own inexperienced hands to pull back the wires of the bow. Focus on her target, shoot and kill even though she'd never held a bow and arrow in her life.
She preferred living in story land--couldn't really conceive of living without it. It was her saving grace. She wanted to be Katniss, that bold hero who could face any challenge. She figured if it were her, she could fare the same. She liked to imagine it that way.
Could she write something as compelling and perfectly crafted? Why couldn't people get as excited about these stories as she did? Would they get excited when they read her stories? When would the seed of inspiration be implanted in her own mind to blossom into a story like The Hunger Games? When would she compose her own opus? Or would she always be on the sidelines, watching as others won the race? Would she be old and withered? Too weathered to appreciate her success? Or could she accomplish what she wanted—to be a published and successful by 30?
It was one of those Fridays that never seemed to end. Sure she had work to do, but she didn't want to do it. She was distracted. Tired maybe. Ready to start the weekend and curl up on the corner of the couch she favored when reading a new book. She imagined tucking her toes between the cushions trying to keep them warm.
Would she be interrupted? Would she have to mindfully put her book on her lap and look up at her husband, try to follow his excited mumblings about physics, math and the incompetence of his classmates? Would she have to try hard not to seem like she wanted to find a hasty retreat back into her book? Would she have to pretend that she wouldn't rather escape into story land?
When she escaped into a book the story formed a veil over her. Time and place disappeared when she read the story. She could paint a vivid picture of the landscape of her book. Could feel the pine needles crack under the feet of her heroine. Could imagine using her own inexperienced hands to pull back the wires of the bow. Focus on her target, shoot and kill even though she'd never held a bow and arrow in her life.
She preferred living in story land--couldn't really conceive of living without it. It was her saving grace. She wanted to be Katniss, that bold hero who could face any challenge. She figured if it were her, she could fare the same. She liked to imagine it that way.
Could she write something as compelling and perfectly crafted? Why couldn't people get as excited about these stories as she did? Would they get excited when they read her stories? When would the seed of inspiration be implanted in her own mind to blossom into a story like The Hunger Games? When would she compose her own opus? Or would she always be on the sidelines, watching as others won the race? Would she be old and withered? Too weathered to appreciate her success? Or could she accomplish what she wanted—to be a published and successful by 30?
A Must Read: The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins
I finished the second book in Stephen King's dark tower and needed to take a break from the series for a bit. The books are incredible, but they are a daunting read.
So I picked up The Host by Stephenie Meyer, which was pretty good. Definitely had some things in it that reminded me of Twilight, but I'll let that slide. Overall it was an enjoyable book.
I wasn't quite reading to start the third book in the Dark Tower series after reading The Host, so on recommendation from Stephenie Meyer I went out and bought "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
I read it in five hours--could not put it down. It was pretty apparent as the book drew to a close that there would have to be a second book and I couldn't be more thrilled. The only sad thing is that this book just came out on September 14th--so it seems I'm going to be waiting a while.
The story is set in America sometime in the future after the collapse and rebuilding of society. Twelve districts make up the country of Parem--each district contributing to the success of the country as a whole. Several years back, a thirteenth district had lead an uprising against the capital and lost. Every year since then, the capital has hosted The Hunger Games to remind the citizens of Parem that of the Capitals power over it's people.
The people of Parem are mostly poor--except for those few districts that contribute to the wealth of the capital. The main character, Katniss is a sixteen-year-old girl comes from the poorest of all Districts--the coal mining district 12. Since the death of her father at 14, Katniss has learned to support her family by hunting and gathering. She's an expert with a bow and arrow, she's also very strong and very well versed in the fauna of the forrest.
When the day of the Reaping draws near it's evident that the Hunger Games are an ominous event. Two children age 12-18 (one boy, one girl) are chosen to represent their district in the Hunger Games, which is basically a survival game to the death. The last one still standing wins.
Every child has their name entered into the drawing for the Hunger Games once they turn twelve. A child can also put their name into the drawing more than once and receive food and resources for their family for the rest of the year. Although Katniss is only sixteen, she has her named entered into the drawing a whopping 24 times. Her chances of getting chosen are higher than most--so when her little 12-year-old sister's name is chosen, Katniss volunteers to take her place.
The Hunger Games are more than just a fight for survival--it's a way for the capital to show control over the rest of Parem. The "gamemakers" or the people from the capital in charge of the game can change the stakes anytime they want, give advantages to anyone they want, or kill a tribute (those children chosen to compete) if they feel so inclined. It's a lethal game with unfair advantages, and there are no happy endings.
Go and buy The Hunger Games. Read it immediately. You can thank me later.
So I picked up The Host by Stephenie Meyer, which was pretty good. Definitely had some things in it that reminded me of Twilight, but I'll let that slide. Overall it was an enjoyable book.
I wasn't quite reading to start the third book in the Dark Tower series after reading The Host, so on recommendation from Stephenie Meyer I went out and bought "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins.
I read it in five hours--could not put it down. It was pretty apparent as the book drew to a close that there would have to be a second book and I couldn't be more thrilled. The only sad thing is that this book just came out on September 14th--so it seems I'm going to be waiting a while.
The story is set in America sometime in the future after the collapse and rebuilding of society. Twelve districts make up the country of Parem--each district contributing to the success of the country as a whole. Several years back, a thirteenth district had lead an uprising against the capital and lost. Every year since then, the capital has hosted The Hunger Games to remind the citizens of Parem that of the Capitals power over it's people.
The people of Parem are mostly poor--except for those few districts that contribute to the wealth of the capital. The main character, Katniss is a sixteen-year-old girl comes from the poorest of all Districts--the coal mining district 12. Since the death of her father at 14, Katniss has learned to support her family by hunting and gathering. She's an expert with a bow and arrow, she's also very strong and very well versed in the fauna of the forrest.
When the day of the Reaping draws near it's evident that the Hunger Games are an ominous event. Two children age 12-18 (one boy, one girl) are chosen to represent their district in the Hunger Games, which is basically a survival game to the death. The last one still standing wins.
Every child has their name entered into the drawing for the Hunger Games once they turn twelve. A child can also put their name into the drawing more than once and receive food and resources for their family for the rest of the year. Although Katniss is only sixteen, she has her named entered into the drawing a whopping 24 times. Her chances of getting chosen are higher than most--so when her little 12-year-old sister's name is chosen, Katniss volunteers to take her place.
The Hunger Games are more than just a fight for survival--it's a way for the capital to show control over the rest of Parem. The "gamemakers" or the people from the capital in charge of the game can change the stakes anytime they want, give advantages to anyone they want, or kill a tribute (those children chosen to compete) if they feel so inclined. It's a lethal game with unfair advantages, and there are no happy endings.
Go and buy The Hunger Games. Read it immediately. You can thank me later.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Please, just please with the Twilight obsession already
I caved in. I re-read all the Twilight books. It only took me a week.After reading them the first time, and feeling as if the characters and the story had been removed from me like conjoined twin that I had grown to love but was draining me of much-needed resources (how is that for figurative language?), I decided to poke around on the internet and see what other people were saying about the series.
It was then that I read Eventide's review of Breaking Dawn on Amazon. I read it, absorbed it and then kept the ideas Eventide had implanted in my subconscious in mind when I re-read the stories myself.
And you know what, she was right. When I re-read the books, I did so analytically. Removed of the infatuation with the characters, and the hunger to know what was going to happen, I could look at Bella and Edward, and the stories in their entirety and see the flaws that I had not noticed before.
Bella's complete lack of character development bothers me. The fact that she never had a single self-serving desire in the book that wasn't related to the well-being of someone else--or inflicting pain on herself to help or to remind her of someone else. What did Bella want to be when she grew up? What types of movies or music did she like (besides classical music and literature)? Did she have any interests outside of her love for those around her? It's disturbing when you think about it. I hate the name Renesmee--no matter how hard I try to make it make sense-- it still makes me want to gag. I hated the happy ending this time around. I hated that there was no epic battle scene--that nobody died. In the land of fantasy created by Stephenie Meyer, I was able to put assume her reality for the 2500 pages it took her to tell the story until the very end--when the fairy tale came crashing down on me. J.K. Rowling knew that happy endings aren't real, and even though I cried when people died in Harry Potter I knew it had to happen and I was okay with it. I wasn't okay with the bullshit Happily Ever After that Stephenie Meyer gave us in Breaking Dawn. And that's why she isn't the next J.K. Rowling.
Overall I'm glad I re-read them. It has helped me remove myself a bit from the story, helped me get over the grief of having the characters out of my life--and like the best friend whose parents got a job on the other side of the country, I missed them and but eventually moved on. Even though I was a bit disappointed after re-reading the books, I still have an affinity for the characters. I've moved on, but I have happy memories.
I'll still wait in line to see the movie at midnight the day it opens (good news is the next P.C. Cast and Kristen Cast book from the Marked series is coming out at the end of September. So I'll get my fix of bloodlust then to last me until the movie comes out in November). And I'll read Stephenie Meyer's other book Host, because my mom bought it and I can read it for free. I'll also definitely be reading Midnight Sun, Twilight told from Edwards perspective (stealing ideas from fellow Mormon author Orson Scott Card Mayhap? I think so.) So I'm not totally turned off by the series. I'll probably read them again in the future. But I'll take them for what they are--or rather how Boyan likes to describe them--teen vampire romance novels. And you know what? I'll still like them.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Dustin O'Halloran, Opus 23
I used to have an emusic account, but I disabled it after awhile because the $10.00 coming out of my bank account every month was pissing me off (mostly because I rarely downloaded the 30 songs I had a subscription for). Either way, the one thing I can thank emusic for is my exposure to pianist Dustin O'Halloran. His song Opus 23 is hauntingly beautiful. You can listen below.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
A Bad Night to Fall Off the Wagon
I wanted to write a short story so I found a writing prompt online. The concept is that you wake up in jail, with five things in your pocket. You don't know how you got there, and the five things help you figure out what ensued the night before, and what landed you in jail. So here is what I came up with. It's a tad bit long, there are also typos--and I mix up tenses a lot but bear with me.
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A Bad Night to Fall Off the Wagon
By Krisserin Canary
My head was throbbing. Either it was a seriously bad case of being hungover or a pretty traumatic head injury. Either way I was in desperate need of some ibuprofen. I could feel the vein in my temple throb against the ground below my head. The surface was cool against my skin, and it was making the pain in my head a little more bearable. I thought about trying to open my eyes, but just the idea made my head feel heavier and my stomach flip upside down.
I tried to orientate myself. "Where am I?"
I thought for a moment that I may have passed out on the floor of my bathroom. But the texture of the cement underneath me told me I wasn't in my house. It smelled different here too, completely unfamiliar. Almost sterile, like a hospital.
In the distance I could hear people chatting, phones ringing and feet scuffling against a floor with the same consistency as that which was under my head.
"Am I lying on the floor?" I asked myself, disgusted by the possibility. That was enough, I cracked open my eyes. Everything around me was alien, foreign. My head spun; completely disorientated I reached out to find a metal basin within my reach. My hands latched onto it, out of what must have been muscle memory, and pulling myself up to the bowl I heaved my empty stomach into the metal toilet.
Nothing came out. It was then that I realized the dryness of my mouth, and the acidity of my tongue which was rough enough to resemble a cat's. My throat was sore and I could taste at the back of my mouth the remnants of cigarette smoke.
"That can't be right." I hadn't had a cigarette since I quit six years ago. I used the little strength left in my body to lift myself off the ground and sit myself down on the toilet.
"Oh, no you don't bitch. Piss or get off the pot, you've been monopolizing that shit all night."
I opened my eyes and took in Rita. All 180 pounds of her 5'1" frame. Her wide eyes mimicked the impatience screaming across her face.
"If you don't move I'm gonna piss in your lap," she continued. If her tone hadn't convinced me enough, she began lifting up her skirt, revealing a tattered cotton thong that was struggling to contain the many folds of her lower belly. I jumped up just in time to get out of Rita's way, the side of her butt cheek grazing the top of my thigh.
"I'm-m so-sorry," I managed to rasp out.
"Whatever bitch, don't stare at me while I'm pissin'."
I sat myself on the bench next to the toilet, putting my head in my hands and letting it sink between my knees. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. I was in jail. The blue parallel bars making up the left wall of our cell reinforced the fact. How in the fuck did I get in here? I can't believe I let myself get to this point again. I fumbled into my pocket and took out my chip. Two fucking years of sobriety and now this shit.
I tried to think about last night. I had met up with Danny for dinner. I remember what Joan, my sponsor, had said to me before I went out. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" She asked me while twisting her hair between her thumb and forefinger. She had been so helpful to me in the two years of my sobriety. She had been there when I almost relapsed. Shot of whisky in hand, I let her pry It from my fingers. She knew about my son, Jacob. But there was still so much about me she didn't know. So much I couldn't tell her. I loved her like a sister but she was weak. I resented her for that. There were things that I needed help with that she could never deal with. I needed someone stronger. I needed Danny.
When Danny called it was like the gods had heard my pleas and were sending him to me for good behavior. I remember waiting for him at the bar of the restaurant. I remember that sitting at the bar hadn't made me nervous. I wasn't at all tempted by the liquor lined up behind the counter, lit up with blue mercurial lights. My head stabbed with pain, I gasped for air, squeezing my temples together with the heels of my hands, trying to keep my brain from exploding. Maybe I had been tempted after all.
I tried to remember what happened after I saw Danny walk through the door of the restaurant. I could see the light piercing the darkness of the restaurant, and the warm air pushing its way through the door. Sand followed Danny in like an unwanted visitor. It was Vegas; there isn't much you can do about the sand in the desert. I remember him sitting down next to me ordering his drink.
"Beefeater straight." I cringed recalling the sound of his voice. I ordered a diet coke.
He smiled at me, "On the wagon, eh?"
"Two years and counting," I said. I felt for the chip in my pocket, it was still there.
"That's a shame. It's a nice night for a drink."
I thought about the night outside. It was twilight—one of those warm desert evenings that always felt better with a beer in your hand, washing away the hot day with a cold brew. But I knew better. As an alcoholic, I was always looking for an excuse to drink. I tried to push the beer commercial out of my mind. I knew Danny was going to make it difficult for me.
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The sound of the toilet flushing snapped me back to the present. Rita was wiping her ass, the smell permeating through the cell letting us know she had done more than just pee. A wave of gratitude washed over me, that I had been mobile enough to get out of her way.
Rita was staring at me. I knew her name was Rita. How do I know her name is Rita?
Her expression changed. She was pissed. "Say, what the fuck is your problem? Ain't you seen someone take a shit before?"
Her crudeness made me cringe. Shaking it off without being too obvious, I remembered what was important. "Why do I know your name is Rita?"
"Because I told you, don't you remember nothing?"
"Um, no actually… I can't really remember anything. How long have I been in here?"
"You were here when I got here. I was busted around 2:00 a.m., and…shit what time is it now? Hold on." Rita's thick legs shook back and forth as she made her way over to the bars. She was far more graceful than a woman of her size should be allowed to be. "YO STEVE!" she yelled, hands wrapped around the bars.
Her call brought a tall black man over to the bars. He had his thumbs hooked into his pants. "What is it Rita?" he asked trying to sound annoyed. He was trying to force down the smile spreading across his face.
She fluttered her eyelashes at him and purred, "What time is it baby?"
He lifted his watch to his waist, quickly glancing at it after taking one trip up and down Rita's barely contained body with his eyes, "It's 11:30 a.m. darling."
"Thanks baby," she said winking at Steve before shaking her ass back towards me. She sat and stretched her legs out in front of her. She reached her hands down towards her ankles and groaned as her body released the tension in her hamstrings. "Shit girl, it's too early for me to be awake. Did you hear what he said?"
"Yea, 11:30—that means I've been here for at least…" I did the math in my head but Rita was quicker.
"Nine hours."
"Was I awake when you came in?"
"You were talking to yourself. Muttering some shit about killing somebody, and you kept saying 'Jacob, Jacob!'". She imitated a distressed tone. "I told that motherfucker Steve that I didn't want to be put up in no cell with a crazy bitch, but he said you were just drunk or some shit, so I figured I could take you if you went crazy on me. I can handle drunks."
"I don't drink." I replied, as if by knee jerk reaction.
"You did last night, girl."
I got back to the point, "So how do I know your name?"
Rita looked away from me, eyes scanning the blank cinder block wall to our right. "You were pretty sick last night. I helped you out a bit."
I tried to swallow the thick heavy lump in my throat. It wouldn't go down. "Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't mention it," she replied running her fingers through her nappy, tangled hair. I took a moment when she was looking away to get a better look at Rita. She wasn't wearing much, a haltered tank top and a too-short skirt that barely covered Rita's round butt. She was a large woman, but proportionally built for her size. She had kind eyes, the kind that were filled with understanding and empathy. Her head swung around. She had caught me looking at her again. It didn't seem to bother her as much this time.
"So tell me, if you don't drink, how did you manage to get so fucked up last night?"
"I don't know," I replied honestly. "I really can't remember anything. One minute, I was meeting an old friend for dinner. The next, I'm half-alive in a jail cell."
It was then that I acknowledged a sharp pain, a pinching feeling against my thigh. I must have been ignoring it—the pain distracting me from the pain in my head. I reached into my pocket and took out a pen. It was from a hotel. "Trade Winds Motel."
"Girl, what you doing at the Trade Winds? You a prostitute?"
"No!" I shrieked out, maybe a little too quickly. I looked at Rita again, hoping my reaction didn't offend her. "Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's the world's oldest profession you know."
"Girl relax, I ain't no prostitute. I mean, I tried it a couple times, but turning tricks ain't my thing. I was asking you because the Trade Winds is the type of place that you rent by the hour, if you know what I mean."
"Oh," I studied the lines of the cinder block wall in front of me. I tried to push the pain in my head aside. I willed it to the back of my head, trying to focus the front part of my brain on remembering the rest of the night.
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"I don't drink," I had said again. My mouth felt dry after picturing the idyllic desert sunset with a beer in my hand. Thankfully, the bartender brought our drinks over in time. I picked up my diet coke and sucked it down quickly. Too quickly, Danny had noticed. He had always been more perceptive than most other people. Or maybe it was just with me. He lifted his glass and swirled it in front of my nose, "Are you sure?"
The gin wasn't much of a temptation. I had always hated the way it smelled. It stung my nose and I brought my hand up to block the vapors coming off the glass.
"I don't drink Danny."
"You said that, but it would be rude of me not to offer," he smiled and watched me as he took a sip.
"What would be rude would be if you offered again. Enough of this, why are we here." He put his glass down on the counter with a thud. Tiny droplets flew off in several different directions. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you," I followed up. I looked at him through my eye lashes and tried to force a smile. I didn't want to scare him away. The thought of my anger making him leave made me feel anxious. He smiled at me and my confidence was gone. "I'm just confused, why you wanted to see me."
"I missed you Bean." My stomach fluttered when he used my old nickname.
"I missed you too Danny."
"And I need to talk to you."
"Ok!" I said, maybe a little too eagerly.
"Not here, I need somewhere more private."
I heard Joan's voice bouncing off the walls in my head. 'Just dinner, then you say your goodbyes. Don't go anywhere with him, keep it short.' I understood her concern. It was dangerous allowing myself to get too close to Danny again. But Joan didn't know enough about the situation. In fact, Joan didn't know shit. "Where do you want to go?"
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My head began pounding again with a vengeance.
"I think I remember going to the trade winds," I said looking at Rita. She nodded at me, studying my face.
"Do you remember who you were there with? Were you with Jacob?"
I cringed; my stomach which had already felt acidic took a stab.
"No, Jacob is my son. He's dead."
Rita nodded again. "I lost my baby girl about two years ago. I know how that is. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Why do you keep asking me about Jacob?"
"You kept repeating his name when you were out."
That didn't surprise me. I often said his name in my sleep. I tried to forget about it and moved on. I focused on the Trade Winds.
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I had followed him there. He pulled up to the motel and parked in front of a row of rooms. I parked in the spot next to him, and got out of my truck. He jumped down out of his truck and took a key card out of his wallet. With a swift movement he opened the door to the room in front of our cars.
"How did you know I would come with you?"
"I didn't actually. I've been staying here awhile." He didn't look at me as he threw off his coat. He took my jacket and slung it over the back of the chair next to a small desk in the corner of the room. He walked into the bathroom. He was wearing a cut-off shirt, and his arms peaked through as if the sheer size of them had ripped the sleeves clear off. I could see his wide shoulders stretching the material of his shirt across his back. He was beautiful. He always had been. When he reappeared he was rubbing his face with a towel. The front of his curly gold hair just a tad bit damp.
"So you wanted to talk?" He looked up at me and smiled. His swathe body bent over and opened the mini fridge hiding below the television. He took out two beers and twisted open their tops. Taking a swig from his with one hand, he used his other hand to hand me the beer.
"Danny…"
"I know you don't drink Bean. I'll just leave it here in the fridge for you in case you change your mind." He sat in the chair by the desk and kicked his boots off, putting his feet up on the bed. I sat down next to his feet and looked around.
"I've really missed you Bean. You look beautiful."
I smiled. Danny used to be so wonderful to me. I used to feel like nothing could hurt me when I was with him. Until that one day he left me. Things had changed since then.
"I'm so sorry Bean. I should have never left you like that."
"You mean left me for dead? Bleeding out, alone in that fucking street? Yea, I don't think anyone should be left like that."
"There was a lot going on back then Bean. I'm so sorry. And Jacob…Jesus. I didn't know."
I knew. The car accident had left me and my son mangled. The last time I had seen Danny he was fleeing from the scene of the accident. I had just enough time to cradle Jacob in my arms and kiss him before he died. Danny made it out with a scratch. Physically, or on paper. The fucker left us there without calling the cops because he had been fucked up when he was driving. The accident was his fault. He didn't want a DUI. My face screwed up in anger. He could see it, but was there before I could say anything. He reached his left hand into my hair and took his right hand, the one which was still holding the beer and grabbed the side of my chin.
"I was a despicable human being back then Bean. I'm changed now. I would never do anything to hurt you." And then he kissed me. My head floated and my eyes rolled back. I could taste the beer on his lips and the gin on his tongue. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I didn't care. The taste of alcohol only made it more dangerous. It had been awhile since I had done anything this risky with my life.
He began unbuttoning my shirt and kissed by chest. My head screamed that what I was doing was wrong, but my body heaved upwards towards him.
He stopped and it felt like my heart stopped. I looked down at him, his head was resting on my knees.
"Bean, I don't have protection. I wasn't planning on something like this happening."
"Oh," I replied. "Do you want to go grab something? There is a 7/11 right outside, I'll wait for you." He smiled at me again, my knees begun to shake. I was nervous.
"I can't really go anywhere in this state Bean." He stood up and I noticed the lump in his pants. I giggled. Half embarrassed and half happy that I could elucidate that type of reaction in him still. It had been awhile since I had felt anything besides disgust about myself.
"Okay, I'll run out. I'll be right back." I threw on my shirt and buttoned it up furiously. I grabbed my wallet and raced out the door. The desert night hit me as if to try and wake me up. A flood of thoughts followed. I got to the 7/11, hands wrapped around my waist. I stalked the aisles for condoms.
"What am I doing?" I asked myself.
I found what I was looking for, staring back at me. A turquoise pack of Trojans—I grabbed a two pack and walked up to the counter. The Indian man eyed my suspiciously as he placed the barcode underneath the red dancing lights of the scanner. "Is that all?" he asked. I looked at the small man, framed by multi-colored packs of cigarettes.
"I'll have a pack of camel lights, please." He reached up and grabbed a pack from the rack above his head.
"Do you need matches?"
"Oh," I looked down at the counter. There were several different types of lighters, different sizes, different colors. 'Which color?' I thought to myself. Like it fucking mattered. I grabbed the purple one and tossed it towards the man.
"That will be $10.75 please."
"Jesus Christ, things are expensive these days. How much were the cigarettes?" I asked while handing him exact change.
"They were $5.75" he responded.
My recklessness was already costing me. I just had no idea how much I would end up having to pay until the night was over.
I walked back to the motel as fast as I could without tripping. I needed to act fast before I changed my mind.
I took the pack of condoms out of the bag, and unwrapping them, ripped one off and put it in my pocket. I tapped lightly on the door. Danny opened the door, and pulling me into his arms threw me on the bed and begun undressing me.
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I reached into my pocket and took out the spare Trojan. "I slept with him."
"Who did you sleep with?" Rita asked puzzled.
"Danny. I met him for dinner last night, but we didn't get to the actual meal. We went to the Trade Winds and I slept with him."
"You sure you ain't a prostitute?"
I shivered when I remembered what followed, "Maybe I am."
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The sex was different that what I had remembered. Danny had always been good in bed. His body is perfectly built; I had always felt like a lump underneath him. Like it was a sin for someone as plain as me to be allowed to sleep with him.
But this time was different. It was cold. We were both a million miles away.
When we finished I laid back and stared at the wall. I reached into the 7/11 bag and produced the pack of smokes and the lighter. There was an ashtray next to the bed which I took as encouragement. Danny's back was turned when I lit up.
"Since when do you smoke?" he asked incredulously.
"Since now"
"You haven't smoked for…six years. Not since I've known you."
"Well tonight, I'm breaking all the rules."
"Does that mean you'll have a beer with me?"
I looked at him. It didn't seem like he was trying to be antagonizing. He smiled, and I thought, 'You know what fuck it. Tonight I don't care anymore. I need this. I need to be with Danny, and to forget about the last two years of hell I've been through. I need to be distracted and feel comfortable for once in my miserable fucking existence.'
"Sure."
"Yes!" he responded pumping his fist in the air.
He opened the fridge and handed me the already opened beer. I took the beer and looked at Danny. He was smiling at me. He tapped the bottom of my beer with his and toasted, "To making bad decisions with good friends."
I could drink to that. We didn't take our eyes off each other as we both took a swig. My beer tasted sour. It wasn't how I remembered beer to taste. Then I remembered, I am an alcoholic—it never mattered how it tasted. And I took another swig. My head felt light, I put the beer down on the night stand. I took another drag from my cigarette and focused on Danny. He wasn't looking at me now. He had his boxers on and was rifling through his bag.
Danny sat down in the chair next to the desk, with his feet on the bed like before. He was twiddling something in his fingers. I couldn't make it out. It looked like a coin, but larger and the wrong color.
"I always felt bad about that night you know."
"No, I don't know."
I took another drag from my smoke and exhaled loudly. The cigarette wasn't as good as I thought it would be. It was making me far too dizzy. My stomach started to hurt. I reached over and took another swig of beer, hoping it would help. It didn't.
"Well I did. I'll never forgive myself for what I had to do that night. It's just a shame that I didn't finish the job then."
My eyes started to burn, I couldn't see the light around Danny's face. I tried to understand what he was saying, "…job?"
"You were never supposed to leave that car accident alive you know."
I shook my head—partly because I didn't know, and partly hoping to shake away the cloud of darkness that was descending on my brain.
"You didn't think I was going to leave you alive did you? You might have been just a drunk but you knew too much."
My head swam. I had done a lot of shit for Danny in the past—helped him steal things, hurt people. I couldn't imagine what he was talking about, but then it clicked.
Danny had concocted a scheme to steal from the home where I worked. It was the one thing I prided myself on. I was a drunk, but I got up every day and went to work. I worked at an elderly care facility as a maid. I would clean beds and talk to the people who lived there like they were part of an extended family. Once a week the home would take the seniors to a small casino near the facility, the winnings were kept at the home by the staff so that they wouldn't lose it, and would have money to spend the next week. Danny wanted to steal some of the earnings—which, when it came down to it was just petty cash. Either way, I was disgusted by the idea. Not to mention the home had been the one normal thing in my life. The one thing I couldn't fuck up. My job there meant day care for Jacob. My son Jacob, who was dead.
I remember when I came to in the hospital, I heard about the robbery. Someone had broken into the home and stolen several hundreds of thousands of dollars. Unbeknownst to me the home had kept more than just the casino earnings in the safe. The money was keeping the place running, and without it the home had to be shut down. A lot of people who lived there had to leave, and a lot of them had no place to go. It made me shudder. At the time, I had no idea that Danny could have been behind it. I was too fucked up from the accident and from losing my son to think about it. It was then that I decided I would go sober. I was transferred to a rehab facility from the hospital, and it was there that I met Joan.
I tried to focus on Danny. "I didn't know…"
"You would have figured it out. It was only a matter of time. I know how much you loved those old people."
"But that was two years ago."
"Don't you read the fucking papers? It's been all over the news, they are re-opening the case. They're planning on talking to all the staff members that worked there. That means you."
The darkness was taking over. I could barely control my tongue.
"I would…never…"
"How am I supposed to know that for sure?"
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Well I was just going to kill you. I didn't expect you to be so…eager, for me. That was just an added bonus. I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't prepared."
The feeling of disgust floored me. I couldn't stand to be in my own skin. I wanted to vomit, but my stomach was too preoccupied with other things to obey.
Then he was on top of me. He stroked my hair. I tried to pull away but I was too weak, he was pinning me down.
"Why don't I help you put on some clothes. At least you'll die with some dignity. I'd hate for you to be discovered…naked. That would be so pathetic."
He got up and grabbed my jeans. He put them back on me with about the same about of force he used to take them off.
"Now we don't have much time, the drug I put in your beer should knock you out pretty soon. But I wanted to give you this," he held a chip up to my face. It said $1,000. "It'll help pay for your funeral. It belonged to one of those old bitties you loved so much. He shoved it into my pocket. Then he grabbed my beer from the night stand and poured the rest of its contents down my throat. I remember sputtering and choking on it. "Bad night to fall off the wagon, eh Bean?"
I closed my eyes and let the warm tears escape down my cheeks. "Ah darlin' don't cry! Just think you get to see Jacob now."
That set me off, "Don't you ever say my son's name again."
"Ah, that's right," he responded. "You won't see your son," he spat out the word like it was poison. "You were such a shitty mom, there's no way you're going where he is. He probably wouldn't want to see you anyways."
He grabbed his jacket and finished his beer before putting the empty bottle into his bag. He swept the room for any evidence that would trace back to him. He took the pen and hotel stationary on the side table and wrote a note. I didn't look at what it said. He purveyed his work.
"I guess it's that time Bean. You probably have…" he looked at his watch, and shook his from side to side, "Ten? Naw, less than ten minutes."
"Fuck you Danny." I managed to say through gritted teeth.
He reached over and pulled my hair back. He looked me in the eyes and kissed my forehead. "See you in Hell, Bean."
The door slammed. I waited for death to overcome me as I got more and more tired. I managed to prop myself up a little bit and look at the note he had left. It was a suicide note. I lifted my very heavy hand and ripped the note from the top of the pad. I took the pen and scribbled the message the best I could.
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I blinked, taking in everything I could from the room. Trying to digest everything I had just remembered.
"There was a chip, from the Casino." I mumbled to myself forgetting Rita sitting next to me.
"Shit," she responded.
Startled, I looked at Rita. She was digging into her bra. After a minute she produced the chip. "I didn't think you'd be needing it," she said as she tried to hand it over.
"No, no it's okay," I said distractedly. I stood up and thrust my hands into my pockets. I found the crumbled up piece of paper.
I remember seeing the Indian man again. I must have gone back to the 7/11. I can't imagine how I got there.
I opened the note and read the message:
Danny killed Jacob.
My body shook. Everything came flooding back to me.
"MISS MARIE BEA DEAN?"
My name rung through my ears. No one called me Marie. It reminded me of my grandmother, or of school. Authority figures. Well, I guess I was in jail.
"Yes," I replied.
"You are free to go. We just need you to sign some paperwork."
I turned back to Rita, "Thank you."
"Naw, girl thank YOU," she said, lifting the chip and putting it back into her bra. "Hope you figure your shit out."
I could hear her finish her thought, "crazy bitch" as I left the drunk tank. I smiled. It felt like for the first time in two years I figured my shit out. Danny was going to wish he had finished the job the first time, and the second time.
"Ma'am you sure you are okay? You looked awful sick last night."
"I'm fine—fine enough to go to work actually," I smiled at the officer.
"Well your truck is out front, we had it towed from the Trade Winds," with the mention of the motel he looked me up and down, "Just take it easy for awhile okay?"
"Will do officer."
As I walked out I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out the note again. All those years, I had blamed myself for my son's death.
I put the keys in the ignition of my truck and started the engine. I was going to work. For the first time in a long time I had a job to do.
I was going to kill the motherfucker that killed my son.
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A Bad Night to Fall Off the Wagon
By Krisserin Canary
My head was throbbing. Either it was a seriously bad case of being hungover or a pretty traumatic head injury. Either way I was in desperate need of some ibuprofen. I could feel the vein in my temple throb against the ground below my head. The surface was cool against my skin, and it was making the pain in my head a little more bearable. I thought about trying to open my eyes, but just the idea made my head feel heavier and my stomach flip upside down.
I tried to orientate myself. "Where am I?"
I thought for a moment that I may have passed out on the floor of my bathroom. But the texture of the cement underneath me told me I wasn't in my house. It smelled different here too, completely unfamiliar. Almost sterile, like a hospital.
In the distance I could hear people chatting, phones ringing and feet scuffling against a floor with the same consistency as that which was under my head.
"Am I lying on the floor?" I asked myself, disgusted by the possibility. That was enough, I cracked open my eyes. Everything around me was alien, foreign. My head spun; completely disorientated I reached out to find a metal basin within my reach. My hands latched onto it, out of what must have been muscle memory, and pulling myself up to the bowl I heaved my empty stomach into the metal toilet.
Nothing came out. It was then that I realized the dryness of my mouth, and the acidity of my tongue which was rough enough to resemble a cat's. My throat was sore and I could taste at the back of my mouth the remnants of cigarette smoke.
"That can't be right." I hadn't had a cigarette since I quit six years ago. I used the little strength left in my body to lift myself off the ground and sit myself down on the toilet.
"Oh, no you don't bitch. Piss or get off the pot, you've been monopolizing that shit all night."
I opened my eyes and took in Rita. All 180 pounds of her 5'1" frame. Her wide eyes mimicked the impatience screaming across her face.
"If you don't move I'm gonna piss in your lap," she continued. If her tone hadn't convinced me enough, she began lifting up her skirt, revealing a tattered cotton thong that was struggling to contain the many folds of her lower belly. I jumped up just in time to get out of Rita's way, the side of her butt cheek grazing the top of my thigh.
"I'm-m so-sorry," I managed to rasp out.
"Whatever bitch, don't stare at me while I'm pissin'."
I sat myself on the bench next to the toilet, putting my head in my hands and letting it sink between my knees. I closed my eyes and tried to breathe.
I opened my eyes and looked around me. I was in jail. The blue parallel bars making up the left wall of our cell reinforced the fact. How in the fuck did I get in here? I can't believe I let myself get to this point again. I fumbled into my pocket and took out my chip. Two fucking years of sobriety and now this shit.
I tried to think about last night. I had met up with Danny for dinner. I remember what Joan, my sponsor, had said to me before I went out. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" She asked me while twisting her hair between her thumb and forefinger. She had been so helpful to me in the two years of my sobriety. She had been there when I almost relapsed. Shot of whisky in hand, I let her pry It from my fingers. She knew about my son, Jacob. But there was still so much about me she didn't know. So much I couldn't tell her. I loved her like a sister but she was weak. I resented her for that. There were things that I needed help with that she could never deal with. I needed someone stronger. I needed Danny.
When Danny called it was like the gods had heard my pleas and were sending him to me for good behavior. I remember waiting for him at the bar of the restaurant. I remember that sitting at the bar hadn't made me nervous. I wasn't at all tempted by the liquor lined up behind the counter, lit up with blue mercurial lights. My head stabbed with pain, I gasped for air, squeezing my temples together with the heels of my hands, trying to keep my brain from exploding. Maybe I had been tempted after all.
I tried to remember what happened after I saw Danny walk through the door of the restaurant. I could see the light piercing the darkness of the restaurant, and the warm air pushing its way through the door. Sand followed Danny in like an unwanted visitor. It was Vegas; there isn't much you can do about the sand in the desert. I remember him sitting down next to me ordering his drink.
"Beefeater straight." I cringed recalling the sound of his voice. I ordered a diet coke.
He smiled at me, "On the wagon, eh?"
"Two years and counting," I said. I felt for the chip in my pocket, it was still there.
"That's a shame. It's a nice night for a drink."
I thought about the night outside. It was twilight—one of those warm desert evenings that always felt better with a beer in your hand, washing away the hot day with a cold brew. But I knew better. As an alcoholic, I was always looking for an excuse to drink. I tried to push the beer commercial out of my mind. I knew Danny was going to make it difficult for me.
------------------------------------------------------------
The sound of the toilet flushing snapped me back to the present. Rita was wiping her ass, the smell permeating through the cell letting us know she had done more than just pee. A wave of gratitude washed over me, that I had been mobile enough to get out of her way.
Rita was staring at me. I knew her name was Rita. How do I know her name is Rita?
Her expression changed. She was pissed. "Say, what the fuck is your problem? Ain't you seen someone take a shit before?"
Her crudeness made me cringe. Shaking it off without being too obvious, I remembered what was important. "Why do I know your name is Rita?"
"Because I told you, don't you remember nothing?"
"Um, no actually… I can't really remember anything. How long have I been in here?"
"You were here when I got here. I was busted around 2:00 a.m., and…shit what time is it now? Hold on." Rita's thick legs shook back and forth as she made her way over to the bars. She was far more graceful than a woman of her size should be allowed to be. "YO STEVE!" she yelled, hands wrapped around the bars.
Her call brought a tall black man over to the bars. He had his thumbs hooked into his pants. "What is it Rita?" he asked trying to sound annoyed. He was trying to force down the smile spreading across his face.
She fluttered her eyelashes at him and purred, "What time is it baby?"
He lifted his watch to his waist, quickly glancing at it after taking one trip up and down Rita's barely contained body with his eyes, "It's 11:30 a.m. darling."
"Thanks baby," she said winking at Steve before shaking her ass back towards me. She sat and stretched her legs out in front of her. She reached her hands down towards her ankles and groaned as her body released the tension in her hamstrings. "Shit girl, it's too early for me to be awake. Did you hear what he said?"
"Yea, 11:30—that means I've been here for at least…" I did the math in my head but Rita was quicker.
"Nine hours."
"Was I awake when you came in?"
"You were talking to yourself. Muttering some shit about killing somebody, and you kept saying 'Jacob, Jacob!'". She imitated a distressed tone. "I told that motherfucker Steve that I didn't want to be put up in no cell with a crazy bitch, but he said you were just drunk or some shit, so I figured I could take you if you went crazy on me. I can handle drunks."
"I don't drink." I replied, as if by knee jerk reaction.
"You did last night, girl."
I got back to the point, "So how do I know your name?"
Rita looked away from me, eyes scanning the blank cinder block wall to our right. "You were pretty sick last night. I helped you out a bit."
I tried to swallow the thick heavy lump in my throat. It wouldn't go down. "Thank you," I whispered.
"Don't mention it," she replied running her fingers through her nappy, tangled hair. I took a moment when she was looking away to get a better look at Rita. She wasn't wearing much, a haltered tank top and a too-short skirt that barely covered Rita's round butt. She was a large woman, but proportionally built for her size. She had kind eyes, the kind that were filled with understanding and empathy. Her head swung around. She had caught me looking at her again. It didn't seem to bother her as much this time.
"So tell me, if you don't drink, how did you manage to get so fucked up last night?"
"I don't know," I replied honestly. "I really can't remember anything. One minute, I was meeting an old friend for dinner. The next, I'm half-alive in a jail cell."
It was then that I acknowledged a sharp pain, a pinching feeling against my thigh. I must have been ignoring it—the pain distracting me from the pain in my head. I reached into my pocket and took out a pen. It was from a hotel. "Trade Winds Motel."
"Girl, what you doing at the Trade Winds? You a prostitute?"
"No!" I shrieked out, maybe a little too quickly. I looked at Rita again, hoping my reaction didn't offend her. "Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's the world's oldest profession you know."
"Girl relax, I ain't no prostitute. I mean, I tried it a couple times, but turning tricks ain't my thing. I was asking you because the Trade Winds is the type of place that you rent by the hour, if you know what I mean."
"Oh," I studied the lines of the cinder block wall in front of me. I tried to push the pain in my head aside. I willed it to the back of my head, trying to focus the front part of my brain on remembering the rest of the night.
------------------------------------------------------------
"I don't drink," I had said again. My mouth felt dry after picturing the idyllic desert sunset with a beer in my hand. Thankfully, the bartender brought our drinks over in time. I picked up my diet coke and sucked it down quickly. Too quickly, Danny had noticed. He had always been more perceptive than most other people. Or maybe it was just with me. He lifted his glass and swirled it in front of my nose, "Are you sure?"
The gin wasn't much of a temptation. I had always hated the way it smelled. It stung my nose and I brought my hand up to block the vapors coming off the glass.
"I don't drink Danny."
"You said that, but it would be rude of me not to offer," he smiled and watched me as he took a sip.
"What would be rude would be if you offered again. Enough of this, why are we here." He put his glass down on the counter with a thud. Tiny droplets flew off in several different directions. "Not that I'm not pleased to see you," I followed up. I looked at him through my eye lashes and tried to force a smile. I didn't want to scare him away. The thought of my anger making him leave made me feel anxious. He smiled at me and my confidence was gone. "I'm just confused, why you wanted to see me."
"I missed you Bean." My stomach fluttered when he used my old nickname.
"I missed you too Danny."
"And I need to talk to you."
"Ok!" I said, maybe a little too eagerly.
"Not here, I need somewhere more private."
I heard Joan's voice bouncing off the walls in my head. 'Just dinner, then you say your goodbyes. Don't go anywhere with him, keep it short.' I understood her concern. It was dangerous allowing myself to get too close to Danny again. But Joan didn't know enough about the situation. In fact, Joan didn't know shit. "Where do you want to go?"
------------------------------------------------------------
My head began pounding again with a vengeance.
"I think I remember going to the trade winds," I said looking at Rita. She nodded at me, studying my face.
"Do you remember who you were there with? Were you with Jacob?"
I cringed; my stomach which had already felt acidic took a stab.
"No, Jacob is my son. He's dead."
Rita nodded again. "I lost my baby girl about two years ago. I know how that is. I'm sorry."
"It's okay. Why do you keep asking me about Jacob?"
"You kept repeating his name when you were out."
That didn't surprise me. I often said his name in my sleep. I tried to forget about it and moved on. I focused on the Trade Winds.
------------------------------------------------------------
I had followed him there. He pulled up to the motel and parked in front of a row of rooms. I parked in the spot next to him, and got out of my truck. He jumped down out of his truck and took a key card out of his wallet. With a swift movement he opened the door to the room in front of our cars.
"How did you know I would come with you?"
"I didn't actually. I've been staying here awhile." He didn't look at me as he threw off his coat. He took my jacket and slung it over the back of the chair next to a small desk in the corner of the room. He walked into the bathroom. He was wearing a cut-off shirt, and his arms peaked through as if the sheer size of them had ripped the sleeves clear off. I could see his wide shoulders stretching the material of his shirt across his back. He was beautiful. He always had been. When he reappeared he was rubbing his face with a towel. The front of his curly gold hair just a tad bit damp.
"So you wanted to talk?" He looked up at me and smiled. His swathe body bent over and opened the mini fridge hiding below the television. He took out two beers and twisted open their tops. Taking a swig from his with one hand, he used his other hand to hand me the beer.
"Danny…"
"I know you don't drink Bean. I'll just leave it here in the fridge for you in case you change your mind." He sat in the chair by the desk and kicked his boots off, putting his feet up on the bed. I sat down next to his feet and looked around.
"I've really missed you Bean. You look beautiful."
I smiled. Danny used to be so wonderful to me. I used to feel like nothing could hurt me when I was with him. Until that one day he left me. Things had changed since then.
"I'm so sorry Bean. I should have never left you like that."
"You mean left me for dead? Bleeding out, alone in that fucking street? Yea, I don't think anyone should be left like that."
"There was a lot going on back then Bean. I'm so sorry. And Jacob…Jesus. I didn't know."
I knew. The car accident had left me and my son mangled. The last time I had seen Danny he was fleeing from the scene of the accident. I had just enough time to cradle Jacob in my arms and kiss him before he died. Danny made it out with a scratch. Physically, or on paper. The fucker left us there without calling the cops because he had been fucked up when he was driving. The accident was his fault. He didn't want a DUI. My face screwed up in anger. He could see it, but was there before I could say anything. He reached his left hand into my hair and took his right hand, the one which was still holding the beer and grabbed the side of my chin.
"I was a despicable human being back then Bean. I'm changed now. I would never do anything to hurt you." And then he kissed me. My head floated and my eyes rolled back. I could taste the beer on his lips and the gin on his tongue. I knew what I was doing was wrong but I didn't care. The taste of alcohol only made it more dangerous. It had been awhile since I had done anything this risky with my life.
He began unbuttoning my shirt and kissed by chest. My head screamed that what I was doing was wrong, but my body heaved upwards towards him.
He stopped and it felt like my heart stopped. I looked down at him, his head was resting on my knees.
"Bean, I don't have protection. I wasn't planning on something like this happening."
"Oh," I replied. "Do you want to go grab something? There is a 7/11 right outside, I'll wait for you." He smiled at me again, my knees begun to shake. I was nervous.
"I can't really go anywhere in this state Bean." He stood up and I noticed the lump in his pants. I giggled. Half embarrassed and half happy that I could elucidate that type of reaction in him still. It had been awhile since I had felt anything besides disgust about myself.
"Okay, I'll run out. I'll be right back." I threw on my shirt and buttoned it up furiously. I grabbed my wallet and raced out the door. The desert night hit me as if to try and wake me up. A flood of thoughts followed. I got to the 7/11, hands wrapped around my waist. I stalked the aisles for condoms.
"What am I doing?" I asked myself.
I found what I was looking for, staring back at me. A turquoise pack of Trojans—I grabbed a two pack and walked up to the counter. The Indian man eyed my suspiciously as he placed the barcode underneath the red dancing lights of the scanner. "Is that all?" he asked. I looked at the small man, framed by multi-colored packs of cigarettes.
"I'll have a pack of camel lights, please." He reached up and grabbed a pack from the rack above his head.
"Do you need matches?"
"Oh," I looked down at the counter. There were several different types of lighters, different sizes, different colors. 'Which color?' I thought to myself. Like it fucking mattered. I grabbed the purple one and tossed it towards the man.
"That will be $10.75 please."
"Jesus Christ, things are expensive these days. How much were the cigarettes?" I asked while handing him exact change.
"They were $5.75" he responded.
My recklessness was already costing me. I just had no idea how much I would end up having to pay until the night was over.
I walked back to the motel as fast as I could without tripping. I needed to act fast before I changed my mind.
I took the pack of condoms out of the bag, and unwrapping them, ripped one off and put it in my pocket. I tapped lightly on the door. Danny opened the door, and pulling me into his arms threw me on the bed and begun undressing me.
------------------------------------------------------------
I reached into my pocket and took out the spare Trojan. "I slept with him."
"Who did you sleep with?" Rita asked puzzled.
"Danny. I met him for dinner last night, but we didn't get to the actual meal. We went to the Trade Winds and I slept with him."
"You sure you ain't a prostitute?"
I shivered when I remembered what followed, "Maybe I am."
------------------------------------------------------------
The sex was different that what I had remembered. Danny had always been good in bed. His body is perfectly built; I had always felt like a lump underneath him. Like it was a sin for someone as plain as me to be allowed to sleep with him.
But this time was different. It was cold. We were both a million miles away.
When we finished I laid back and stared at the wall. I reached into the 7/11 bag and produced the pack of smokes and the lighter. There was an ashtray next to the bed which I took as encouragement. Danny's back was turned when I lit up.
"Since when do you smoke?" he asked incredulously.
"Since now"
"You haven't smoked for…six years. Not since I've known you."
"Well tonight, I'm breaking all the rules."
"Does that mean you'll have a beer with me?"
I looked at him. It didn't seem like he was trying to be antagonizing. He smiled, and I thought, 'You know what fuck it. Tonight I don't care anymore. I need this. I need to be with Danny, and to forget about the last two years of hell I've been through. I need to be distracted and feel comfortable for once in my miserable fucking existence.'
"Sure."
"Yes!" he responded pumping his fist in the air.
He opened the fridge and handed me the already opened beer. I took the beer and looked at Danny. He was smiling at me. He tapped the bottom of my beer with his and toasted, "To making bad decisions with good friends."
I could drink to that. We didn't take our eyes off each other as we both took a swig. My beer tasted sour. It wasn't how I remembered beer to taste. Then I remembered, I am an alcoholic—it never mattered how it tasted. And I took another swig. My head felt light, I put the beer down on the night stand. I took another drag from my cigarette and focused on Danny. He wasn't looking at me now. He had his boxers on and was rifling through his bag.
Danny sat down in the chair next to the desk, with his feet on the bed like before. He was twiddling something in his fingers. I couldn't make it out. It looked like a coin, but larger and the wrong color.
"I always felt bad about that night you know."
"No, I don't know."
I took another drag from my smoke and exhaled loudly. The cigarette wasn't as good as I thought it would be. It was making me far too dizzy. My stomach started to hurt. I reached over and took another swig of beer, hoping it would help. It didn't.
"Well I did. I'll never forgive myself for what I had to do that night. It's just a shame that I didn't finish the job then."
My eyes started to burn, I couldn't see the light around Danny's face. I tried to understand what he was saying, "…job?"
"You were never supposed to leave that car accident alive you know."
I shook my head—partly because I didn't know, and partly hoping to shake away the cloud of darkness that was descending on my brain.
"You didn't think I was going to leave you alive did you? You might have been just a drunk but you knew too much."
My head swam. I had done a lot of shit for Danny in the past—helped him steal things, hurt people. I couldn't imagine what he was talking about, but then it clicked.
Danny had concocted a scheme to steal from the home where I worked. It was the one thing I prided myself on. I was a drunk, but I got up every day and went to work. I worked at an elderly care facility as a maid. I would clean beds and talk to the people who lived there like they were part of an extended family. Once a week the home would take the seniors to a small casino near the facility, the winnings were kept at the home by the staff so that they wouldn't lose it, and would have money to spend the next week. Danny wanted to steal some of the earnings—which, when it came down to it was just petty cash. Either way, I was disgusted by the idea. Not to mention the home had been the one normal thing in my life. The one thing I couldn't fuck up. My job there meant day care for Jacob. My son Jacob, who was dead.
I remember when I came to in the hospital, I heard about the robbery. Someone had broken into the home and stolen several hundreds of thousands of dollars. Unbeknownst to me the home had kept more than just the casino earnings in the safe. The money was keeping the place running, and without it the home had to be shut down. A lot of people who lived there had to leave, and a lot of them had no place to go. It made me shudder. At the time, I had no idea that Danny could have been behind it. I was too fucked up from the accident and from losing my son to think about it. It was then that I decided I would go sober. I was transferred to a rehab facility from the hospital, and it was there that I met Joan.
I tried to focus on Danny. "I didn't know…"
"You would have figured it out. It was only a matter of time. I know how much you loved those old people."
"But that was two years ago."
"Don't you read the fucking papers? It's been all over the news, they are re-opening the case. They're planning on talking to all the staff members that worked there. That means you."
The darkness was taking over. I could barely control my tongue.
"I would…never…"
"How am I supposed to know that for sure?"
"Why did you bring me here?"
"Well I was just going to kill you. I didn't expect you to be so…eager, for me. That was just an added bonus. I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't prepared."
The feeling of disgust floored me. I couldn't stand to be in my own skin. I wanted to vomit, but my stomach was too preoccupied with other things to obey.
Then he was on top of me. He stroked my hair. I tried to pull away but I was too weak, he was pinning me down.
"Why don't I help you put on some clothes. At least you'll die with some dignity. I'd hate for you to be discovered…naked. That would be so pathetic."
He got up and grabbed my jeans. He put them back on me with about the same about of force he used to take them off.
"Now we don't have much time, the drug I put in your beer should knock you out pretty soon. But I wanted to give you this," he held a chip up to my face. It said $1,000. "It'll help pay for your funeral. It belonged to one of those old bitties you loved so much. He shoved it into my pocket. Then he grabbed my beer from the night stand and poured the rest of its contents down my throat. I remember sputtering and choking on it. "Bad night to fall off the wagon, eh Bean?"
I closed my eyes and let the warm tears escape down my cheeks. "Ah darlin' don't cry! Just think you get to see Jacob now."
That set me off, "Don't you ever say my son's name again."
"Ah, that's right," he responded. "You won't see your son," he spat out the word like it was poison. "You were such a shitty mom, there's no way you're going where he is. He probably wouldn't want to see you anyways."
He grabbed his jacket and finished his beer before putting the empty bottle into his bag. He swept the room for any evidence that would trace back to him. He took the pen and hotel stationary on the side table and wrote a note. I didn't look at what it said. He purveyed his work.
"I guess it's that time Bean. You probably have…" he looked at his watch, and shook his from side to side, "Ten? Naw, less than ten minutes."
"Fuck you Danny." I managed to say through gritted teeth.
He reached over and pulled my hair back. He looked me in the eyes and kissed my forehead. "See you in Hell, Bean."
The door slammed. I waited for death to overcome me as I got more and more tired. I managed to prop myself up a little bit and look at the note he had left. It was a suicide note. I lifted my very heavy hand and ripped the note from the top of the pad. I took the pen and scribbled the message the best I could.
------------------------------------------------------------
I blinked, taking in everything I could from the room. Trying to digest everything I had just remembered.
"There was a chip, from the Casino." I mumbled to myself forgetting Rita sitting next to me.
"Shit," she responded.
Startled, I looked at Rita. She was digging into her bra. After a minute she produced the chip. "I didn't think you'd be needing it," she said as she tried to hand it over.
"No, no it's okay," I said distractedly. I stood up and thrust my hands into my pockets. I found the crumbled up piece of paper.
I remember seeing the Indian man again. I must have gone back to the 7/11. I can't imagine how I got there.
I opened the note and read the message:
Danny killed Jacob.
My body shook. Everything came flooding back to me.
"MISS MARIE BEA DEAN?"
My name rung through my ears. No one called me Marie. It reminded me of my grandmother, or of school. Authority figures. Well, I guess I was in jail.
"Yes," I replied.
"You are free to go. We just need you to sign some paperwork."
I turned back to Rita, "Thank you."
"Naw, girl thank YOU," she said, lifting the chip and putting it back into her bra. "Hope you figure your shit out."
I could hear her finish her thought, "crazy bitch" as I left the drunk tank. I smiled. It felt like for the first time in two years I figured my shit out. Danny was going to wish he had finished the job the first time, and the second time.
"Ma'am you sure you are okay? You looked awful sick last night."
"I'm fine—fine enough to go to work actually," I smiled at the officer.
"Well your truck is out front, we had it towed from the Trade Winds," with the mention of the motel he looked me up and down, "Just take it easy for awhile okay?"
"Will do officer."
As I walked out I stuck my hand in my pocket and took out the note again. All those years, I had blamed myself for my son's death.
I put the keys in the ignition of my truck and started the engine. I was going to work. For the first time in a long time I had a job to do.
I was going to kill the motherfucker that killed my son.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Brandi Carlile - The Story
Damn GM commercials. I've had this song stuck in my head because they play the same commercials over and over again on NBC because of the Olympics. So I hunted this song down and found the acoustic version, and it's just beautiful. Brandi Carlile has such a powerful voice.
So I'm putting it here for others to discover--plus it makes it easier for me to find whenever I feel like listening to it, rather than going to YouTube and searching for the same video every time.
So I'm putting it here for others to discover--plus it makes it easier for me to find whenever I feel like listening to it, rather than going to YouTube and searching for the same video every time.
Somebody stop me, the Twilight series is taking over my life.
I don't know why I always do this to myself. Ever since Little Women when I was in 6th grade, I've allowed myself to become consumed with books. I get lost in the worlds the authors create, and carried away in the lives of the characters. When the book (or book(s) in this case) is over, I fall into a deep depression. A kind of grief for the loss of the characters in my life...it's very nearly pathetic.
About two weeks ago, the intern at LIVESTRONG, Emily, forced me to read Twilight by Stephenie Meyer. It didn't take long, actually, it only took about 10 hours for me to finish the book. Only the rest of the week to finish the 3 that followed. That's 2,592 pages in less than 30 hours people. Considering I probably read from 8:30-1:30 every night (tuesday-thursday, then on the plane friday and sunday, and again sunday night. Monday night I finished at about 9:30. A total of about 30 hours). It was ridiculous. I was like a drug addict, when I wasn't reading I was thinking about reading. I would sneak breaks during the day at work to have a cuppa coffee and read a chapter.
Well, once that was over I re-read my other favorite vampire series Marked. Which is about 900 pages worth of blood lust goodness. Unfortunately that only lasted 3 days, rounding out last week and leaving me bookless and numb. So what did I decided I was going to do? I read twilight again yesterday. Yes, the whole book in one day. I'm seriously considering re-reading the whole series, but Emily gave me a few books as parting gifts (her departure from the office and our shared love of the series has only increased the feeling of loss), so I feel like I owe it to her to read them first.
It's beyond difficult to read anything else right now. It's like filling a void with these damn books--and as much as I don't want to indulge, as much as I know it will only make finishing them the second time more painful, I do it anyways.
It's almost as bad as when I finished Harry Potter. Who knows, it could be worse. Either way I struggle with the conundrum--do I try and distract myself, read a new book, or work on my own writing. Or do I allow myself to fall into the oubliette of the Twilight series once again?
I can haz copy editor?
Some might not think this story is funny, but wait until you get to the second paragraph.
Thursday, August 14, 2008
I got a brand new hair-do...
It took a really long time for me to resign myself to cutting my hair. It had been long for quite some time and I finally allowed myself to chop it all off. Boyan, of course was very hesitant, but I emerged with a whole new do and am very happy with it.
Before:
After:
Thoughts?
Before:
After:
Thoughts?
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Coming soon
New job details, Ruth and Louis's wedding, Chicago trip and United Airlines vendetta, my new hair cut and the Stephenie Meyer Twilight series.
Torn Apart
I discovered this new musician who wrote a song that I really liked. The words are beautiful and I wanted to share. Here they are transcribed, because you can't find them online anywhere:
Torn Apart, Larry Gallagher
In my last life,
A couple years ago,
I wrote a note to a distant friend,
I'll never really know.
Responding to my fear that she was falling through the net,
And words I don't remember,
And I cannot forget.
She said it's kind of you,
To ask of me.
But my legs, still move and my
Eyes still see.
And this job I have,
Lets me use my brain.
They treat me well,
So I can't complain.
I get out on the weekends,
And I'm grateful for my friends.
And it feels like real life is just around the bend.
I'm alright,
What can I say?
And I'm torn apart every day.
Well I read those words,
They left no chains,
Cause I was never the source of her pain.
And it came at a time,
When I had no doubt,
Thought that I had discovered a real way out.
And it seemed like such a waste,
And I spun out of control,
This endless life of souls,
Willing to burn the years away,
Being torn apart every day.
But times change and worlds end,
That's not news.
And what was once clear,
Is once again confused.
People stop me on the street
They ask if I'm okay.
I'm not sure how much they want to hear,
or how much I want to say.
So I say it's kind of you,
to ask of me.
But my legs, still move and my
Eyes still see.
And this job I have,
Let's me use my brain.
They treat me well,
so I can't complain.
I get out on the weekends,
and I'm grateful for my friends.
It feels like real life is just around the bend.
And what I feel, but I don't say,
is that I'm torn apart every day.
You can hear the song for yourself here.
Torn Apart, Larry Gallagher
In my last life,
A couple years ago,
I wrote a note to a distant friend,
I'll never really know.
Responding to my fear that she was falling through the net,
And words I don't remember,
And I cannot forget.
She said it's kind of you,
To ask of me.
But my legs, still move and my
Eyes still see.
And this job I have,
Lets me use my brain.
They treat me well,
So I can't complain.
I get out on the weekends,
And I'm grateful for my friends.
And it feels like real life is just around the bend.
I'm alright,
What can I say?
And I'm torn apart every day.
Well I read those words,
They left no chains,
Cause I was never the source of her pain.
And it came at a time,
When I had no doubt,
Thought that I had discovered a real way out.
And it seemed like such a waste,
And I spun out of control,
This endless life of souls,
Willing to burn the years away,
Being torn apart every day.
But times change and worlds end,
That's not news.
And what was once clear,
Is once again confused.
People stop me on the street
They ask if I'm okay.
I'm not sure how much they want to hear,
or how much I want to say.
So I say it's kind of you,
to ask of me.
But my legs, still move and my
Eyes still see.
And this job I have,
Let's me use my brain.
They treat me well,
so I can't complain.
I get out on the weekends,
and I'm grateful for my friends.
It feels like real life is just around the bend.
And what I feel, but I don't say,
is that I'm torn apart every day.
You can hear the song for yourself here.
Friday, June 20, 2008
I don't need it, but I WANT IT! Kenneth Cobonpue furniture
I think I might have posted on this furniture before, but apartment therapy had it up on their site and that same guttural urge returned to me. I really like this furniture!!! I want the bed and couch for the house on my private island.
An addition to our little family
Well...not in the way you'd think. Today, Boyan and I are picking up our new baby!
Boyan needs an alternate mode of transportation now that I'll be commuting to and from Santa Monica for the next few months, and we thought, what could be better than a little scooter to putt putt around town in?
After much research and careful consideration we decided on the Lance Phoenix. It's got a 150CC engine, which means it gets 75 MPG. It also means it goes a max of 60MPH.
Either way, it's super convenient for around-town travel, and I'm sure that when we move back to the west side I'll be getting one for myself.
All we need now is a sidecar for Heidi!
Boyan needs an alternate mode of transportation now that I'll be commuting to and from Santa Monica for the next few months, and we thought, what could be better than a little scooter to putt putt around town in?After much research and careful consideration we decided on the Lance Phoenix. It's got a 150CC engine, which means it gets 75 MPG. It also means it goes a max of 60MPH.
Either way, it's super convenient for around-town travel, and I'm sure that when we move back to the west side I'll be getting one for myself.
All we need now is a sidecar for Heidi!
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Doctors are slackers
I had scheduled today off six weeks in advance, because I had planned to have two doctors appointments today. Okay, one doctors appointment and one dentist appointment. I got a call at 8:00 a.m. this morning (seriously...wtf, who calls that early?) from my doctors office saying that my doctor had called in sick...
Isn't that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard?
Isn't that the most ridiculous thing you ever heard?
Monday, June 16, 2008
This is a post about shopping
Ruth's wedding is coming up, and I won't lie to you and tell you that I'm going to go pick some old dress out of my closet for the occasion. I will fully admit to my obsession with dresses.
I have more dresses hanging in my closet than anything else (with the exception of coats...more on that later), but I have decided to take this opportunity to buy something new, something fun, something beautiful. To be honest, I'll probably end up with something more like this, because Boyan and I are saving up to buy this...but, anyways I'm sure there will be more posts like this to come. Let me know which dress you like best.
In no particular order:
I have more dresses hanging in my closet than anything else (with the exception of coats...more on that later), but I have decided to take this opportunity to buy something new, something fun, something beautiful. To be honest, I'll probably end up with something more like this, because Boyan and I are saving up to buy this...but, anyways I'm sure there will be more posts like this to come. Let me know which dress you like best.
In no particular order:
Friday, June 13, 2008
Big News!
I've been waiting to announce this for a while now (okay, like 3 days but it seemed like a while) but...I got a new job!
Starting June 30th I'll be joining Demand Media as the new Content Editor for livestrong.com!
The site is run by Demand Media, working with Lance Armstrong and the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I'm super duper excited! More updates TK.
Starting June 30th I'll be joining Demand Media as the new Content Editor for livestrong.com!
The site is run by Demand Media, working with Lance Armstrong and the Lance Armstrong Foundation. I'm super duper excited! More updates TK.
I don't need it, but I WANT IT! Chalkboard paint
I really like this chalkboard paint idea. I think it might be my literary spirit. What do you think, tacky or cool? Would you do this in your living room?
One snack at a time
Today's weigh in:
147.5
I hit a huge milestone in my diet today, I weighed in this morning at 147.5! It's the first time I've been under 150 since freshman year of college! I am beyond happy.
I'm telling you guys, The Daily Plate really works...13 pounds down, just 12 pounds to go! 2.5 pounds until my next goal.
Your Dream Wedding
I've been writing Quixotic postings lately haven't I? Oh well...here is another one.
Everyone has a dream wedding. Even if you are married and had a fantastic time at your reception, in the back of your mind since you were young you had an idea of how the perfect evening would go for you. I thought I would share mine.
I'm a big fan of banquet tables and small parties, open spaces and live music. For the reception I'd like a big table, kind of like what they do at the Endless Feast.
I'd also like it to be at night. Lots of small lights would sparkle in the trees around the dinner table. There would be hanging candles, crystals and flowers in them as well.
I'd want good food and dancing. Friends and Family. It sounds perfect.
I've already had two weddings, but I'd love to have a third for my friends and family in the U.S. who couldn't make it to Bulgaria last year. So, maybe sometime in the future. We'll see...
How do you picture your perfect wedding?
Everyone has a dream wedding. Even if you are married and had a fantastic time at your reception, in the back of your mind since you were young you had an idea of how the perfect evening would go for you. I thought I would share mine.
I'm a big fan of banquet tables and small parties, open spaces and live music. For the reception I'd like a big table, kind of like what they do at the Endless Feast.
I'd also like it to be at night. Lots of small lights would sparkle in the trees around the dinner table. There would be hanging candles, crystals and flowers in them as well.
I'd want good food and dancing. Friends and Family. It sounds perfect.
I've already had two weddings, but I'd love to have a third for my friends and family in the U.S. who couldn't make it to Bulgaria last year. So, maybe sometime in the future. We'll see...
How do you picture your perfect wedding?
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Porn for Yuppies
Boyan always gets on my case for looking at Apartments on Craigslist even when we are a. not going to be moving anytime soon and b. could never afford them. I can't help but look and imagine what life would be like in these spaces (as you can see) or the design possibilities not yet explored.
Well, today I found out I'm not the only one. This site, apartmenttherapy.com, which people in the know call "Porn for Yuppies," exhibits all kinds of wonderful places and spaces. Now, I don't know if I consider myself a "yuppie" but this stuff does turn me on. Not in a sexual way--but definitely in a lustful way. Take look for yourself.
Gramercy, New York
(I call this one Britta's room)
This one belonged to a gay couple in Chicago
They also have slideshows of some fab places like this one. And this one.
Furniture really does it for me too. Especially when Britta sends me stuff like this.
Oh fabulous furniture and apartments...why do you torture me so!
Well, today I found out I'm not the only one. This site, apartmenttherapy.com, which people in the know call "Porn for Yuppies," exhibits all kinds of wonderful places and spaces. Now, I don't know if I consider myself a "yuppie" but this stuff does turn me on. Not in a sexual way--but definitely in a lustful way. Take look for yourself.
Gramercy, New York
(I call this one Britta's room)
This one belonged to a gay couple in Chicago
They also have slideshows of some fab places like this one. And this one.
Furniture really does it for me too. Especially when Britta sends me stuff like this.
Oh fabulous furniture and apartments...why do you torture me so!
Ruth's Bachelorette Weekend!
Julie (Ruth's Maid of Honor) gathered together Ruth's closest friends from past and present to celebrate her impending wedding with a Spa weekend!
Tiffany, Olivia, Ruth and Julie in the Vineyards
Julie reserved two villas at the South Coast Winery in Temecula, and we made the trip down for a weekend of sun bathing, spa treatments and lots and lots of wine.
The venue was extremely picturesque--the winery thrives on the very profitable wedding industry resulting in 360 degrees of photo opportunities.
click to enlarge
Like I said, the venue was manufactured to make money off the wedding industry. Everything ended up feeling very fake--disneylandesque if you will. The food, the spa treatments, the service was all below par. A few of us even got sick from our fancy dinner on Saturday night.
But then we eventually felt better.
Better enough to do prompts anyways.
Britta made us these awesome hoodies that had all of our nicknames on them.
The chinese on the back is the date of the wedding. The flowers are calla lilies which are in Ruth's bouquet.
Then of course the theme of the event on the bottom.
Here are a few more pictures during dinner.
Natasha, Ausra, Ruth, Me and Britta.
The whole group (minus Olivia): Tiffany, Britta, Ausra, Ruth, Tash, Julie and Me.
We ended the weekend with a few more photos.
Nikon vs. Canon
And a few jumping photos because Ruth said it was required.
Pro Gymnastics Skillz...I has them. Amateur Photoshop skillz. I has them too.
The whole weekend was a blast. It was so great to see Ruth again and I can't wait to go to Chicago in August for her wedding!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Dreaming Big
Have you every had a big dream? One that would take a lot of effort (and money) and is probably unrealistic? Of course you have, this is America. Anyways, I've always wanted to move to New York and have a fabulous apartment in Greenwich. I'd spend my mornings in the cafe before heading home to write. I've finally found the perfect apartment to go with that dream. It's $10,000 a month...so yea pretty unrealistic (unless some rich patron of the arts wants to sponsor me).
It's my ideal and I thought I'd share it with you.
This is my building, I live on W. 11th between W. 4th and Bleeker. On a very pretty street.
This is my bedroom, I have another one for guests if you'd like to come and stay. Don't you love my cherry hardwood floors?
A major requirement for any apartment is lots of light. This is where I do most of my work. In the winter I work with my feet pointed towards the fireplace.
I'm big on ceilings with character.
I like to read in that chair by the window.
You can come over during the summer and have wine with my on my patio at night. Boyan and I plan to have lots of plants, including tomatoes. Fresh bruschetta anyone?
It's my ideal and I thought I'd share it with you.
This is my building, I live on W. 11th between W. 4th and Bleeker. On a very pretty street.
This is my bedroom, I have another one for guests if you'd like to come and stay. Don't you love my cherry hardwood floors?
A major requirement for any apartment is lots of light. This is where I do most of my work. In the winter I work with my feet pointed towards the fireplace.
I'm big on ceilings with character.
I like to read in that chair by the window.
You can come over during the summer and have wine with my on my patio at night. Boyan and I plan to have lots of plants, including tomatoes. Fresh bruschetta anyone?
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