Monday, June 28, 2010

BRAINERD

Remembering:

spray painting my initials and a giant heart on the front of the house.

my heels sinking into thick mud while I yelled at a 40 year old man with fully formed female breasts on my front lawn.

water fights, cake fights, chocolate syrup fights.

Jill licking the old gummy bear.

countless BBQs and the inception of Triple B.

Clone High, Jan helping me with math homework, and absolutely every utterly divine second of the Summer of Dreams, Bananagrams.

the smell of dead mice under the dishwasher, the black tile floor in the kitchen.

the shower crayons.

Bama Breeze.

the garbage pail with "just Ben & Jerry's."

the skull funnel getting infested with gnats, the hookah growing mold.

dosing Sheryl.

painting the kitchen brick red.

the warped, mildewy pong table that lasted 3 years (RIP).

EAST COAST, WEST COAST.

the night Shave tried to fix the toilet.

Jan's last Slow Kids show.

seeing Sandwich's apartment for the first time on the last day I lived in Boston.

Bagel Rising pote sal and the jalapeno cream cheese incident.

shaving cream and Kids in the Hall.

Sean's naked body, Sean's dick wrapped in Sheryl's scarf.

Sean leaving fried chicken bones on the floor for a week.

Roommate Swap!

Sean masturbating in Sher's bed. Twice.

the Big Fucking Purple Girl.

Tim's orphanage in Cape Cod, 5 am swim in the lake, the fire alarm.

our DD weekend mornings.

Kathy, Jean, Edson.

Vermont, drunken sledding, dancing, heckling, we work for Facebook, the wait til 88, the Meow Game, Face Fork, Shoe Game, Singleton's, guns, liquor, ammo, meat, family dinners, smoking in the steam shower, Hot Tub Itis, the 5o year old with pot brownies, Bears On Speedboat, foosball, the dog bed is a real bed, Moosetavo, chest hair, floating shots, puzzle time, the voice & den't b sech a fecking merter, Dave in makeup, Dave in pasta sauce, Sean is Mystery, stealing firewood, the Giggle Squad and rival Chuckle Troupe, sardines and hermit, fun facts about your new friend.

Jill being my son Joy's godmother.

Kolonopin.

Stadolnik's deep crust pizza dinner, Top Gear.

Nation smashing ice luges, trying to break in, hitting on girls, and his poor, poor daughter.

the creation and celebration of the Love Den.

the kegs, the trundle, the leopard pull out, the futon, the shag carpet, the zebra carpet, the mirror glued to the living room wall, the fireplace.

the bars on my window, the pipe by the bed, the red sheets on the walls.

Maluken with all the good and bad it brought us, Bill or Buou.

seeing Basement Man's tits for the first time, his Hooters magazines, his string bikini.

sunny days on the porch, reggae & Firefly Lemonades.

crawling into each other's beds at all hours.

drinking in CVS, eating in CVS, crying in CVS, stealing from CVS.

Towering Iced Teas and Tuscany Bread.

heckling and providing, Jill's cell phone takes a shower, Tight finds Apple Pie Shots sexy, TFFC parties, Joe running through a wall, the Grotto.

pregnant white trash halloweekends, Bad Motherfucker, spirit gum and pieces of a wig make a convincing beard, Blood Fight Night.

senior year BirthMonth and missing Jill.

four way spooning and the butterfly.

using Sugar's ID to buy beer, Suge's drunken political rants.

Keep It Up in the parking lot, wiffle ball, water balloon toss, Beer Olympics.

chanting all day, everyday.

making music in the empty house, smoking in the car.

party pasta, 2 AM pierogies, couscous, Sheryl's promise of a Damn Good Breakfast, cornbread, mac and cheese, fried chicken.

D's photo wall, D's puke wall.

Jill's broken bed, her broken chair.

Bosley and Dakota.

the internet issues, knocking off a door knob with a hammer, my father helping us break into a locked room, him and Mr. Gaynor stealing our couch back from the neighbors' porch.

the Sexual Deviants flyers that were never posted.

Reggie Ball/Regina Ball and the prank war.

Jill's Sock Rape, DiSalvo attempts to shit on our kitchen floor.

the pavement and sidewalk chalk.

all neighbors hating us, my altercation with the girl upstairs.

our last Marathon Monday with burritos, 40s, cupcakes, heckling vs. encouragement, Adam's wheelchair, open containers, citations, one of us needs Sandwich's phone number, the start of friendship, passing out on the futon.

parties, people coming in through the windows, my bedroom bar, Jill's password only VIP room, the Graffiti Manifesto and the police blotter, jello and gummy worms, Hot Damn, Goldschlager, power hour.

Roxanne, Chris Leone's bloody head, Colin puking on himself, everyone puking over the porch railing, The Call.

Sheryl curled in a ball at my feet, the phone number for Mercy hospital.

the white board, the portraits, the photoshoots.

the man in the tweed hat breaking in.

Paul Fucking Foti and the crazy eyes, his hot wife, his hot cars.

the TV is always on, someone is always awake.

dragging my desk next to my bed for finals week, living on Adderall and 5 hour energy, the C+ and almost not graduating.

the boat cruise, the beach party, Mohegan Sun, Dean Elmore, Mike Eating Pizza, dinner at Mamma Maria's, not crying.

OUR HOUSE, White Horse, The Kells, trivia at Sports Depot.

hospital adventures, getting lost in Kenmore, peeing in a cab.

snack wrap, snack wrap, use the paper towels in the copier at Store 24.



I could do this for days, but I'm forcing myself to stop here because I'm crying.

Monday, June 21, 2010

K.E.


“I just knew in my heart that there was more. And I don’t know what that necessarily means, maybe it was just a yearning to live outside the parameters I lived in. I knew - particularly when I was a teenager - that I wasn’t cut out to live where I was from, where I was born.”



Saturday, May 8, 2010

WHAT KIND OF FUCKERY IS THIS

So, last night I was fortunate enough to be informed that I’m being talked about in my hometown. This high school hateration is coming from some girl I used to be friends with. Our mutual friend let me know (she’s garbage, I’m way better, that’s why he told me) that she’s been spewing garb about me and said, among many other things, that I “only care about myself.”

Now, normally I would not give a flying fuck what this insignificant little girl has to say about me, but I just don’t really understand the comment. Let’s look past the fact that homegirl who said this is straight up THE most self-involved person ON THE PLANET, and focus on me here (hey, I only care about myself right?).

I have always been a person who cares too much about helping out other people and not enough about helping myself. I genuinely invest more in creating happiness for others than I do in creating my own happiness. Obviously, this has been detrimental to me. I’m at a point in my life where I’m learning to let go of that and start looking out for number one because really, if I don’t, who else will? My family and friends know I care about them in a go-to-the-end-of-the-earth kind of way, and that will never change, but I am learning to care about myself in that way too.

I’ve been feeling pretty shitty today thinking that someone, even someone who does not matter to me in my life whatsoever, would think that I’m uncaring in such a huge way. But I’m starting to realize that there are always going to be people who don’t like they way you conduct yourself. There are always going to be haters. And having grown up in a town like Rumson, there’s just no possible way that you won’t be talked about. And if you’re a person from Rumson who generally doesn’t give a fuck about its people and its politics, you’re probably going to get talked about even more.

So, I’m just going to move on. I’m going to try to resist the urge to get drunk and tell her I’m going to slaughter her and her entire family. I’ve gone that route before.

I’m going to continue on caring about myself, and she can continue on being a total fucking cunt. I’M JUSS DOIN ME, HOEZ.

I WILL BE DYING AND SO WILL YOU


This is how my brain makes me feel everyday.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

LOVE

AND LIKE THE CAT

I have nine times to die.



This is Number Three.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

PEARL

"There are times when I remember the way it felt to slide my hands across the cool surface of the counter. All marbled and shiny.

It was some kind of hard stone that seemed to pulse and jump as if the swirling pink lines were real veins. The kind that are filled with blood and work in that thick thump, thump, thump to just pump, pump, pump the blood straight to a human heart.

I’d lift myself up onto the counter and swing my legs up too. I’d sit against the cold, cold stone, and sometimes do nothing more than just that. Sometimes I’d make a sandwich. Or just watch him as he made one. Truthfully it was almost all of the time that we did nothing at all. There were no words for us to say, so what was the point? We’d already been through it all, and all between us was through. It was just through. I’d sit and feel the veins of that kitchen countertop pumping and throbbing beneath me. I’d feel them twisting. I could feel the rush of life through it, I swear. It was so loud I could almost hear it.

It was the only thing left alive anymore in that house."