"Keep an open mind," my mother calls, as I step out of the car. "Try to make at least one friend." And here I am, scraggly haired, with my mammoth eyebrows, purple eyed and pissed. Welcome to Waynflete, the grey bearded man tells me in his toothy, clownish smile. He doesn't have to say it for me to understand: I look like I want to shoot someone, particularly the person who dropped me off at the corner of Danforth just a minute ago.
Here I am.
I stand next to some girls, who look at lot like 25-year-old volley ball players. Only one introduces herself. It's not like I would have introduced myself anyway, but still I grumble in my mind about how freaking rude these people are. Two boys glance in my direction, and then walk away. It's as if I am the Tuesday night dinner; I am somewhat average, worth glancing at, but not good enough to admire or delve into. I am told they are the best looking guys at this school. I hope not.
And then we are in a circle and then we are on the bus and then we are there. I think I want to either cry or down a whole glass of gin and juice, but neither seem like good options right now so I will just get on my bike and peddle, and later I will try and say hello to someone. But not now, because now I am peddling this dumb bike and I can't do two things at once.
I spent several days and nights anticipating this day. Now... I have been utterly and completely betrayed. I was promised a short film and a tracklist by this date and guess what I did not get today? A tracklist and a short film. You know what I got? I got pain, and I got betrayal. I'm too stressed out for this tomfoolery. Lana said her new short film "Tropico" would come out by the end of September. Well Lana, you have approximately four hours until the end of September. LIES. At least Gaga had the decency to apologize. She tweeted us saying "I'm sorry the tracklisting is late, monsters. A few more squirrels snuck into the ARTPOP tree. Don't worry, it will be worth it!". Well I certainly hope it is, because the galoots Interscope records told her today was the due date. You know what I get for being late with my assignments? Docked points. She's going to get millions of mentally-lopsided lummoxes paying fifteen dollars per album. Granted, there are 40 million manic twitter followers on Gaga's tail now. About Tropico, Lana is often distracted, so I can understand how it might be late. But Lana has had exactly two months and one week to edit this bedeviled short film and you know what? SHE LIED. Does she think me a driveling buffoon? She lies, it is not out yet. IT'S ALL LIES AND I DON'T KNOW WHO TO TRUST ANYMORE. In fact, I am so angry I don't think I will ever listen to Lana del Rey or Lady Gaga ever again. I don't know why I even put so much energy into this. Astounding. Okay, so I lied. I'm off to listen to both sides of my Born This Way record.
I used to be really lonely in like middle school. Sixth grade was eh. I was just a mindless youth. I did not know the world yet. I was just happy and content to go about my day waking up at Seven Thirty, going to school at Eight Fifteen, seeing nice kids who were vaguely my friends but not quite close friends. I think... I was just happy. Blissfully ignorant of the world... Until Seventh Grade. When I just started getting depressed. When I began to feel an inner necessity for companionship. A want for friends. I needed to have people with me. Even now, I still feel cold and dreary when I don't have someone with me. When there isn't someone to share a laugh with, the atmosphere just feels like a grey zone... And I just don't like it that.
The air in the room was so thick that I could barely breathe. It didn't help that I was wearing a tight, stiff dress and my grandmother's eyes were bearing into my back, willing me to stand up tall. I pretended like the bible was resting on my head, as she told me to, even though she’s jewish. My shoes were new and hurt my feet, but I was too scared to open my mouth and ask if I could take them off. Everyone else at the party was wearing crafted, expensive outfits and had expensively colored hair. The women held useless little handbags, nothing like the carryall that my mother dragged around that held everything from spare socks to a Waynflete directory. I was at a complete loss as to what they could hold. The men were all very distinguished of course, but I only knew this is abstract. They wore suits and shiny shoes and had sparkly watches, but I really had no idea why they all spent so much time together. I supposed it was because they looked alike, all of them various stages of development of the same man: like pokemon or a the same breed of dog. Grandpa, as I used to call him, was at probably the second oldest stage of development, and that made him the most distinguished. I didn’t know what to call him now that my grandmother, his ex-wife had driven her Mercedes into the gate of his house and slapped his new wife at a funeral. Of course, we were passed that now. Moved on. It was all very hush hush. It didn’t stop the party from being awkward.
I was supposed to have left 3 hours ago. Instead, I was stuck on the tarmac in 90 degree heat, in between two people I would never have chosen to sit in between. The woman on my left was rubbing some form of oily ointment on her legs, while the man on my left was tossing back whiskey after whiskey like it was water, then proceeded to whip out the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. They were taking up both of my arm rests, so I folded my fingers together and hyperextended my elbows as far as they would go. The last thing I wanted was to touch either of them. I really couldn't decide who I was more repulsed by. The decision became harder when a large chunk of skin fell off of the woman's leg and the man's pants had a very clear and defined bulge in them. I stared straight ahead, not knowing where to look. I could have recited the safety instructions on the back of the tray table in both english and spanish by heart three days later.
Why did you write about me in your English blog?” she asked angrily, though not unduly so.
Even though it was a phone conversation, my face went white, and soon I was trying to break eye contact with my invisible accuser. It was that same look that crawls across your face when someone peers over your shoulder and sees your text messages at the precisely wrong moment, catching an eyeful of implicating evidence. While you know that this someone is wrong for looking at your phone in the first place, you know one thing even more clearly: you're fucked. It was this stomach-churning fear that overtook me during this phone conversation.
And what could I say? That I hadn't meant it? That all writing is by its nature hyperbole, in order make a more artful point than could ever present itself in the randomness of life? That honestly, I was just trying to get the homework done? No, I could say none of these things. Each attempt would have made me seem more and more guilty, like a Syrian government official presenting alternative theories.
“You called me The Old Chinese Woman? Capitalized? Thats just fucking racist,” she exclaimed again.
“No, I didn't mean it, I swear! If I had known you were ever going to read that...”
“Racist! Fuck you!”
Slowly the realization crept over me that there was no defense, there was nothing I could say. Things said in confidence often take on sharper edges, for the precise reason that you don't believe you will have to face judgement for them. In society we are presented with such opportunities rarely, and therefore will usually take advantage of them to the fullest.
"Keep an open mind," my mother calls, as I step out of the car. "Try to make at least one friend."
ReplyDeleteAnd here I am, scraggly haired, with my mammoth eyebrows, purple eyed and pissed. Welcome to Waynflete, the grey bearded man tells me in his toothy, clownish smile. He doesn't have to say it for me to understand: I look like I want to shoot someone, particularly the person who dropped me off at the corner of Danforth just a minute ago.
Here I am.
I stand next to some girls, who look at lot like 25-year-old volley ball players. Only one introduces herself. It's not like I would have introduced myself anyway, but still I grumble in my mind about how freaking rude these people are. Two boys glance in my direction, and then walk away. It's as if I am the Tuesday night dinner; I am somewhat average, worth glancing at, but not good enough to admire or delve into. I am told they are the best looking guys at this school. I hope not.
And then we are in a circle and then we are on the bus and then we are there. I think I want to either cry or down a whole glass of gin and juice, but neither seem like good options right now so I will just get on my bike and peddle, and later I will try and say hello to someone. But not now, because now I am peddling this dumb bike and I can't do two things at once.
I spent several days and nights anticipating this day. Now... I have been utterly and completely betrayed. I was promised a short film and a tracklist by this date and guess what I did not get today? A tracklist and a short film. You know what I got? I got pain, and I got betrayal. I'm too stressed out for this tomfoolery. Lana said her new short film "Tropico" would come out by the end of September. Well Lana, you have approximately four hours until the end of September. LIES. At least Gaga had the decency to apologize. She tweeted us saying "I'm sorry the tracklisting is late, monsters. A few more squirrels snuck into the ARTPOP tree. Don't worry, it will be worth it!". Well I certainly hope it is, because the galoots Interscope records told her today was the due date. You know what I get for being late with my assignments? Docked points. She's going to get millions of mentally-lopsided lummoxes paying fifteen dollars per album. Granted, there are 40 million manic twitter followers on Gaga's tail now. About Tropico, Lana is often distracted, so I can understand how it might be late. But Lana has had exactly two months and one week to edit this bedeviled short film and you know what? SHE LIED. Does she think me a driveling buffoon? She lies, it is not out yet. IT'S ALL LIES AND I DON'T KNOW WHO TO TRUST ANYMORE. In fact, I am so angry I don't think I will ever listen to Lana del Rey or Lady Gaga ever again. I don't know why I even put so much energy into this. Astounding.
ReplyDeleteOkay, so I lied. I'm off to listen to both sides of my Born This Way record.
I used to be really lonely in like middle school. Sixth grade was eh. I was just a mindless youth. I did not know the world yet. I was just happy and content to go about my day waking up at Seven Thirty, going to school at Eight Fifteen, seeing nice kids who were vaguely my friends but not quite close friends. I think... I was just happy. Blissfully ignorant of the world... Until Seventh Grade. When I just started getting depressed. When I began to feel an inner necessity for companionship. A want for friends. I needed to have people with me. Even now, I still feel cold and dreary when I don't have someone with me. When there isn't someone to share a laugh with, the atmosphere just feels like a grey zone... And I just don't like it that.
ReplyDeleteThe air in the room was so thick that I could barely breathe. It didn't help that I was wearing a tight, stiff dress and my grandmother's eyes were bearing into my back, willing me to stand up tall. I pretended like the bible was resting on my head, as she told me to, even though she’s jewish.
ReplyDeleteMy shoes were new and hurt my feet, but I was too scared to open my mouth and ask if I could take them off. Everyone else at the party was wearing crafted, expensive outfits and had expensively colored hair. The women held useless little handbags, nothing like the carryall that my mother dragged around that held everything from spare socks to a Waynflete directory. I was at a complete loss as to what they could hold.
The men were all very distinguished of course, but I only knew this is abstract. They wore suits and shiny shoes and had sparkly watches, but I really had no idea why they all spent so much time together. I supposed it was because they looked alike, all of them various stages of development of the same man: like pokemon or a the same breed of dog. Grandpa, as I used to call him, was at probably the second oldest stage of development, and that made him the most distinguished. I didn’t know what to call him now that my grandmother, his ex-wife had driven her Mercedes into the gate of his house and slapped his new wife at a funeral. Of course, we were passed that now. Moved on. It was all very hush hush. It didn’t stop the party from being awkward.
This is a very good story Louise! Extremely interesting and well written. I also like the line about a pokemon, I think its really funny.
DeleteI was supposed to have left 3 hours ago. Instead, I was stuck on the tarmac in 90 degree heat, in between two people I would never have chosen to sit in between. The woman on my left was rubbing some form of oily ointment on her legs, while the man on my left was tossing back whiskey after whiskey like it was water, then proceeded to whip out the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. They were taking up both of my arm rests, so I folded my fingers together and hyperextended my elbows as far as they would go. The last thing I wanted was to touch either of them. I really couldn't decide who I was more repulsed by. The decision became harder when a large chunk of skin fell off of the woman's leg and the man's pants had a very clear and defined bulge in them. I stared straight ahead, not knowing where to look. I could have recited the safety instructions on the back of the tray table in both english and spanish by heart three days later.
ReplyDeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWhy did you write about me in your English blog?” she asked angrily, though not unduly so.
ReplyDeleteEven though it was a phone conversation, my face went white, and soon I was trying to break eye contact with my invisible accuser. It was that same look that crawls across your face when someone peers over your shoulder and sees your text messages at the precisely wrong moment, catching an eyeful of implicating evidence. While you know that this someone is wrong for looking at your phone in the first place, you know one thing even more clearly: you're fucked. It was this stomach-churning fear that overtook me during this phone conversation.
And what could I say? That I hadn't meant it? That all writing is by its nature hyperbole, in order make a more artful point than could ever present itself in the randomness of life? That honestly, I was just trying to get the homework done? No, I could say none of these things. Each attempt would have made me seem more and more guilty, like a Syrian government official presenting alternative theories.
“You called me The Old Chinese Woman? Capitalized? Thats just fucking racist,” she exclaimed again.
“No, I didn't mean it, I swear! If I had known you were ever going to read that...”
“Racist! Fuck you!”
Slowly the realization crept over me that there was no defense, there was nothing I could say. Things said in confidence often take on sharper edges, for the precise reason that you don't believe you will have to face judgement for them. In society we are presented with such opportunities rarely, and therefore will usually take advantage of them to the fullest.
But try telling that to anyone.