I haven't been posting in my blog much. I have a writing buddy now, and we put together short stories, on occasion sexual in nature, and we compare, critique and enjoy. In fact, the prior plumber email was an excerpt. Here's another exerpt of an email I sent.
Preface: I was writing about Quincy Troupe, one of my professors in college.
On the last day of class, Quincy would invite us over to his house. Personal Narrative. We all wrote about ourselves. My favorite class of all time. All about me.
Quincy's house was big and a little chilly in the winter, big windows, lots of light, high on a hill in La Jolla. Not decorated tastefully or beautifully, but
joyfully (better, in my opinion). Art all over the place, real art, stuff he bought because he liked it, not because it was pretty. (most of it wasn't) Bright living room where some of us would sit on the floor. He'd make us read our stories out loud.
Rich Asian girl writing about her rich doctor dad back in Taiwan or Viet Nam or somewhere where rich kids get kidnapped and its better to send them off to America for educations and safety.
Poor Asian kid writing about coming to America when he was 9, other kids making fun of him for his funny clothes and inability to speak english. Hearing mom and dad fight because mom didn't wear her wedding ring when she waitressed. Mom loved him, slept with his clothes so they'd be warm when he woke up cold mornings to put them on. What's wrong, she asked, sensing his pure misery. He couldn't tell her. She used a weeks worth of tips to buy him a playstation and took Dad's wrath.
White quiet nerdy girl writing about her dead grandmother whom she never met, but identified with. Grandmother was a young journalist, interviewed Hitler who took a liking to her and took her to an event, later JFK took a liking to her as well but politically he couldn't be hanging out with a journalist, his family put a stop to that.
White quiet nerdy girl had pages about the adventures of this beautiful, glamorous, jet- setting grandmother of hers, whom she never met, but oh, how white quiet nerdy girl identified with her (heck, coulda been a reincarnation!). Meanwhile, in one paragraph of her story, brief mention of her current living grandmother who managed a trucking business after her grandfather died and made enough money to put all dozen of her grandchildren through college, including white quiet nerdy girl glamorizing other grandma she'd never met.
Black kid in there, something wrong with his eyes, they were squinty and moved a lot, finally, he reads his story and I find out he's almost totally blind, and he writes of sucking pussy and his girlfriend who he loved and I'm fucking digging it so much, makes me want to fuck a blind guy if they're as good as he seems. Surprises me, cuz he's such a young kid, amazed by what he notices without seeing.
Quincy is stern with him, and it blows my mind, he says the kid uses too many words and its too much. I want to raise my hand and say, "No, no! It was perfect! It drenched my pussy good!" but I don't. Although I write that on my copy of the story and return it to the kid. Who knows if he could read it though, poor blind kid.
My turn to read my story, and I'm writing about small time meth dealer ex boyfriend, and me dancing nude in a strip club, drunk off my ass in the bathroom on my period, one wobbly high heeled foot on the ground, the other on the toilet seat, burning a tampon string out of my pussy with a lit cigarette. (reliving my old glory days, days of ample cash and sleeping with lined wastebaskets next to me so I could puke tequila bile every morning)
Funny thing, in college, hadda get up so early, no make up, ugly clothes, usually sweats and t-shirts. Plain plain plain I can be so plain looking. Last day of class I wear a little make up and one brainy girl in class looks at me after I finish reading aloud of past stripper days. I catch her eye as she cocks her head, first time noticing me with make up on, and I see her thinking, "i can almost see it..."
She's too brainy for me, once I talked to her. Half my age, and she's like a creature raised by Jeopardy writer parents or college professor parents, we find no common ground, she's too intellectual. I suspect she's lonely too, as she's too brainy to have friends. She created some strange way of writing, it was brilliant, read aloud it sounded like that clicking sound -- like that african tribe they make fun of on South Park.
The prof didn't get it. I couldn't quite figure out if it was pure genius on her part, or if she was not a good writer. I leaned more towards the genius though. It was like code, her writing was like strange sounding code.
It was that look she gave me though. That look gave her away. I read about my stripper days and she gives me that look, like for one second, her curiosity was piqued.
It gave her away. I knew right away under that beneath her short brown hair, underneath her isolated, brainiac, too smart to socialize outer shell, there was someone supremely sexual buried there. I caught her eye, and she looked away. I'd have liked to see her come.
the following reads like a blog entry, but it was actually parts of two emails I sent:
Last nite, toilet would not flush. Opened the back of the tank, and lifted that floaty ball on a stick to pull up the plug so water would go in. The floaty ball stick was corroded and rusted, and snapped. Now there is water filling the tank, but it will not stop.
I use a plastic clothes hanger to prop something up, and it makes the water stop. Toilet tank has a platic hanger sticking out of it, tank lid is on the floor.
BF gets up in the mornings before I do. I hear him use the toilet. The water is going, and I can hear him trying to figure out what exactly it is I did to stop the water. Little sounds of the hanger scraping, him trying different positions. No idea why, but I am so amused by that. I can picture his quizzical face.
BF is not a handyman. I fix things with plastic hangers. But I always make sure I call things by their technical names. Like floaty ball stick.
Plumber came by today. Big samoan looking guy. I'm in the bedroom putting on make up getting ready to go out to dinner. Bathroom is off the bedroom. I ask him what the floaty ball stick was called.
He says
"Don't laugh. We call it a ball cock."
Now I know what to ask for when I go to a hardware store.
"sir, where can I get my hands on a ball cock?"
Plumber was a comedian:
Working on the toilet, mutters,"Peice of shit."
I was so tempted to say, "sorry, shoulda flushed."
Didn't say it.
Thought it would have been funny though.
Someone told me to live out loud. I don't.
I have a ton of material I could write about my job, some funny, some horrific. But it makes me a little sick to my stomach to think about my job at the mortuary on my time off. My friend Cattah came to visit me a while back, and brought her DVD set of 6 Feet Under. I was like, "I can't. I don't want to watch anything having to do with death on my days off."
Cattah died July 5th in a house fire. I keep feeling these waves of anger and sadness and despair. I was supposed to meet her in New Orleans last May, but I didn't go. She was all about music, and went to the jazz festival there. When I asked her what her name should be in my blog, she said "Cattah." Because that's what her boyfriend called her. She loved her cats. The weird thing was her odd fascination with death. Strange, because she died so early. So young.
I keep pushing her memory away. I get these little bursts of grief, then I shove them away. I think it will come in time. I am just not ready yet. But this is the first time a death has ever made me angry. I don't know why I'm mad at her for dying. As if it fucked up my plans or something. Like she deliberately took away our friendship. Okay, this is what happens. I get these little bursts of grief, like I just did writing the previous sentence, and I need to push it away. I'm not ready yet.
So here's some crap about my job. Ever had a coworker who was like a gigantic splinter in your ass? And you can't get it out? That would be my situation.
So lame coworker is in my office, as usual, since I am so perfect and keep a clean office and you can find stuff in my office versus anyone else's. There's a woman in my office whose husband has died from stab wounds. There are two plastic bags of his belongings in my office that were released to us from the coroners, and I tell the woman they are his items and she may take them home.
My fucking coworker who is a snoop and loves to snoop thru other people's stuff probably can't wait to see what's in those bags, so she hands the wife MY SCISSORS. MY FUCKING SCISSORS.
What's the big deal? The wife cuts open the bags. The guy died of stab wounds. All the shit in there is bloody! Then the wife dumps the bloody contents--bloody wallet, bloody ring, bloody pieces of paper on a table in MY OFFICE!!! I'm about ready to scream what the fuck are you idiots doing??? Get that shit off my table! Fuckin' buy me some new scissors, I ain't using those no more!
Yeah, that's life with my coworker. Thanks. Thanks a fucking lot.
Then some other dead corpse in the chapel, and someone wants a lock of hair. Lame coworker comes into my office, gives them my scissors to use.
Anyone want some scissors? I ain't touchin' em.
Why do I have to work with such a tard?
Know what else bugs me? Not that I'm a genius, because I'm not. But how can someone be so stupid?
She opens sleeves of plastic cups from the top. Okay, when you open the sleeves from the top, whenever you take a plastic or paper or styrofoam cup, you have to pull it out by the lip. Where your mouth is gonna go.
The bitch picks up dead people for a living. Okay? I don't know what the hell she's touched. Yeah, she's supposed to wear gloves, but I am not there. How do I know what she does.
So she's reaching into these plastic sleeves and pulling out paper cups and touching all the rims.
Don't you think you should open them from the bottom YOU STUPID FUCKING TARD so you just touch the bottom of the cup when you need one?
I don't fucking get it.
Oh, if you can't tell, I'm in a pissy mood right now. Every time I think about work, this is what happens. I get in a pissy mood. So I've got hecka material, but I can't bring myself to write about it.
When I was in college, I was in some computer class, where the professor had a laptop and the image on the monitor was projected onto a huge screen behind him. I was about midsection high in the graduated lecture hall, and I kept wondering, when is the professor going to focus the screen? He adjusted something, and said, "Can everyone see okay?" People behind me yelled, "Yeah."
That was the moment I realized I needed glasses. My second moment came when I was doing the eye test at the DMV, and the lady kept shrieking, "Do you wear glasses? Do you wear glasses?"
I was all, "Um, no," but apparently, I guess I should.
So I got glasses. The eye guy measuring my vision leaned in really close, got in right between my legs, and stared into my eyes. At one point, I thought he brushed his crotch against my knee. Old horny guys. They're pretty funny sometimes, in a pathetic, got-nothing-to-lose kinda way.
I have glasses now. I put them on and things are crisper. I can see dilineations between leaves on trees.
I find this distracting.
Somehow, all this new detail is confusing. I never wear my glasses. I like my blurry life.
I love amazon.com. It's my fave site to shop. But it checks out what you look at to give you reccommendations. I have, for entertainment value, marked this book called
How to Good-Bye Depression: If You Constrict Anus 100 Times Everyday. Malarkey? or Effective Way? (Paperback).
This was written by a Japanese author, and it was computer translated, into very bad Engrish. It makes me goodbye depression every time I see it. Well, amazon has made some suggestions for me based on the fact that I've looked at that book.
Did I already blog this? So now, when I log onto amazon, I get these reccommendations for books like one on drinking your own piss. Which I am not into. I do so much appreciate amazon for thinking about me though, but they'd be better off sending me reccommendations for books like,
How to Not Look Forty When you are, or
How to lose twenty pounds of fat without diet, exercise, illness or surgery, or
Gourmet meals in 5 minutes with 5 cheap ingredients or less, etc... Now those are some books I'd like.
