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To Attain

November 20, 2009

She loved the pages of old books. To her they were a blend of every breed of tree out there, refined and fermented into the most pristine Merlot. Her eyes would trace the pages as if she were acutely surveying their surface for any delicacy the author left unattended between the lines. She would spend days in my mahogany armchair traveling no further than the few meters that separated our house from the spring. A few minutes would pass, the sloshing of the spring water against the sides of her pale yellow bucket, then she would materialize again next to me. Her legs would curl in the most peculiar ways. One extended to its full length along the back of the chair, the other forging half an awkward wingspan, a book carefully balanced in her hands. Her eyes, clear as the spring, never read a single word.

She would slowly tilt her head back at me and flare her nostrils, two times fast, grinning softly. A sign she was really getting into the book. I never quite understood how she got so much pleasure from just inhaling the yellow pages. But I never questioned her smile. I would lightly rub circles into the crest of her head, breathing naturally at the tip of her ear, sending shivers down her boney back and squint signals to her eyes. We would fall asleep like that. In the middle of an empty room save my armchair and towers of books who worked off their rent by holding piles of soiled dishes and glasses. Her always engulfed in the aging mahogany cushions, and I, at her feet.

We never spoke. Instead we stared at each other for hours, learning the curves of each other’s features, and the slight changes they underwent. How to read them. That was the only means of communication we ever needed. I said more to her in those days than I ever have, or will ever utter in my entire lifetime.

Although, we were never quite the same. Our births divided by seven years, two months, and twenty six days. Her, a nymph of the trees, and I an under-motivated man who clung to the pages of his bound knowledge. I was perpetually one step behind her. She woke with the sun and the trees. I, with my stomach. She tasted the breeze. I could only feel it. She spoke to the birds. They sang in raspy voices to a point just past my head. She made love to the trees. I wanted nothing more than to become their branches.

Time. A concept invented to try and explain the wrinkling of hands, gained on us fast. Her hair grew to her knees, mine refused to venture past my ears. Her face grew lovelier still, mine folded over at the seams. She lost interest in my books, and soon I could no longer sketch the curve of her eye. I still slept in a ball, my face forever angled toward the abandoned reddish brown of her once primary perch.

I trudged on. If only for the times her face would appear just inches above mine, a grin unfurling to show her infinitesimally small teeth. She would swoop in for only a second and apologize with those lips of hers. Once, twice. In the middle of my forehead, before turning and walking off. Slow. Mocking. As if to extenuate the pain her leaving brought me. I thought fleetingly of forcing her to stay with me. Although, motion was always out of the question with I locked eyes with her.

I regained my voice in the years she was absent. Rehearsed speeches begging her to stay, to breathe once again the bitter aged reverses of literature I had, and to be there awake, staring at me as I arose each morning. Only the insects lingered to listen to me. But they too had other places to be.

I did not know the woods as well as she. In fact, any time I had ever entered them, she was my way. She was always that. The only thing that was ever tangible. Months turned into years. Years into undefined periods of time marked only by people who still have a balanced head on their shoulders, and a reason to track time. Time was what undid me. Took her away. I had no reason to know of it.

I took to wondering off through the forest, away from the fraying plush chair, still bathed in her hair. I collapsed in the middle of a clearing, my voice too hoarse to assert my feelings to the clovers anymore. I grimaced as I examined the hidden reservoir of mud I had just emerged myself in. How old am I now? Fifty-eight? Fifty-nine, maybe? I am nothing more than a parasite to this land she adored so much. I eat what it produces, and have nothing to give back. I shit and I stare. Surely something as hollow as me is just that: a dead, rotting stump of a man. I shuttered at the cliché, pulling at the diluted earth clinging to my skin as desperately as my mind to an out of focus face.

 

Pathetic. When you’ve half-lived for so long, you don’t really reside inside your skeleton. I sat calmly outside of myself, watching my body thrash against something I couldn’t quite feel, fighting to no avail. It let my despair echo to the top of the canopy, and back down to the sun dappled mud around it. Each rock the veined hand hurls leaves yet another obstacle on my way to her. To trip, ravish the flesh that miraculously remains holding my organs in place. I egg the crumpled man on, to lift its face up from the mud, to continue taking in enough oxygen to remain conscious. A muddy bubble pops at its lips; its arms assume the proper stance to alleviate its chest from the twigs and slugs, but refuse to work.

It just lies there. What am I doing? You have to move, you worthless thing. Goddammit, get up.

I look straight into the sun and shut my lids slowly, leaving my eyelashes to kiss as my fake strength returns to me. When I open them again, everything has been masked with a delicate shade of blue, making the mud with my body’s indent seem almost comical. I shake my head and move through the dense forest, groping blindly in front of me.

The wind picks up a bit from the north, as I grasp my elbows in an attempt to warm myself. A dash of yellow invades my peripheral vision. My body pulls me close to it, and stares down at a page right out of Edgar Allen Poe, a familiar dog-ear resting in the top right hand corner. My mind asserts dominion once more, and I pick up the sheet. She’s been stealing my pages? My mind bypasses anger, and sends simple electrical signals to my tear ducts.

I run, following the spattering of decaying pages, barely pausing to brush away the vines in my path. I pay no mind to the speckles of blood adorning my arm, and trudge forward, exactly like the years I’d spent living off an occasional smirk. My manic euphoria drives me into a shallow stream where the sediment latches onto my toes, causing me to fall face first through a veil of foliage. I pull a piece of Steinbeck from my grey hair, as my breath catches inside me, knocking every functioning organ out of place.

The entire base of an ancient Willow tree is surrounded in the pages she pored over with me. With me.

Again, I feel my mind detaching itself from my frame. The stump man clawed at the fragments of story, threw their corpses behind him, spat onto the bark of the Willow, pulled the yawning branches and leaves apart from their mother, pulled out a man made device, fooled with the switch. That same man, I watch him now, as he sets her beloved pages afire, a circle erupts around the Willow, and soon the flames lick the strong being herself. He wails now. Feral.

I see the burns on my bare feet, the gashes down my wrinkled face, but I do not feel them. Embers fly from above me, turning my shoulders into a bloody Braille. The wind catches a pile of the pages and scatters the remains into the murky water. I look down at my alien hands moving of their own accord in dread, my eyes creating unwavering streams down my soot and blood stained face.

A long, low, sustained note clutters my ears, then cuts off sharply. Leaving an indistinguishable ringing through my skull. Like a “goodnight” whispered to the soul lying already asleep beside you. The fire roars up behind me as it finds another cache of classic words. The embers enter my lungs and trim my height by half as I bend to the ground, attempting to purge them. I manage to pick my head up, but my eyelids will not follow.

Everything is black. Then I begin to pick out colors. The watery pale yellow of the sky merges flawlessly with the damaged mahogany of the rising and dying flames. It’s beautiful. The veins trapped in my lids, awkward expanses. Each pulse through them, an eternity. Finally, they allow me access to my eyes.

They flutter apart; my pupils adjust to the low light of the calm forest just seconds from the flame. At the stream’s edge, she stood. Her nostrils flared, twice fast, grinning softly. I thought briefly of shouting my most sincere apologies, regaling her with tattered selections of my desperate speeches, dashing for her pale silhouette to memorize again the workings of her face. But I could not move. I never questioned that smile.

She took a step forward, moving effortlessly through the water. She did not break eye contact all the way. I watched, hope rupturing in my body, as she lifted herself from the mud. I started toward her, but each step I took she mirrored.

Toward the flame.

She turned one last time to me, and offered one last smirk to feed upon.

She folded herself intimately around the trunk of the searing tree, and whispered, “I love you.”

 

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Success is a bitch

November 9, 2009

Everything was set up perfectly. The wax paper covered every inch of my desk as I debated on the best knife for the procedure. The large one would be too powerful for the job, I decided. The plastic pink one shaped like a flamingo, too docile to my patient’s outer covering. I finally nominated a a shiny, yet impossibly dull butter knife.

I looked back down at my specimen, anxiety closing in on my mind, causing my vision to blur. I had to advert my eyes from the scene. As I did, I caught my reflexion in the square mirror that is always about five degrees off kilter, and saw myself, hunched over a helpless Almond Joy, my eyes bloodshot, and my hair looking as if I attempted to take a bath the night previous with two other people in the dark, subjecting hundreds of cereal bowl sized loads of water to my chlorinated hair. (SIDE NOTE! Unheated pools in november are a tad chilly.)

And in that moment, I realized something… I do absolutely nothing with my life. The highlights of my weekend included convincing the blockbuster guy I was high, debating for an hour and a half in H-E-B which brand of deodorant was the best and why, video taping the splashes that large rocks make after being thrown into lake Georgetown, strategically placing mustaches on the mirrors in my car, and watching Full Metal Alchemist while constructing conspiracy theories about halloween M&Ms. (Which! By the way, mainly taste like certifiable ass chippings. Since all the corporate guys got wasted the night before they were shipped out, and decided to sleep naked in the vats full of colorful bite sized chocolates.)

I have nothing to show for being alive! Except for the fact that I can pretty much act out any Avatar scene ever written, and sing anything in a mock cockney accent, and could tell you the exact turns Link should take in the forsaken fortress. I could have written all my college entry essays, or even better, actually started looking into where I want to go, or something useful. Damn, I need a job.

But, no. I waltz around my neighborhood in size fifteen moccasins, and enjoy the noises that the sides of my nose make when they meet up with my septum. (Which I just discovered the name for by googling ,”What is that piece of junk in between my nostrils called?”)

And you know what else I realized? I don’t care. At all. I also realize that this is not an original feeling for teenagers in general; a lack of focus, or motivation, whatever you want to call it. And I don’t want to sound cocky, because maybe I’m wrong, but things generally tend to work themselves out. And of course, my mom would say, “WELL YOU’VE GOT TO HELP THEM ALONG MALLORY. YOU CAN’T JUST SIT AROUND FIDDLING WITH THAT CAMERA A-YOURS AND EXPECT THE WORLD TO FALL INTO YOUR LAP!!”

Wherein I would reply, “I won’t let that happen. It would crush my camera…” And she would roll her eyes, and I would definitely not cease doing absolutely nothing. The fact is; I am one helluva lazy person. I am a big time quitter, and probably a horrible person. But, the only fact I really care about is; I am freaking happy. I do nothing. I train Pokemon, and sleep. I guess my problem could be called sloth, and I’m going to end up in some terrible circle of hell. But what really counts as success? Why can’t I label myself successful for memorizing lines out of my favorite books? Why can’t I label myself successful for staying up twenty four hours straight watching my favorite TV show in a pile in my game room? Why can’t I label myself successful for spending an entire day trying to get the perfect shot of my friend’s eyes? Why the hell can’t I?

Society has long taught us that being “successful” is based on being the most achieved at some intricate art or science we are, or how many programs that help impoverished babies who’ve lost their parents to freaks who collect shrunken heads we’re involved in, or how much money we have. But, the term is really quite relative. I can say for a fact that I brighten, or frighten at least one person each day. So maybe that’s my own brand of success. I don’t need millions of people to know my name, as long as a few know it well. I don’t need to prove myself by writing the great american novel, as long as a few people will listen to what I have to say. I don’t need anything more than what I have now to be happy; so why kill myself with ambition?

I am not saying I’m going to skip out on college or quit academically. That’s all stuff that I want to do. Not that I have to. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not entirely void of ambition. I’ve got a few solid, long term goals. My motto has just always been, “Don’t bother with anything that you can’t achieve without being one hundred percent yourself.” And I’m just… an immature kid who walks around barefoot.

So where I’m trying to go with all this is; there’s no point in thinking extensively about your future, or planning it out step for step. It’ll just drive you nuts. (Speaking of nuts, the one part almond in a normal Almond Joy that competes with the five parts nasty coconut filling (that I made up an allergy to in order to avoid eating it), is really rubbery. And is probably a recycled bouncy ball. Just throwing it out there.)

Casual hurricanes… was the first thing that came to my mind, so this poor title is now stuck with it.

August 28, 2009

I have recently diagnosed myself with a very fatal case of CDWWD. Eh kay eh, Concentration Deficit Whilst Writing Disorder. Which can be commonly referred to as Seawwud (if you change the position of the second ‘D’ and rotate it ninety degrees to the right that is, and change the C to Sea. Which are identical if read aloud in any case, so therefore should only be said aloud and never written). I just violated by own rule. Or does it count if I wrote it before I established this new disease nickname precedent? (Speaking of the direction “right”: you do not actually end up home if you always turn right at intersections. A lesson whose consequences are being reaped by my gas tank and my emotional well being as of last night around ten o’clock in the gushing rain).

I write sprawled out on my bed, pillow below my chin, or leaned up against the headboard, furiously pounding* the keys of my father’s macbook which he sees about as often as a footless manatee sees Arkansas. (I did not just google “do manatees have feet?” What are you talking about? I would never do that). *More like gently gliding over, but I like the image of writing being a very dangerous task. Which it is, if you think about it. I mean, if you actually want to be published you need people to like the way you lay things out. Releasing a rough manuscript of your very first novel is a (darn, thesaurus doesn’t have anything for “freaking”) giant step for someone like me who has a long way to go in polishing her writing. It is dangerous, in it’s a way. It is putting yourself out there, to complete strangers. Awaiting either a giant GREAT stamp on your forehead, or to be quietly turned away. That book, that piece of writing could have every bit of your soul coiled up in it. And to place all that work on the table with the possibility of having it sent through a desktop paper shredder… Is unfathomable. Criticism is something I am trying to learn to accept more readily, so please do not hesitate to tell me anything you think would help me. I won’t get offended.

Writing is not just something I do in my spare time to tame the restlessness of my fingers. Writing is life. Not my life. I could never claim something so universally wondrous all to myself. I would feel splendidly selfish to think that. I accept that there are much better writers than myself or my favorite authors. And I read their words trying to acquire a new lemon wedge for my own. It is the art I am most comfortable surrounding myself in. I do not stress myself about others loving what I create as much as I (because no one ever will), or worry about the negatives of being so immersed in it. Because I love it. I have formed an unconditional love for writing. It is life, it is art, it is love. And I do it for myself, in hopes that others can find some meaning in my ramblings, or some laughter. Anything. As of late, I’ve been tearing up over happy things… I was about to say excuse me, but you cannot see me.

Writing, for me, is like every positive emotion could you ever feel or hazard to describe, sketched into the sidewalk in every vibrant color the f/stops in our human eyes could never quite catch.

…And now I feel super lame, and I am going to go finish my non-existent homework. This whole “hardly any AP classes!??!11” bullshit was a bad idea. Although, it’s only the first week of school, as it were. I just find myself incredibly jealous of Michael for getting to take Studer’s class. I want to take Stu-stu’s class again. I shall go fake pout now.

My nose is really soft today.

August 25, 2009

(This is seriously the only bit of not hand written writing I’ve done ALL summer. And it’s for a school project. Bad Mallory. Oh! Background if you’re reading this, the guy whose point of view I’m writing from is a sixty four year old fucking evangelistic baptist in the Congo.)

My body is the chosen vessel to bring the word of the Lord Our Savior unto this inhuman landscape festering with inhuman human beings. Here I am. Willing to scrub the molding remains of their pagan souls once and for all, and they treat me as if I am a some crazy old man! Do they simply refuse to grasp the concept that the trick to ceasing to perish from this world is as simple as reading the Bible and dunking their heads in a tiny bit of liquid!? Isn’t that the sort of thing insolent children enjoy?

Insolent children… I see their faces in the bark of the trees that surround the perimeter of this tiny agglomeration of infants walking on their hind legs, packing decades on their weak Godless shoulders. The dull texture of these trees seem to flock to me, without wings. Cling to me, without claws. Always reminding. Reminding me of the insolent’s irrevocable sins. I sat there among the only living things that did not squirm from my teachings, or my touch. My legs have become mere flaps of skin that narrowly mask my fractured shin. They fold haphazardly beneath me giving my body the look of a preschooler’s rendition of the letter Z from an aerial view. Every time I lower my body to the ground I am reminded of the group of knee high midnight shaded children, and their refusal to be baptized in the name of the Father the Son and the Holy ghost. God’s anger shown through me like a beacon that day, and I do not regret the capsizing of their wooden canoe, or the thrashing and the begging of those sinners as the crocodiles each claimed their favorite morsel. Teach them to ward me off like a plague… I will send a plague down on you! Through me the true wrath of God shall spring forth!

I took out my digressions on the flesh and blood of these trees. I mostly use my hands which have become withered and burned. I’ve long since lost my belt. I cannot remember if it was the first village I was run out of or the third that I lost it. The stubs where my nails used to sleep under healthy cuticles now lash out again and again against the poisonwood until I have no strength left. The head that does not seem to be attached to my neck, crashes forever forward barely pausing as it scrapes against the bark, my face in the dirt. Can’t breathe. My last ounce of might is used to make the one eighty degree rotation to my back. I look up at the tree. The tree that started all of this. The creases in the texture merge together and pour down on me, the faces of my company writhing in pain.

The sounds of distant gunfire, the smells of the soggy uninhabitable Congo pour through the nostrils of a much younger Nathan Price. There is genuine terror in his eyes. Terror I have forgotten completely. I am outside of my body watching myself struggle to pull another man’s body into a dense bit of shrub. He must be around the same age as me. Why can’t I remember his name? The boy I know is me, bares no resemblance to the man. It all comes back so vividly now. I am back in my own shoes from so many years past, pulling a silent creature onto a makeshift cot of fallen wood.

“Lord, Oh God help us!” I cry up to the uninterested canopy. My shrieks echo inauspiciously into the day that feels like the darkest of nights. I reach my hands over to touch his chest, to feel the life that surely could not be taken to quickly. My hands move ever farther away from him, his skin starts to boil, and sizzle, and pop. He brings his hand up to his squinted eyes. The cornea starts to peal back…

I am staring back up at that same blasted tree.

“You listen to me, don’t you?!” I pleaded as I gently caressed the places where it’s branches met it’s trunk with the side of my tongue. It stung. But I know for sure that if I can only speak the language of these primates I can finally impose on them the real path to redemption.

Rings of smoke billow in the air right above my head, cooing to me to stand up. All around me are the families of the children I led straight to the eternal flames of Hell, where they belonged. So help me God. They held torches high above their heads and ran toward me.

My legs forbid me to move as my instincts tell me to. So I call upon them, Tell them of the everlasting salvation that shall be theirs if they follow Him! If they follow Me. Can they not understand Me? Have I not licked the bark of the poisonwood as instructed? God will deliver Me!

As I fell from the top of the tower I remember three things. Time stood still and let me wade lightheartedly into these thoughts, to cherish them as the stench of my flesh filled the air. The smell of coffee beans. A lone flower blooming on the edge of the field. The face of a savage, briefly turning into all five of my lost causes. Everything went completely dark. I waited and waited for that light at the end of the tunnel, to provide me at long last my rightful immortality. I kept walking endlessly forward, but light there was not.

For the one who constantly puts up with my quirky antics,

May 11, 2009

You know. I’ve been thinking about it. And I am ridiculously lucky to have you as a parent. I really, really am. I could have been born into a family of antelopes that get shot down within their first couple hours of birth. Or I could have been mothered by a prominent leader of some assorted hate club which partakes in the burning all taco bells because they either a) think it’s racist to assume all people refer to flat bread with stuffing as tacos, or, b) they cannot stand bells because they don’t like music. And you, a) are all for food diversity, and b) would most likely not commit hate crimes against any kind of musical instrument, even if it was a bell.

But, really. The main person who raises you is the one who leaves the biggest imprint on who you are. You’re the one who helped shaped the way I see the world, and people, and inanimate objects, and politics, and so much more. I just wonder what would have happened to me if my mother had not been you. If I’m not enough of a disaster already, I shiver to think what could have become my body and mind under a different supervision.

Hearing stories of people who hate their moms, or can’t talk to them, or connect with them makes me laugh. Mostly because I’ve never been able to empathize with them. Because you have just always been my solid foundation. And it’s not even like I need you to be a perfect landing spot for me every time I mess up, (which I can foresee being a rather large handful of instances), I just need you to be there. And you always will be. I’ve just never had to have any doubts about that. On the same string; I will always be here ready to listen to you, or whatever you need me to be to you.

It’s so easy to talk to you. I never feel like I’m being set out on a dissection tray and prodded with questions and assertions. I feel like you’ve allowed me to be on the same level as you. It’s the fact that you talk to me like we’re equals, even though I obviously have so much more to learn, that really gets me. Thanks.

As we were talking the other day, I brought up something I think about a lot: how I wish the people I love could see themselves the way that I see them. Their egos would inflate four score (and seven years ago), but I just want you to know the light I see you in. I’ve seen you at your worst, and at your best. But even as you feel like the world has crushed a giant bird flu carrying lemon inches above your eyes, you’re still the strongest, kindest person I know. And it is the way you handle defeat that shows your character so well.

I also see a lot of me in you, and a lot of you in me. And it makes me realize just how close mother and daughter are. You’ve given every piece of yourself to give another person life. I respect that. We are just so lucky that we’ve never had to strive to keep this bond forged together. It’s just always been there. And it will continue to be there. Forever.

And I guess what I’m trying to say is; I could not have picked a better mom if I had an entire universe wide plantation of them to choose from. And I love you.

-M.E.N (because you didn’t think it through while naming me.)

Allier gees

May 6, 2009

I no longer feel the need to pee. I have not had a successful excreting of the many different hues of urine for a very, very long time. Sure, there’s the occasional, “hmm, I think I need to pee.” And then I realize that the fluids in my body have been completely milked out due to the season. You see, any other time of the year I can pee just fine. And it is the most exciting business, as well. Like popping a balloon full of salt on a speedy, giant snail. Not only do you get to watch something’s demise, you also get the thrill of buying enough salt to fill a ballon large enough to encase an astute chubby snail in a bubbling mist of joy. Not to mention the pre and post rubber descending adrenaline rush.

In the same way that this preconceived insect murdering brings excitement, so does sneezing. The major differences being; the things you drop and kill is mucus and regular urinary cycles. As of late I have been sneezing. No, that word doesn’t even cover the occurrences that have been occurring in my… uh… proboscis area? Isn’t that what houseflies have? As of late I have been excreting all bodily fluids via my ampullae of lorenzini. (That being the structure I could not spell on my aquatic science quiz, which coincidentally happened to be the one question that made me fail. Fuck you lauren and your sexual experimentations with zucchinis. If only coach Teague knew that laurenzeeni was an actual creature, albeit very confused.)

I really feel like I’ve been sucked dry. I excrete half of my bodily fluids, (on average), at least thirty times a day. So it is only natural that by the end of the day I either have to drink five times me weight in water/silk or staple my feet to my bed so I don’t get swept away during the night. (In case of a mandatory get-all-waterless-organisms-out-of-your-house sweep. Which happen a lot on the west coast, so I’ve heard.) This only adds to my weekly expenditures. Which now comes to a list including: pocket sized water bottles, nose hair scissors, and pencils, and bicycle grease.

The pocket sized bottles are obvious. If I am ever going to overcome my sneeze disease I’m going to have to think outside of the box. That box being the illusion that only people over three feet tall can help me out. Thus, I will always have at least four plus miniature refrescos on my person to bribe them. Keeping tidy nose hairs is also crucial, so you don’t embarrass your sneezes with tiny black hairs getting fresh with them. On the other hand… if we’re trying to get rid of this… Use the scissors to intimidate the mucus instead. Or use a kind of sexual harassment purplemail technique. I.E; stop leaving my body, and [insert host body’s name] will in turn trim him/hers nose hairs for you.

And it’s really beginning to not be cool. Not only do I lose precious mucus which I used to be able to really confide in, but I also lose a great deal of my salinity. As I am busy being in labor with these excretions, my eyes start tearing up and following up/out. And now, if I died absolutely no one would use my blood as seasoning. IT IS SO DRY AND PLAIN. Oh, and the pencils and bicycle grease are for sustenance.

Forged fruit alliances

April 8, 2009

Something was off about today. But off in the good sense of the word. Like a a permanently broken monorail that the british Mafia capitalizes on that suddenly becomes off and actually transports their victims safely to their destination without hopping the rail and crashing down in a blaze of purple and orange and ethic minority limbs. Perhaps a violent comparison isn’t the best way to describe how I’ve been feeling lately. Although I already put a lot of effort (a full thirty seconds, actually) into that so I’ll just leave it. The off bit is basically just that I blogged on time yesterday, got to school ten minutes early, and… there was something else. I think it’s basically that I just whig out when Mallory Elise is on time for things.

I’ve been talking to strangers a lot lately. I mean, we’re all from the same place and we’re all going to end up in the same state so why not bother them? They’re normally small little comments that I only half expect to be returned. Although every time I get flat out ignored, it makes my throat blush. Why not just humor the short girl without shoes? What harm would come from it?

I was in the sandwich line today with Sarah, and we both order our bread goody bags with only cheese and let-too-cee. Sarah walks off and I stand for about twenty seconds trying to decide whether I want cheetos or a banana. Cheetos equal a cheesy delightful crunchy snack. But if you eat them you’ll have slightly orange-ish fingers which you could either wipe on Kyle or risk getting punched in the face and wipe them on Sarah. But… then if you were too lazy and tired after chewing that meatless sandwich to wipe them on anyone you’re going to have to wash your hands and everyone knows that bathrooms are seductive little bastards that tempt you to stay in for three minutes and fifteen seconds making small talk with that cool mental chick who barks and is always chilling by the lousy broken hand dryer. Then you’d be late to class, (nothing new), but Ms. Larson specifically said, “don’t be late to class,” while looking directly at you. Which is always an awkward situation since you know, the class knows, and the teacher knows that she’s only addressing you while attempting to mask her intentions by announcing it loudly enough to be mistaken as a class command by someone staring at the wall. On the other hand, all bananas sold in the United States are actually clones since some kind of fruit STD got out and caused all varieties of naners in the states to lose the ability to reproduce. The bananas got their tubes tied! And these two bananas look like they’ve been at the very end of the banana gene pool. Oh, god, they’re sort of open in the middle. …Is that green foam? Fuck. This is a hard decision. Do I want the complicated cheese snacks or the genetic engineered fruits foaming from the fulcrum of their bodies?

Ahh! Do I want a banana?!” I looked to the girl next to me in line. She doesn’t even look up from her black nail polish. I don’t really blame her. She’s wearing baby phat and she orders an all meat no cheese no vegetables sandwich abomination. And she’s next to a girl who just had an entire conversation with herself about the pros and cons of side dishes. She wouldn’t even confide her opinion of bananas over cheetos and she thought I was a freak! She was right of course, but it still hurt.

Goddamn I miss having someone* around who would understand that reference.

*Michelle Montgomery

In other news! I spent a good fifteen minutes yesterday trying to get a quality picture of Margo for the photoblog, wherein I managed to drop five books in my trash can, bruise my elbow (twice), knock a perfume bottle from Egypt off again into the trash can (which miraculously decided to land on a used tissue so it didn’t burst into a million imported glass fragments, but my fingers still smell like the sweet-tart perfume I concocted from Grace’s ‘make your own perfume!!!’ kit. Which is actually why I decided to tell you about this, because I was lapping the rest of my coffee from my fingers and I was like, SWEET-TARTS, WHERE?!?)

Oh!
I also have a new fun game! Run up to everyone I know and slap their hips and yell, “HIP HI!!! HIP HI!!!” I did it to my friend Alex from behind in the hall way and ran off past her. She yelled after me, “Mallory! Stop eating the brownies they give you!”