In a nutshell............
I’m having one of those days where your neck is sore from holding up your head. You do that maneuver, or maybe not so much a maneuver, but a tactic, or thing, or whatever, where you tug on your face repeatedly and then sigh, hoping to deter eminent screams, tears, strangulation and sleep. There’s a balancing act going on in your brain. Every day brings new challenges and struggles that are placed neatly one upon another, growing higher and higher, until one day someone places a toaster on the top and it all crashes down …jenga game over.
Maybe I should add that I haven’t eaten in a few days, I’m running on four hours of sleep, I have to make a decision regarding the next 18 months of my life by next week, I received a rather startling proposition earlier which I won’t dare explain considering he may read this, I have a migraine that makes the Grand Canyon look like Polly Pocket and I just sat through “We are the world” for four continuous hours…that’s right…19 times….super fucking day!
In no particular order, I present you with my day:
I got an email from dad. The last paragraph goes a little something like this (verbatim): “I cleaned up your room for Bobbie to stay there Sunday and Monday. (end verbatim -me: thanks for asking my permission first) (back to dad, verbatim) There is way too much personality in your room. I picked up a journal type book you made. Hope you don't mind me looking through it. (verbatim stop - me: actually, yeah, I kinda do mind…I have no clue what I wrote in there, but it can’t be good. No one has a journal for a perfect little candy-coated life. Oh shit, there are some things parents just shouldn‘t know.)(begin verbatim otra vez) You really are a very deep thinking person. How did that happen coming from ADD mom and practical dad?”
Ha ha, now there’s a laugh.
Contemporary Japanese fashionistas are obsessed with Playboy. The students come to class wearing Playboy socks, carrying Playboy backpacks. The teachers wear Playboy shirts to teach in. I imagine they have no clue as to the origin of Hugh Hefner’s Playboy. But still, it fits the definition of irony perfectly. A Playboy obsessed nation from a culture that doesn’t have a translation for fuck, or any cuss words of their own.
The brass band performed earlier for the opening of the cultural festival. I have to admit, they’re all very talented, and it proved extra entertaining when one boy on the end dropped his sheet music, bent over to pick it up and the rim of his tuba whacked his neighbor in the head. It ended in a trip to the hospital, needlessly I feel, for there was very little blood, but all the same, it made me queasy…I can’t stand blood.
Maybe waking up at 5 to go running every morning isn’t such a good idea.
Maybe replacing meals with coffee isn’t a good idea.
Maybe simultaneously learning Russian and Japanese isn’t a good idea.
Maybe exceeding the recommended daily dosage of Excedrin isn’t a good idea.
The choir is working on a song for the cultural festival in Latin. They asked me to come in and help with pronunciation. Ha, the only Latin I know derives from old Christmas carols sung in church. I feigned Latin super powers though, no one knew the difference, I hope. The song is more or less about an end to war and suffering and blah, blah, blah, and at one point in the song a few students step forward and list wars and casualties and go all Lifetime television sentimental. When it comes time to mention the war in Iraq I get squeamish. They look at me and I avert my eyes. That’s right, my country supports an unjust “war on terror” and replaces foreign leaders with leaders of it’s own choosing. That’s right, we don’t popularly elect our “representatives.” That’s right, 90% of my country is consumed with ignorance. And you’re right, by default I too must support the war, be a moron and agree with every fucking lame comment made by every politician.
Maybe I should add that I haven’t eaten in a few days, I’m running on four hours of sleep, I have to make a decision regarding the next 18 months of my life by next week, I received a rather startling proposition earlier which I won’t dare explain considering he may read this, I have a migraine that makes the Grand Canyon look like Polly Pocket and I just sat through “We are the world” for four continuous hours…that’s right…19 times….super fucking day!
In no particular order, I present you with my day:
I got an email from dad. The last paragraph goes a little something like this (verbatim): “I cleaned up your room for Bobbie to stay there Sunday and Monday. (end verbatim -me: thanks for asking my permission first) (back to dad, verbatim) There is way too much personality in your room. I picked up a journal type book you made. Hope you don't mind me looking through it. (verbatim stop - me: actually, yeah, I kinda do mind…I have no clue what I wrote in there, but it can’t be good. No one has a journal for a perfect little candy-coated life. Oh shit, there are some things parents just shouldn‘t know.)(begin verbatim otra vez) You really are a very deep thinking person. How did that happen coming from ADD mom and practical dad?”
Ha ha, now there’s a laugh.
Contemporary Japanese fashionistas are obsessed with Playboy. The students come to class wearing Playboy socks, carrying Playboy backpacks. The teachers wear Playboy shirts to teach in. I imagine they have no clue as to the origin of Hugh Hefner’s Playboy. But still, it fits the definition of irony perfectly. A Playboy obsessed nation from a culture that doesn’t have a translation for fuck, or any cuss words of their own.
The brass band performed earlier for the opening of the cultural festival. I have to admit, they’re all very talented, and it proved extra entertaining when one boy on the end dropped his sheet music, bent over to pick it up and the rim of his tuba whacked his neighbor in the head. It ended in a trip to the hospital, needlessly I feel, for there was very little blood, but all the same, it made me queasy…I can’t stand blood.
Maybe waking up at 5 to go running every morning isn’t such a good idea.
Maybe replacing meals with coffee isn’t a good idea.
Maybe simultaneously learning Russian and Japanese isn’t a good idea.
Maybe exceeding the recommended daily dosage of Excedrin isn’t a good idea.
The choir is working on a song for the cultural festival in Latin. They asked me to come in and help with pronunciation. Ha, the only Latin I know derives from old Christmas carols sung in church. I feigned Latin super powers though, no one knew the difference, I hope. The song is more or less about an end to war and suffering and blah, blah, blah, and at one point in the song a few students step forward and list wars and casualties and go all Lifetime television sentimental. When it comes time to mention the war in Iraq I get squeamish. They look at me and I avert my eyes. That’s right, my country supports an unjust “war on terror” and replaces foreign leaders with leaders of it’s own choosing. That’s right, we don’t popularly elect our “representatives.” That’s right, 90% of my country is consumed with ignorance. And you’re right, by default I too must support the war, be a moron and agree with every fucking lame comment made by every politician.
posted by Chishiki Lauren at 3:11 AM
4 Comments:
It's good to know that someone misses me...very reassuring. And you're right, I did forget to mention that I am 1/16th retarded. Although, I think that fraction is growing daily.
p.s. i wanna hear a liz story.
OOOOH! I remember that night in Spain, too! That was a very good night. Ah, memories ...
PS: Lauren, please start eating food.
OOOOH! I remember that night in Spain, too! That was a very good night. Ah, memories ...
PS: Lauren, please start eating food.
~Emiliah
Yeah, that was a good night...in a crazy, fucked-up, drunken sort-of way. I do miss The Klan though, and Calle Betis, and Hitler, er, no, I take that back. I don't miss being slapped by 85yr. old Spanish senoras.
Em-do you ever talk to John Donne?
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