I Wanna Remember to Remember to Forget You Forgot Me

[Random thoughts I had to get out of my head at 2am last night. A legit post will be coming as usual by midnight tomorrow]

Memory is a strange and daunting thing; a strange and daunting choice. The things we choose to cling to and the ones we throw away without a second thought.

Childhood is a strange and daunting thing, the memories we choose to cling to. I remember a thousand invisible worlds unfolding in our one acre backyard. I remember tumbling loose-limbed and carefree; remember how sad my stepmother looked the only time she told me I was beautiful. Like she was judge and jury and I’d just been handed a life sentence. I remember how I never felt beautiful with my crooked teeth and unbrushed hair and clothes that never fit quite right. I remember how much she cried, how much the baby cried, how much I cried because we never fit quite right.

Childhood is a strange and daunting thing. I remember a pullout couch in the living room of our one-bedroom trailer. Remember sleeping, the sound of my mother’s breathing and my sister’s breathing filling the empty places. I remember the day we had nothing to eat but chocolate cake. Remember how it seemed like such a treat, even when we were still hungry? I remember diet soda and ramen noodles and family packs of Walmart popsicles in the freezer. I remember the time we spent our rent money on water balloons and a plastic pool, the way the sunshine felt on my wet skin, running barefoot in the front lawn.

Memory is a strange and daunting choice, the things we throw away without a second thought. The layers we sift through to recover them. I remember the brand new house, the one he built with so much hope. That empty blueprint waiting to be filled with memories, waiting for family dinners and movie nights. Doorways waiting for us to stand soldier straight to have our height marked against their solidarity. The sound of frogs and crickets in the soft swamp I was always afraid of. I was always afraid. We dreamed of ice skating in the winter. I wonder if those doorways hold onto our memory, or if a new family has filled that blueprint with their own hopes and dreams. I want that house to witness happiness.

The things we choose to cling to so tenaciously, strange and daunting, shape the people we become. We are all the human being stories we tell ourselves, a thousand words/images/gestures sewn clumsily into the patchwork history of our skins. Hoping our plots start to take form, that the storyline doesn’t start to unravel with the progression of each storyline. There are so many characters to keep track of, each the protagonist of their own stories. Each the center of their own memories. The only lens I’ll ever see clearly through is my own. The only memories that fit are our own. A strange and daunting thing.  

 All my love.

-b

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends

Hey weirdos, are you starting to get that good ol’ patriotic feeling? I’ve been inexplicably craving watermelon and cheap beer all week, which means July is around the corner. Are you all going to light things on fire? By “things” I mean fireworks, not small children or parked cars. I have a confession to make. I don’t really like fireworks. While I’m confessing my deepest darkest secrets, add these to the list: I don’t like cheese, mayonnaise or bacon. I only recently saw Pretty in Pink for the first time and I have yet to watch 16 Candles, The Big Lebowski or Goonies. I have strong feelings of dislike for Kelly Clarkson for no apparent reason. Ok, I feel a lot better now that all of those things are out in the open. Anybody still with me?

How is it Thursday night already? I’m lying on my bed, staring up at a giant flying insect of some sort, trying to piece together exactly what I’ve been up to. Answer: absolutely nothing. My human interaction has been limited to co-workers, clients and service industry workers. I think I spent the majority of my free time in this exact position either staring at my computer screen or the wall. Mostly the wall because my processing capabilities have been nil. I’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time worrying about parasites. I’m 99% sure (after some thorough investigating) that my itching is an allergic reaction. However, the 1% of my brain screaming “Holy fuck you’re being eaten alive by parasitic monsters while you sleep!!” is pretty nagging.

You guys, bed bugs totally give me the creeps. I mean, I’m sure nobody gets excited about the prospect of bed bugs. But seriously, they drive me to psychosomatic symptoms. I could be sitting in a sterile bubble, but if my mind wandered into bed bug territory I would start itching like crazy and probably break out in hives. I have photographic evidence of said hives. I would post them, but they’re on my upper/inner thigh and borderline pornographic.

Due to my psychosis I haven’t slept much this week. My thoughts feel a little wobbly, but I’m stringing them together. I’m so tired that I watched a Kristen Stewart movie to fall asleep and ended up paying rapt attention through the whole damn thing. I even got misty-eyed during the dramatic climax. You guys. I nearly cried over K-Stew. I mean over something other than the quality of her acting. I don’t want to concern you, but this is serious.

I’m lonely this week. I miss my family and my friends and maybe I don’t quite miss my old routine, but I certainly miss having a routine.

Soon one of my very best friends in this world will get older. I mean, we’ll all be older soon, but it’ll be her birthday. Official. This Saturday is her birthday party and I would give a lot of things to be there for it. I don’t even know how to explain what she means to me, and I’m usually pretty good at this whole “words” thing.

She was the first one to know I was gay. In fact, she knew a good long while before I did. We spent one whole summer topless on my couch. We got MIPs together, and will forever rue July 9^th and all people born on that particular date… Just kidding! You’re all ok I guess. We smoked clove cigarettes (back when cloves were still cigarettes) under vagina tree. We talked and talked and talked. Talked about parents, friends, lovers and potential lovers. Talked about fucking up, about breaking up, about falling down and falling apart. We smoked cloves on the front stoop while snow fell through dirty streetlamp halos. Talked about dreams and god and what the fuck we’re all doing here. Talked about sex. Talked about exes. The night I fell apart she gave me a bear lighter, told me not to lose it. She’s always been better at keeping track of my pieces than I am. She’s always been better at putting me back together. The night before I left, she told me not to buy drugs. Told me she loved me not in spite of what we’ve been through together, but because of it.

Remember smoking cloves in the field and the fireworks falling so close I thought we'd die? Remember when I drank a whole bottle of vodka alone and cried and when you came over you let me lay my head in your lap? Or when my little sister put you dead center in her Life Book, and my mom still asks about you all the time... Remember when we were watching Gia and the friendship balloon escaped out the screen door, which distracted us momentarily from the tragedy of AIDS? Eating sushi after floating the river, and washing it down with a shared bottle of Pepto? Or when we watched Hairspray on repeat and I cut off the tip of my thumb cutting limes to chase the tequila. Remember that time you caught yourself with your forehead, and I got sent home from work and everything was so fucked up, but we laughed about it anyways? What the hell else were we supposed to do. 

We’ve been through a hell of a lot together. You mean the world to me, and I love you. Come to this town so we can paint it rainbow? I miss you. Chicken Run fo’ life.

Alright kids, I think I might finally be able to sleep. How are you all? Are you still out there? Are you able to sleep at night? Do you have people you miss, and big lonely feelings? Do you love Chicken Run as much as I do? I hope you’re all living the dream, whatever that means to you.

I love you all. Happy birthday, KJNS.

-b

Well, I Been Sleeping for Forty Days...

You guys. It’s allergy season in Portland, Oregon. Between the gnarly rash on the tops of both shoulders and my swollen left eye socket I look damn sexy. Or like some sort of lumpy swamp creature with a propensity towards Brandi Carlile t-shirts and Chacos. Considering I was confined to my bedroom for nearly 24 hours preceding the plague, I decided to get out of the house. See, I’m nearly certain this outbreak somehow relates back to That Cat and her daily traipsing through allergens. So I’m holed up in the back corner of a coffee shop off of Woodstock, hoping a triple shot espresso drink will counteract the Benadryl I took. 

http://images.china.cn/attachement/jpg 

[Note: Ok, let’s be honest. I couldn’t afford Benadryl with a capital “B”. I’m a generic drugs kind of girl anyway.]

  

Some of you have seen the effect antihistamines have on me. My most vivid/least coherent Benadryl memory is of a little event known as Darby Logger Days five years ago. Yeah, “timber sports event” is a real thing. My favorite events to spectate are the choker race and log rolling (AKA burling). Anyhow, this particular year the rugby fundraising committee sat down and thought: what’s better than an obscure sporting event? Another obscure sport fundraising at that obscure sporting event!

Our master plan: caravan down to Darby, Montana with lemonade supplies, several handles of Nikolai vodka, face painting materials and our janky ass scrum machine to raise some funds for the upcoming fall season. For those of you who don’t know, a scrum machine is essentially a metal sled with shoulder pads. Forwards like to push it around at practice to show off their brute strength. And I guess it helps with technique or something? I don’t know, I was rarely allowed to play with it. Sometimes they let me ride on it.

We determined the scrum machine would be our big money-maker. See, brute strength is only half the equation. Turns out you have to practice proper form to make good distance on a scrum machine. “Good form” means dropping your ass, flattening your back and looking up through the drive. The natural impulse to stand up and lock out your legs ends up driving the machine down instead of forward. Counter-productive and terribly exhausting.

Our plan: challenge hyper-masculine logger men to compete in “Scrum Offs”, wherein a group of three men would compete against three rugby girls of their choice to drive the scrum machine a greater distance. Each Scrum Off cost $5, and if we lost the challengers were rewarded with barely-drinkable hard lemonades, plus their intact pride. If they lost all they got was humiliated. Either way kept their $5.

[Note: Darby Logger Days is a legitimate sporting event and all promotion of our “special” lemonade was done under the radar, word of mouth style because we were young and rebellious. And because we loved our cheap vodka.]

We started Day 1 pretty strong, got our booth set up and looked fairly legitimate. A few girls fanned out to spread word of our special lemonade, while the rest of us promoted legitimate lemonade, face painting and of course the Scrum Off. Things to keep in mind: Darby Logger Days is a family-friendly event held (as far as I can recall) in the middle of some god-forsaken field. Realistically said field is probably the Darby fairgrounds or something. Additionally, I am allergic to everything. Seriously. Last summer I finally had an allergy panel done and my doctor said: Well, the good news is you’re not allergic to pine trees! I imagine this is a nice way of saying: Home girl, I don’t know how you made it this long. You’re allergic to life.

So there we were in Smalltown, Montana drinking more vodka than we were selling, pushing around a metal sled which kicked up clouds of dust, pollen and plant debris. Around sundown when most of the team could no longer stand let alone push the scrum machine, we called it a day and packed up. The ensuing swing dancing, beer drinking and general merry-making will always be a bit fuzzy. What I do remember: settling down at the end of the night and realizing my breath was rattling through very constricted airways. I spent the greater part of the night debating whether I should take an allergy pill or wait it out. Imminent death was less daunting than creeping barefoot through a stranger’s house to get to my bag, so I decided to wait it out and eventually drifted off.

Day 2… let’s just say things didn’t start so strong. When I woke up my throat was still constricted and my inhalations had a disconcerting whistle/gurgle to them. The little band of ruggers was 100% hungover, filthy and exhausted. Considering this is the natural state of most ruggers, we rallied and headed back down to the events. As soon as we stepped out of the vehicles and back onto the field, my allergic reaction kicked it into overdrive. This was the first time I considered the potential benefits of carrying a pocket EpiPen for emergency purposes. Instead I popped a rapid release Benadryl and hoped for the best.

The drugs hit me almost immediately. I could breathe again, but I couldn’t keep my eyes open or control my motor function. Determined to at least resemble a productive team member, I propped myself up in a lawn chair with my sunglasses on.

Unfortunately for us, children swarmed our booth the second day demanding face painting. Unlike their adult counterparts, we couldn’t use cheap vodka to bribe them into being more likable. Since my iron paws can slap relatively identifiable animal art on a kid’s face, I was somehow nominated leader of the facepaint brigade. Any kid that didn’t want to be Spiderman (apparently our only other artistic skill) was subjected to me. This required drifting in and out of my antihistamine coma every 10-15 minutes for several hours. I’m pretty sure after a bit the vigilant mothers of Darby realized where their children were flocking and stopped letting their kids within a 20 foot radius of our booth.

I finally resurfaced from my drug-induced fever dream in the early afternoon. There was face paint in my hair. Empty vodka bottles were strewn about, along with ice bags, empty lemonade powder tubs and assorted articles of clothing. One of the girls was laying facedown under our folding table, unconscious, one arm draped over the metal leg the other still holding a full paper cup of Special Drank. Although it was a feat, our little band of misfits survived their weekend in Darby, Montana.

Needless to say we weren’t invited back to Logger Days the next year.

Anyhow! I’m still awake, still sitting in a coffee shop. I’m feeling a little loose around the edges, but otherwise unfazed. Perhaps my days of drug-induced comas have passed! Also you’ll be glad to hear the swelling in my eye socket has reduced considerably.

Now to promote something other than myself.

This week I discovered my friends are writers too. Good ones even! I spent most of my work week reading posts on Conventional Wisdom for anUnconventional Mind. You guys, this is great stuff; funny, poignant and just a touch self-deprecating. Not to mention it offers words of wisdom from outside the 20-something, college-educated, angsty poet stuff I subject you to. And there’s a story about an elf. Look into it.

Also! Also my friend just started this blog, but I know she is gifted and wonderful and will be worth keeping track of. I love her, and you probably will too. Not that I’m trying to tell you what to do or anything.

I love you all.

-b

**Today’s cat photos courtesy of The Mysterious Mind of BlackGargie

1..2..3..4.. Tell Me That You Love Me More

Hello friends, loved ones and randos who googled “Maggotfest” and accidentally stumbled upon this blog! I’m in a compiling mood today. A list-making mood. The first draft of this post was actually a grocery list. Unfortunately rice, beans and eggs don’t make much of a list. So! Rather than bore you with the sundry details of my pantry, or the myriad number of Grown Up Tasks I have to complete, I’ll be passing on relatively interesting information instead!  

An Indeterminate Number of Awesome Things:

1. Portland has been a sun-soaked nirvana the past two days. Although I hear tomorrow things will start to cool down again. So I very carefully use the word “summer” when describing current weather conditions. Regardless I am pleasantly crisped after two days of sun breaks and after-work backyard lounging.

2. Fred Meyer pineapple sale: 10 delicious tropical fruits for $10. Obvs I don’t have $10 to spend on tropical fruits, especially the sort that make my mouth hurt, but my god you guys! We live in the land of plenty.

3. Pride weekend happened and everybody survived! There was a scare with one of the J’s, but he resurfaced and most of his stolen goods were recovered. Turns out Naked Bike Rides are a risky endeavor… who knew?

4. Ok, those of you who don’t support my unwavering love of bad television (AKA Dance Moms) should just skip this one. Whilst looking up assorted Youtube videos last weekend, Friend and I stumbled across a riveting Youtube original mini-series. Blue features Julia Stiles as an escort, secretary and single mom attempting to juggle her conflicting identities. Several things to note here: First, Julia Stiles acting career may have gone downhill after Save the Last Dance. Second, I believe the producers of this show randomly draw a PSA out of a hat and script a 10 minute episode addressing said issue. Examples include teenage sexuality, sex work and social stigmas and abusive relationships. I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I have.

 

5. This one time, Steph acquired a tiny little dino friend and let me play with him. This picture makes me smile and feel all warm inside. Dino reminds me of good weather, new friends and masterfully crafted sweater clutch bags.

Ok, list-making desire satisfied. However, if you’re still hankering for a good list, I did discover this website which is a list of lists listing random ass things. Examples: Top 10 Facts About Space Food (Lucy, that one’s for you. And yes I would drink Tang), or Top 10 Human Freaks of Nature. If charts are more your thing (you musically inclined bastards), C directed me to a free music website which lets you explore the Top 100 in all sorts of genres. I most definitely recommend frolicking about this webspace for a bit. Your ears will thank you.  

Something I’ve noticed, my mood directly correlates to the season. Springtime I want to buy a million kittens and braid flower chains. Autumn I tend to write a lot of faux-existential poetry and cook big dinners. Winter I cry, contemplate my own mortality and mentally hibernate. But summer... oh summer. Again, I say this cautiously because I live in Portland, Oregon and nobody knows what tomorrow will bring. Theoretically it’s summer.

Summer inspires long road trips, late nights. Cigarettes on rooftops. Sleeping on the lawn, in cars, under giant patches of shade in parks, under the stars. Summer means possibility; warm weather and vitamin D ease the heaviest of heavies. I could drop everything and move to California. I could quit my job and do harvest work in Smalltown, Anywhere for a season. I can write a thousand nonsense poems in the sunshine about popsicles and bare feet and blowing bubbles. This is summer. Summer makes me want to move, makes me want to push my limits, discover. Jump from a high place into cold, cold water. 

I know that all of the seasons serve their own purpose, but I feel most alive during summer. I could live in summer. Plant a garden, build a tire swing, install curtains and call summer home. 

To celebrate I’ve compiled a small gallery of cats wearing fashionable swimwear. You can thank Friend for the inspiration. 

http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1880303/posts

http://www.mike2.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/BikiniCat.jpg

http://thecatalyst.typepad.com/the_catalyst/2008/10/scuba-cats.html

http://www.wtfeck.com/1000/cat-wearing-a-bikini-top/

I hope your summers are off to a rollicking good start! To all my Missoula friends travelling to Seattle this weekend: please be safe and have fun. And photoshop me into the pictures. And be sure to fall in love. With a girl, with the city, with yourself... I don't care. Just fall in love. 

Angels on your body, and all my adoration. Seriously, you guys are the best. Even you, google rando.

-b

Did I Ask You for Attention When Affection is What I Need?

Hello all of you out there in webland. I hope you’re all having a lovely Pride week! Personally, this week I’m struggling. I’ve been wrestling with this ridiculous restlessness which mutant-fused with apathy. I want to sleep for a week. I can’t sleep at night. I want to write, want to get this jumble of thoughts/feelings/images out of my brain, but I can’t seem to put anything down. I can’t pin anything down. I feel like a spinning, lop-sided vortex with a wicked wobble in my rotation. I feel like I’m sitting still in the middle of a fast-forward almost life. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for a month, but I’m not sure why anymore.

Source: http://youremakingmesuffer.tumblr.com/

 Here are the things I know:

            1. I need fulfillment. A new job, a new routine, a new me. One that doesn't cry so much. 

            2. I am two months away from relative financial security.

            3a. You are still featured in 90% of my waking thoughts (99% of my dreams)

                3b. This is not necessarily a good thing.

                3c. It’s not necessarily a bad thing either, it’s just a thing.

            4. I am a writer. I mean, I was born to be a writer. I write.

            5. I am going to live a life worth writing about.

 So. That’s about where I’m at! Sorry there’s not more to it than that.

I’ve been struggling with a lot of body issues lately. My body feels worn down, I’ve been shaky for no apparent reason lately. I’m tired. I’m tired of peanut butter sandwiches. I’m tired of feeling guilty every time I eat. I’m tired of trying to love myself. I’m tired of trying to be worth loving.

Some days it’s just hard, you know? When you’re looking at your story and all the plot twists only take you further down the rabbit hole. When you’re looking at your body and all you can see are the flaws. The failures. When I went to see Andrea Gisbon and Tara Hardy they encouraged us to write a love poem about our bodies, to appreciate our skin, ligaments, tendons and bones. Here’s my first attempt:   

I am a body of scars.

Look closely.

See, this is the blown knee

that taught me you can’t

take a big step

and change directions at

the same time.

This is my ragged lip

split septum to teeth

when my grandparent’s dog

ripped into my trust,

taught me sometimes

even your friends will

tear you apart.  

Look closely.

There’s the puncture

knit bi-weekly into

the bluegreen seam of my arm,

emptying my veins to

fill my tummy:

requisite badge of poverty.

These are my patchwork knees,

testament to constant falling.

This is my body.

Look closely.

It’s telling you my story.

I’m going to be ok. You’re all going to be ok. 

Ginger kitten is always there when you need a hug

I love you. Tomorrow will be better, I swear.

-b

It's the Freakin' Weekend: Pt. 3 (Sunday)

[Cheers to wrapping up last weekend about a week behind schedule!]

Sunday

               

Sunday morning started with birds singing and J₁’s bicycle spokes clicking their way across the lawn. The weather was perfect for outdoor sleeping; all wispy clouds, light breezes and brief sun breaks. Piled high with blankets and pillows, the deck futon was entirely too comfortable. J1 came up the stairs and collapsed into our warm body puppy pile to tell us all about her Saturday night (at least the pieces she could remember). Eventually J₂ surfaced with coffee and quiche. A gray cat cleaned her ears and napped in the tall grass. The half-naked folks on the other side of the fence drank liquor like it was apple juice and begged for cigarettes. J₃ offered us mushroom caps, “just enough to make the world kind of shiny”, somebody passed around a pipe. I closed my eyes and let music pulse in my throat. I smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until my hands trembled. I blinked and it was 4 o’ clock.

C decided for her last day in town she would introduce me to Dots, ostensibly to see their velvet painting collection and meet a fella named Ruby. You guys, if you ever get a chance to visit Dots, take a close look at the 3D Spaniel painting. That one was totes my favorite. What I drew from this experience: C knows some strange and wonderful people, some seriously loveable weirdos. We passed the early evening playing pool, drinking whiskey and eating hummus. J₁ flashed children. There was face painting, clothes swapping and spontaneous tree climbing. Somewhere in the middle of everything my mouth lost the ability to form sensible words, so I just smiled, just took it all in. I let myself ride out the tides of other people’s conversations.

Eventually we wrangled everybody up, piled into C’s car and headed back to the Craft House to drop off J₁ before the poetry slam. I don’t know how many of you have attended a poetry slam, but I recommend you all look into attending one as soon as humanly possible. Some heavy contenders competed in this particular slam, including the man who basically created the Portland slam scene. For those of you who don’t know: a slam is a spoken-word competition. Contestants each recite a poem (these tend to have a lot of internal rhyme scheme) about whatever the funk they wanna, and the audience uses their magical powers of standing to determine the winner. Last beast standing wins a pretty princess crown, some sort of prize (for instance: a used Lite-Brite) and heaps of street cred. Ok, maybe not the street cred. But apparently there’s some sort of complicated internal point system and the winner will actually get to go to some big competition somewhere eventually.  Unfortunately, they got robbed… If you wanna give ‘em your money, they’ll take it.

This is my newest aspiration: to grow up and be a slam poet. I know, I know. Maybe not the most feasible plan and I may be donating plasma the rest of my life. But the feelings in that room every Sunday night, the degree of passion pouring out of those poets is fucking inspiration at its purest. They make me want to start writing and never stop. The poems I am currently working on address alcoholism, childhood abuse and Burmese pythons. Don’t even trip, I promise they will all be moderately bearable.

After having our minds metaphorically blown, our only logical last stop was Stripparaoke. By this point I was definitely calculating the hours of sleep accrued over a four day span and coming up ridiculously short considering the work week was set to begin in t-minus 6 hours.  My basic survival instincts found me standing on my front porch soaking wet, saying goodbye at 1 am. Thank you for walking me home. I’m sorry I didn’t get to hear you sing. I’m sorry I didn’t have the time you needed me to give, the words you needed me to say or the tears you needed me to cry. You’re going to be great, just let yourself be ok. Ok?

I love you all. Angels on your body.

-b

It's the Freakin' Weekend, Pt. 2 (Saturday)

[Hey kittens, here’s Pt. 2 of my long weekend adventure. Hope you’re still with me!]

Saturday

Crawling into my bed at 4:30 Saturday morning, I predicted long restful hours of undisturbed sleep. It’s been a long time since I pulled an all-nighter, and I was planning on milking this one for what it was worth. Unfortunately, me and bod weren’t on the same page. Conditioned into snapping awake every morning at 7 a.m. I managed about four hours of sleep before lurching back into consciousness. Unable to coax my mind back to sleep (considering the sizable number of things I needed to get done) I figured I could at least suck it up and be productive. By “be productive” I mean stumble downstairs and compare headaches with ULOL, then stare at the blinking cursor of a blank Word Document for several hours.

This pathetic display was thankfully interrupted by C dropping off coffee and a flower to brighten my day. Why am I surrounded by such incredible people? It will always surprise and delight me. Being her usual adventurous self, C invited me to a GLOW OUT party downtown that night. Take a second to conceptualize “GLOW OUT party” before we continue. Got an image? There may or may not be actual images at some point further on.

I decided a GLOW OUT was exactly what my muddled little brain needed, because seriously, why wouldn’t it be? First I had a rugby party/graduation/pig roast to attend.

Because sometimes you are a grown-up.

And sometimes you have grown-up friends who become doctors.

And sometimes those grown-up friends who become doctors know people who like to roast 85 lbs. of pig in a pit in their backyard.

So! Equipped with gigantic iced coffees and even bigger appetites, ULOL, roomie and I made the trek into deep Southwest for the celebration. Now, graduation parties can be awkward under the best circumstances. I feel like inviting a gang of rugby hooligans only compounds these situations. Maybe that’s just me? The gang of rugby hooligans at my graduation party... well that’s a story for another time. This friend’s family was extraordinarily gracious. We were fed, imbibed and left to our own entertainment devices.  I even packed home a 2 lb. bag of meat, which has been feeding me for the last 6 days! I just want to say: Thank you Dr, I know you are off into the great wide world to do big things (like save lives) and I wish you my very, very best.

Speaking of rugby players, damn we’re a bunch of weirdos! Here is the abridged version of a true story from Maggotfest:

·         Two Girl Scouts and a hotdog try to walk through the Taco Bell drive-through, and are denied their 4^th meal due to some stupid law, or something.

·         One drunken Girl Scout decides this is intolerable. So she waits until the next car is reaching for their order, and attempts to intercept said bag of goodies and make a clean escape.

·         Attempted interception somehow ends in the Girl Scout holding two girls by the hair with Taco Bell guts dripping down her face.

·         After drunken Girl Scout is booked for assault, the “victim” is too distraught to provide a report of the incident, and just continues sobbing: Ask the hotdog! The hotdog saw everything!

Seriously. This is my real grown-up life. I couldn’t make these things up if I tried. After consuming indecent quantities of food and a lengthy discussion about the pros and cons of LARPing, it was time to mob downtown for the GLOW party.

When you pictured a GLOW PARTY earlier, I hope you imagined plenty of partial nudity, fluorescent colorsand light-reactive body paint. Upon arrival I was promptly painted, handed a beer and diving into the fray. The DJ was experimenting with some pretty interesting beats, some hybrid Franken-beat of dubstep and 20’s parlor music. Needless to say, it lent itself to plenty of wild hand movements and leg-kicking. Totally my scene. Add in circus performers, day-glo hula hoops and belly dancing? Marvelous. 

At the end of the night, we dragged our exhausted, painted arms and legs off the dance floor and piled into the Craft mobile. Back at the Craft House, we gathered a heap of blankets and opted to sleep on the deck futon. Falling asleep to birdsong two nights in a row, my sleepy little bod sank into the void. 

Stay posted for Sunday! 

All my love.

-b

[P.S. You guys! Last night I saw Andrea Gibson and Tara Hardy perform at the 2410 down on Mississippi. Swoon. I am going to be a poet when I grow up, ok? Ok]

It's the Freakin' Weekend, Pt. 1 (Friday)

Ok. I think I’ve finally recovered enough to tell you about this weekend. Yes, I realize my last update was approximately one week ago. Seriously guys, you have no idea what all I’ve been up to. Mostly because I haven’t told you yet. Before we get into that, did you catch the Dance Moms 2-hour mid-season special? Did you feel like a whole hour of “Abby’s OMG Moments” was a total rip-off? If you don’t have two hours of brand new, demoralizing footage, don’t say you do! Am I right?

I have an overwhelming amount of information to pass on to you guys. Seriously, I outlined it all and I’m tempted to just post the outline and let you fill in all the blanks… like a Mad Lib, but with more debauchery. Well! Let’s get to it.

Friday

When last we saw each other I was setting off on the adventure known as “weekend”… If only I knew what I was getting myself into. From my kitchen table I trekked across town to the club for C’s last night of work. I’ve realized I might actually miss my trips out to 122^nd. I got to know a few of the girls out there and they are lovely. And there’s something to be said for spending time in a place that everyone wants to see you take your clothes off. I know, that sounds strange, but hear me out. Obvs there are some weirdos who congregate to the clubs, the sort of men offering dancers $5 to lick their feet. But there are also some really decent people there, people who have their degrees in forensics, or are taking care of their sick mother and just needed a break. Maybe I’m a sucker, but I feel like there are so many lonely people out there just looking for some sort of human connection. I know, I know: patriarchy, objectification and the male gaze. But anyways. There’s that.

One of the dancers was working on her birthday, which is obviously the perfect excuse to tie someone to a pole and slap her in the face with breasts. While that was going on, I hung out with the bouncer and somehow got him talking. Keep in mind this fella has been working in clubs for 18 years now. Homie’s got some horror stories. I’m not going to go into detail here, because I think my mom still reads it once in a while, but oh my god. Let me leave it at this: “double-ended dildo” and “three rectal stitches”.

Once C said goodbye to all the ladies, we decided the best course of action was to do what she deemed “real dancing” and I mostly think of as enthusiastic flailing. We made it downtown with only one minor incident (that instant you realize there’s spilled transmission fluid in your car and you’re not sure where that lit cigarette butt just went…), and found parking so easily it was practically an act of god.

Now those of you that know me know I’m not a great dancer. Enthusiastic? Absolutely. Good? It’s debatable. Furthermore, I loathe the uber-sexual bumpandgrind most dance clubs tout as the end-all of dancing. I’m a lot of sharp elbows and jumping up and down; not so much with the vertical hump. 

So when I step out on the dance floor and almost instantly get mauled by a little lesbo bear, all I can do is laugh and evade.

b: What’s her name again?

C: Destiny.

b: Are you fucking with me right now?

But Destiny and her pals were lovely, and bought us drinks, and ended up closing down the club with us. The highlight to all of this strobed-out, techno madness had to be us four lesbians enthusiastically belting out every word to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” dance remix. When the lights came up we said our goodbyes and promised to look each other up without actually exchanging any sort of personal information. If we meet again, it’ll be Destiny.

At this point I realized I had absolutely no idea where my car keys were. I checked all of my many pockets, searched the dance floor and inquired with a very tall drag queen, to no avail. The only logical thing to do was to amble back to the Biscuit, keeping our eyes peeled for that tell-tale Moose Drool bottle opener. Luckily, my keys weren’t lost. They were safe and sound in the ignition of my locked car. Along with my debit card and both of our phones. I might regret telling you all this, but Dodge Neon might be the easiest car in the entire world to break into, if you’ve got the right equipment. Unfortunately there weren’t any rigid metal objects just lying around in the streets of downtown Portland.

C spotted a security officer patrolling around a building across the street and suggested he might be able to loan us a cell phone. Which was a great idea, except neither of us had anyone to call. Damn cell phones! Remember when you used to have all of your friend’s numbers memorized? The good old days.

We decided to approach said fella anyways, just in case he could offer any sage advice. I mean he was a man in a uniform, right? He had to have some sagacity. We asked if he could help us “break into that little red car over there”, and he didn’t even miss a beat. He practically ran inside to find us a coat hanger and a wedge. Then he proceeded to help pry the window open while I finagled the lock.

C: Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?

Officer: Not really. Sometimes people steal my cones, but I think they’re construction workers.

While I will never hire him to help safeguard my valuable possessions, I’m definitely thankful to that bored security officer. Acts of vandalism stir up an appetite, so our natural next step was to find food. We tracked down The Roxy. This is a place you need to experience. Even if you just sit down and read their menu and then leave. Clever bastards.

Waiter: Merry fucking Christmas, kids.

b: Wait, what?
Waiter: Every day is Christmas, goddammit. If it weren’t I’d have to off myself. Whatdaya want?

What we wanted was apparently a strange, minty quesadilla and a gravy/cheese/fries meteorite the size of an infant.

Walking back to the car at 4 a.m., the birds were already starting to sing. I haven’t seen that side of sunrise in a long time, and it was kind of amazing. I mean, I probably won’t make a habit of it or anything, but seriously. The sky lightening into that hazy purple grey? That’s the color of god.

Parts 2 and 3 to follow shortly!

I love you fools more than you know.

-b

It's Been the Worst Day Since Yesterday.

I’m going to be blunt with you guys, this week has been fucking horrid. I’m ready to fall into my bed and sleep for a day or maybe a week. Everything seems to be crashing in on itself, my mind crashing in on itself and I’m left with this worthless, deflated shell wrapped around a dream, or the idea of a dream. Like reality is smoke curling around my outstretched fingers, lingering an ephemeral second before leaving me empty-handed again. I want to stand in the middle of the street and just scream and scream until my throat feels as raw as my emotions.

But let’s face it, I live in a respectable neighborhood. People can’t just scream in the streets around here. So I stuff my hands deep into my empty pockets and walk. Just walk until the storm finally starts and those fatty fucking raindrops start to wash away some of the frustration. I beg the sky for a baptism, or at least a shower because I haven’t had time to take one this week. When those raindrops start exploding like little shrapnel bombs on the sidewalk and my bare arms, I could laugh until I cry. Or cry until I laugh about the absurdity of it all. Laugh or cry until that clenched fist in my throat starts to relax a little.

There’s so much to life. So many things to fear or love or both. To hold sacred and experience. So many things to shake us up, beat us down, overwhelm us, keep us sane or drive us crazy. There’s just so much. Trying to take it all in can leave you torn wide open. But in the end it’s all a matter of perception. We are all the human being story we keep telling ourselves.

“My father’s mind always worked that way. If you don’t like the things you remember, then all you have to do is change the memories. Instead of remembering the bad things, remember what happened immediately before. That’s what I learned from my father. For me, I remember how good that first drink of that Diet Pepsi tasted instead of how my mouth felt when I swallowed a wasp with the second drink.”

--Sherman Alexie

So. Instead of recklessly pouring all of this negative energy into the blogosphere, I’ma subject you guys to a practice in perception. Because there are two sides to every cloud, and coins sometimes have a silver lining, right? Right.

1. My rent is painfully high. Because I live in a good neighborhood. A neighborhood where crazy people don’t stand in the middle of the street and scream for no apparent reason. I live in a neighborhood where I can walk down the street and not worry about having my face eaten by a naked potential-zombie drug addict. All things considered, things could be a whole lot worse. I have lilac bushes in my backyard.  

2. I’ve been eating rice and beans for a month now. Which means I haven’t been hungry. Sometimes I can afford to throw a handful of spinach or half an onion into the mix. And there always seems to be enough money for hot sauce, no matter how dire my situation. Worse comes to worst, there’s a Taco Bell down the street and their fire sauce is one of my favorite things in the whole world. So there’s that. Things I’m looking forward to rediscovering once my finances settle out: avocados and Secret Aardvark sauce.  

3. I have to donate plasma to pay my bills. I have a body healthy enough to donate plasma. Seriously you guys, I could have a debilitating illness or a communicable disease. I could have hepatitis or HIV, and then I wouldn’t even have the option of donating plasma. I could be a hemophiliac, or anemic. Since contracting the plague at Maggotfest, I haven’t been able to donate plasma. Let me tell you, I’ve come to appreciate my health and the benefits that come along with it.  

4. I have accrued an incredible amount of medical debt. Because I had access to quality medical care when I needed it most. I stand to regain full use of my knee, and I’ve been educated on ways to maintain the integrity of my joints. Not to mention the fact that being incapable of running has made me that much more passionate about it. Things are hard right now, I took a bad step and I’m paying for it. That sentence is so literal it hurts. But! It’s been a learning experience.  

5. I’m working a dead end job with an inept boss. But! Recognizing this means I will not wake up in 25 years and wonder why I’m still working the same dead end job for the same inept boss. There’s something to be said for discomfort. It keeps us moving, keeps us seeking. I’m far from complacent. I’m ready to start following my Dreams (whatever shape they take), and in the meantime I’m capable of paying my bills. I’m not trapped, just biding my time. Because I know that there is more out there, and that I deserve it.

6. This week has felt like the longest, hardest week of my life…. which means it’s over! And tonight I have plans, and friends to act them out with. Also, I'm wearing 6 neon jelly bracelets, which I won at the nickel arcade playing skee ball with C. Also also, I played Big Buck Hunter on Wednesday night, and it was a blast (pun!) even though Friend slayed me. Things are going to be ok. 

Alright guys, thanks for playing along. I feel a heap better. I hope you do too. Now to embark on the endless adventure known figuratively as “Weekend”. 

I love you all the days.

-b

P.S. Did you guys know things like this actually happen in real life? I cried all three times I watched it.