Dear Stomach,
You've been good to me.
I know I don't always treat you well.
Sometimes I go all day without providing you with something to digest, occasionally I like to fill your lumen with acidic carbonated beverages. Every now and then do I go and do something especially stupid, like try and crowd surf with you full of day old baked goods.
And you have never shied away from taking one for the team. Sure you have an unfortunate predilection for rejecting certain things, sometimes violently, but you're very good about not holding a grudge once the offending material has been ejected.
The rum is gone, as is the vodka, and also the gin (the final indignation I imagine.) I allow, it was my bad, an asshole move on my part. But it's all been pissed, vomited, or absorbed out. What's left is now the liver's problem. And still you want me to pay for my mistakes. But did you really have to make me bolt for the bathroom in the middle of purchasing my lunch at a local dining establishment? It is not in my best interest, nor yours, to become that intimately acquainted with strange toilets. Or that trashcan near the Faculty Club. Or really any of the half dozen or so spots you've seen fit to empty your contents onto or into within the past 15 hours.
So please, for your benefit and mine, no more.
Thank you,
Eleanore Inc.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Friday, October 28, 2005
5,7,5 Insomnia
Hoping precisely
Parsed syllables will lull like
Tranquilizer darts.
Wound up by thoughts of
My journey back. I know what
Is gone and what stays.
Which is stranger, changed
Or unchanged, after so long.
Am I going home?
Parsed syllables will lull like
Tranquilizer darts.
Wound up by thoughts of
My journey back. I know what
Is gone and what stays.
Which is stranger, changed
Or unchanged, after so long.
Am I going home?
5,7,5 Frustration
Frustration fills me
Pure, unadulterated.
Dead ends confront me.
Every step forward,
Means I take two steps backwards.
I only hear "no."
Is medical school
The only alternative
To endless gel runs?
How would I pay for
So many years of cutting
Up old cadavers?
Oh dear God, please no.
Not one more American
M. D. Pre-meds suck.
Taking stock I see:
No lover, no future plans,
All is uncertain.
But at least I still
Have good job security
Right? What? No?! Oh fuck.
Oh yeah and airlines?
One day, two hundred dollars?
Obscene. Fuck your life.
Pure, unadulterated.
Dead ends confront me.
Every step forward,
Means I take two steps backwards.
I only hear "no."
Is medical school
The only alternative
To endless gel runs?
How would I pay for
So many years of cutting
Up old cadavers?
Oh dear God, please no.
Not one more American
M. D. Pre-meds suck.
Taking stock I see:
No lover, no future plans,
All is uncertain.
But at least I still
Have good job security
Right? What? No?! Oh fuck.
Oh yeah and airlines?
One day, two hundred dollars?
Obscene. Fuck your life.
Monday, October 24, 2005
Got a Tickets for my Destination
I have not been home in nearly a year.
Home, if you don’t know, is Miami, Florida.
I don’t like it very much there.
Vague plans to visit at Christmas but I’m afraid of boredom and memories.
Until this morning, when my mother called to say everyone was safe but there was some damage, trees uprooted. The tree outside my bedroom window, a coccoloba or sea grape tree, its pale, mealy smooth trunk and broad, rounded, waxy leaves. The windchimes I hung in the tree and the rustle of its leaves a constant of my childhood nights falling asleep in my room. It’s gone now, impossible to believe.
I have to go home.
Hurricanes are something intensely foreign to most of the people I live surrounded by these days. Today my old roommate asked me to remind again her why we build on a swamp that gets leveled a couple times every year.
I don’t know, it’s a shithole honestly, with mosquitoes, hot, humid. But it is home. And I have to go home.
I don’t know why, maybe it was because not only is there no electricity but also no phone land lines for the first time in the 20 years my family has lived in Miami. But it hit me today, the enormity of being over three thousand miles away while my family is tucked away behind hurricane shutters in my childhood home, the wind and rain ripping into it.
So I’m buying a plane ticket, for Thanksgiving. My father’s birthday is the weekend after and my mother’s birthday is not to long before. A surprise for them, arriving home.
Home, if you don’t know, is Miami, Florida.
I don’t like it very much there.
Vague plans to visit at Christmas but I’m afraid of boredom and memories.
Until this morning, when my mother called to say everyone was safe but there was some damage, trees uprooted. The tree outside my bedroom window, a coccoloba or sea grape tree, its pale, mealy smooth trunk and broad, rounded, waxy leaves. The windchimes I hung in the tree and the rustle of its leaves a constant of my childhood nights falling asleep in my room. It’s gone now, impossible to believe.
I have to go home.
Hurricanes are something intensely foreign to most of the people I live surrounded by these days. Today my old roommate asked me to remind again her why we build on a swamp that gets leveled a couple times every year.
I don’t know, it’s a shithole honestly, with mosquitoes, hot, humid. But it is home. And I have to go home.
I don’t know why, maybe it was because not only is there no electricity but also no phone land lines for the first time in the 20 years my family has lived in Miami. But it hit me today, the enormity of being over three thousand miles away while my family is tucked away behind hurricane shutters in my childhood home, the wind and rain ripping into it.
So I’m buying a plane ticket, for Thanksgiving. My father’s birthday is the weekend after and my mother’s birthday is not to long before. A surprise for them, arriving home.
Hurricane Wilma
The shrill ring of a cellphone managed to do what my alarm couldn't.
I panic when family calls me at odd hours, like 8 in the morning.
But everyone is okay.
Sadly, the sea grape tree outside my window is not.
I panic when family calls me at odd hours, like 8 in the morning.
But everyone is okay.
Sadly, the sea grape tree outside my window is not.
Sunday, October 23, 2005
An Unequal Rebellion
This is the story of a girl.
Trapped in a world.
Of those things that she does do.
And of those things that she does not do.
But not those things she might do.
I want to be bad.
I’ve always kind of blamed my older brother for making me the good kid by default.
And when I moved away from my family and came to college, I blamed my boyfriend for keeping me on the phone all the time, antisocial, sober, dykish of the 2nd floor of Spens-Black Unit III. And of course there were always the pressing needs of my schoolwork. It’s so easy to put off the effort of going out and doing something when you have the ready excuse at home of textbooks and homework.
And now there’s nothing stopping me but my diploma.
Redemption from the frantic pace of undergraduate life, drink til you puke fuck if you can get it sleep when you can and often not at all cram for exams.
Tragic really, only twenty and I feel like life has passed me by. Tear. Tiny violins. Whatever.
I’m what might be referred to colloquially as a tomboy.
We’ve gone over this before. I’m not a feminist in so many appropriations of that word. American women have had the vote for less than 100 years and I think that is fucking obscene. I have no interest in bonding with the sisterhood or releasing my inner sex goddess. I know goddamn well where my fucking clit is thank you very much.
All I ever have wanted is to drink like a boy, fuck like a boy, play like a boy and Goddamn it I want to swear like a motherfucking boy.
And you know why? Because sneaking around in a black hoody, lighting M-80s in front of frat houses is fun. Way more fun then being a bad girl.
Being bad if you’re a girl is drinking, smoking, drugs, whatever; being a skanky ho, a slut, a lush, fucking around with a lot of different boys. Sex is currency with which a girl might trade for some fuck you attitude. Fine, good, more power to you. More free milk for everybody. Fewer virginal white roses to stomp in the mud.
But sex isn’t dirty, or shameful. A college age girl who doesn’t know where her clit is, who can’t make herself cum, that’s fucking obscene. A girl who fucks, who fucks a lot, she’s not doing anything bad but she’s still is the bad girl somehow.
I don’t want to be the bad girl.
I want you to hit me as hard as you can. I know, Fight Club made it a cliché but it’s true.
I’ve never been in a physical fight and I want to get beaten up. I would sooner inflict pain on myself then ever hurt anyone innocent, but fucking assholes are free game.
I want to destroy shit. Useless shit. Stupid, goddamn shit that makes my fucking blood boil.
I want to be bad.
Trapped in a world.
Of those things that she does do.
And of those things that she does not do.
But not those things she might do.
I want to be bad.
I’ve always kind of blamed my older brother for making me the good kid by default.
And when I moved away from my family and came to college, I blamed my boyfriend for keeping me on the phone all the time, antisocial, sober, dykish of the 2nd floor of Spens-Black Unit III. And of course there were always the pressing needs of my schoolwork. It’s so easy to put off the effort of going out and doing something when you have the ready excuse at home of textbooks and homework.
And now there’s nothing stopping me but my diploma.
Redemption from the frantic pace of undergraduate life, drink til you puke fuck if you can get it sleep when you can and often not at all cram for exams.
Tragic really, only twenty and I feel like life has passed me by. Tear. Tiny violins. Whatever.
I’m what might be referred to colloquially as a tomboy.
We’ve gone over this before. I’m not a feminist in so many appropriations of that word. American women have had the vote for less than 100 years and I think that is fucking obscene. I have no interest in bonding with the sisterhood or releasing my inner sex goddess. I know goddamn well where my fucking clit is thank you very much.
All I ever have wanted is to drink like a boy, fuck like a boy, play like a boy and Goddamn it I want to swear like a motherfucking boy.
And you know why? Because sneaking around in a black hoody, lighting M-80s in front of frat houses is fun. Way more fun then being a bad girl.
Being bad if you’re a girl is drinking, smoking, drugs, whatever; being a skanky ho, a slut, a lush, fucking around with a lot of different boys. Sex is currency with which a girl might trade for some fuck you attitude. Fine, good, more power to you. More free milk for everybody. Fewer virginal white roses to stomp in the mud.
But sex isn’t dirty, or shameful. A college age girl who doesn’t know where her clit is, who can’t make herself cum, that’s fucking obscene. A girl who fucks, who fucks a lot, she’s not doing anything bad but she’s still is the bad girl somehow.
I don’t want to be the bad girl.
I want you to hit me as hard as you can. I know, Fight Club made it a cliché but it’s true.
I’ve never been in a physical fight and I want to get beaten up. I would sooner inflict pain on myself then ever hurt anyone innocent, but fucking assholes are free game.
I want to destroy shit. Useless shit. Stupid, goddamn shit that makes my fucking blood boil.
I want to be bad.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Reach Back Like a Pimp
Procreation is the only real accomplishment in life, the only reason we do anything is so we’ll get laid. It’s the joke that every biologist loves, but that isn’t really a joke.
But I have a new theory. I call it the Unified Theory of Everyone’s a Fucking Bitch.
The only reason to we do anything - academics, date, fight, fuck, drink, smoke, do drugs, join the fucking Peace Corps - is so we can say to people “shut the fuck up, we’re doing it my way.” To win the experience contest, mine’s bigger. I’ve done more so I know better.
Don’t believe me?
That’s cool, I understand. It’s not like I’ve got extensive life experience to back up jack shit. I’m just a smartass, snot-nosed, know-it-all kid. And you are?
But because I’m a smartass I know enough to realize that everyone is a fucking bitch. And really that’s what drives me to do anything.
Humanitarian-shumanitarian, I want to do enough so that I can finally tell you to STFU.
See you in Kampala bitches.
But I have a new theory. I call it the Unified Theory of Everyone’s a Fucking Bitch.
The only reason to we do anything - academics, date, fight, fuck, drink, smoke, do drugs, join the fucking Peace Corps - is so we can say to people “shut the fuck up, we’re doing it my way.” To win the experience contest, mine’s bigger. I’ve done more so I know better.
Don’t believe me?
That’s cool, I understand. It’s not like I’ve got extensive life experience to back up jack shit. I’m just a smartass, snot-nosed, know-it-all kid. And you are?
But because I’m a smartass I know enough to realize that everyone is a fucking bitch. And really that’s what drives me to do anything.
Humanitarian-shumanitarian, I want to do enough so that I can finally tell you to STFU.
See you in Kampala bitches.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Bear Territory
It’s Saturday, game day at Cal. And for the schmaltzy school spirit bullshit that gets thrown around, and therefore the cynical commentary I must fling back on principle, yeah I do like Berkeley and its university.
Yeah, I can’t think of any other university I would have rather have been a student at than the University of California, Berkeley.
Inquiries into graduate programs remind me of the weight that the name Berkeley carries. I have been told “If you graduated from Berkeley you’re already a strong candidate.”
And I’m conflicted, really. On so many levels intellectual elitism makes my skin crawl, in large part because of my upbringing which tells me it’s wrong to think any one person is better than another. But at the same time, I cannot deny the slowly encroaching certainty in my mind that it is not a level playing field.
Some people are just smarter than others. I first recoil in disgust at this sentiment, but there is the dissenting voice in my mind that admitting that the feeling that some people are just better equipped to learn and integrate is not only not unreasonable but also not irreconcilable with educational equality. The essential equality required for morality to be satisfied is in the equal opportunities open for whatever person should feel inclined to take advantage of them. And there really is no accounting for idiots, so why feel bad about it?
Yes everyone should have access to as extensive an education as they feel inclined to pursue, however forgive me but it reeks of false modesty to say that all educational institutions are created equal. Sometimes it’s a question of having superior funding (fucking Stanford) but sometimes it is also or instead a superior caliber of student.
And this isn’t even about admittance standards. I say fine, good, let them in with lower SAT scores who the fuck gives a shit it’s just standardized testing. What does it say about their intellectual ability to learn and integrate? (Hint: the answer is C. jack shit) And so I understand the problems faced by the admissions office when it comes to screening prospective applicants, because really, what is a marker of that sort of intelligence when it comes to a two page essay and some transcripts? But they try, bless their hearts, and sometimes they fuck up and as someone raises their hand for the umpteenth time the entire class sighs and rolls their eyes, but there are still some damn brilliant people applying because of, if nothing else, the weight the name of the institution still carries.
But I digress terribly (tongue firmly in cheek for the most part, no hate mail please), I apologize.
But forgive me if every now and then I do in fact feel superior to some shitty little University of Buttfuck Nowhere.
To sum up: go bears.
Berkeley: I came for the world-class education but I stayed for the top-notch intellectual snobbery.
Yeah, I can’t think of any other university I would have rather have been a student at than the University of California, Berkeley.
Inquiries into graduate programs remind me of the weight that the name Berkeley carries. I have been told “If you graduated from Berkeley you’re already a strong candidate.”
And I’m conflicted, really. On so many levels intellectual elitism makes my skin crawl, in large part because of my upbringing which tells me it’s wrong to think any one person is better than another. But at the same time, I cannot deny the slowly encroaching certainty in my mind that it is not a level playing field.
Some people are just smarter than others. I first recoil in disgust at this sentiment, but there is the dissenting voice in my mind that admitting that the feeling that some people are just better equipped to learn and integrate is not only not unreasonable but also not irreconcilable with educational equality. The essential equality required for morality to be satisfied is in the equal opportunities open for whatever person should feel inclined to take advantage of them. And there really is no accounting for idiots, so why feel bad about it?
Yes everyone should have access to as extensive an education as they feel inclined to pursue, however forgive me but it reeks of false modesty to say that all educational institutions are created equal. Sometimes it’s a question of having superior funding (fucking Stanford) but sometimes it is also or instead a superior caliber of student.
And this isn’t even about admittance standards. I say fine, good, let them in with lower SAT scores who the fuck gives a shit it’s just standardized testing. What does it say about their intellectual ability to learn and integrate? (Hint: the answer is C. jack shit) And so I understand the problems faced by the admissions office when it comes to screening prospective applicants, because really, what is a marker of that sort of intelligence when it comes to a two page essay and some transcripts? But they try, bless their hearts, and sometimes they fuck up and as someone raises their hand for the umpteenth time the entire class sighs and rolls their eyes, but there are still some damn brilliant people applying because of, if nothing else, the weight the name of the institution still carries.
But I digress terribly (tongue firmly in cheek for the most part, no hate mail please), I apologize.
But forgive me if every now and then I do in fact feel superior to some shitty little University of Buttfuck Nowhere.
To sum up: go bears.
Berkeley: I came for the world-class education but I stayed for the top-notch intellectual snobbery.
Precipitation
The fog came in early today.
It had been a little cooler but still clear for most of the day.
as i lay on my bed with the window open listening to the street noises below it dawned on me what the noise was, lulling me floating into contented warmth.
it was the swish of car tires on the wet pavement.
it had been raining and i hadn't even noticed, without the smell of rain i miss so much.
And I love the noise of the wet blacktop but it's an insidious moisture that creeps in and wets things here. I miss the fat drops of tropical rain falling on the broad leaves of the sea grape tree outside my window. As I lay under the ceiling fan in the dark, smelling the ozone smell that accompanies these rains. And all is right with the world.
It had been a little cooler but still clear for most of the day.
as i lay on my bed with the window open listening to the street noises below it dawned on me what the noise was, lulling me floating into contented warmth.
it was the swish of car tires on the wet pavement.
it had been raining and i hadn't even noticed, without the smell of rain i miss so much.
And I love the noise of the wet blacktop but it's an insidious moisture that creeps in and wets things here. I miss the fat drops of tropical rain falling on the broad leaves of the sea grape tree outside my window. As I lay under the ceiling fan in the dark, smelling the ozone smell that accompanies these rains. And all is right with the world.
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
STUPIDITY 1% tryptone
Okay, I know it’s cliché complaint but seriously, when did it become cool, or even okay, to be an inarticulate slob?
The richness of the human languages that exists is probably the sum total greatest thing that humanity will ever achieve. Change it, mold it, suit your fancy.
Be sloppy in your spelling, grammar, punctuation. Make up words if you have to, but don’t ignore language. Don’t let it shrivel up and fall like the atrophied tied-off testicles of a just-castrated sheep.
The right words make your heart melt.
I love you.
I think about you all the time.
I’m so proud of you.
Or freeze.
I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t care about you anymore.
We regret to inform you.
But more then that is the eloquence with which it is said, the nuanced elegance which can be infused into trite compliment to make it, well, not trite.
Yes I adore you but more than that is the thrill that runs the short circuit from my gut to the soft dip at the base of my throat as I watch the long, flat planes of your muscles glide across, parallel, perpendicular to each other in motion, reflecting the dark gold of the lowered light in an otherwise darkened room.
But I preach.
You should be your own Jesus.
I’m a crazy fucking bitch waging a personal vendetta perched atop my very own mound.
And I believe! Yes it’s true praise the Lord, I believe in what I’m preaching.
But if you bastards know what’s good for you you’ll go find your own mounds.
‘Cause nobody gets my sense of humor so go fuck yourselves.
Amen.
The richness of the human languages that exists is probably the sum total greatest thing that humanity will ever achieve. Change it, mold it, suit your fancy.
Be sloppy in your spelling, grammar, punctuation. Make up words if you have to, but don’t ignore language. Don’t let it shrivel up and fall like the atrophied tied-off testicles of a just-castrated sheep.
The right words make your heart melt.
I love you.
I think about you all the time.
I’m so proud of you.
Or freeze.
I don’t love you anymore.
I don’t care about you anymore.
We regret to inform you.
But more then that is the eloquence with which it is said, the nuanced elegance which can be infused into trite compliment to make it, well, not trite.
Yes I adore you but more than that is the thrill that runs the short circuit from my gut to the soft dip at the base of my throat as I watch the long, flat planes of your muscles glide across, parallel, perpendicular to each other in motion, reflecting the dark gold of the lowered light in an otherwise darkened room.
But I preach.
You should be your own Jesus.
I’m a crazy fucking bitch waging a personal vendetta perched atop my very own mound.
And I believe! Yes it’s true praise the Lord, I believe in what I’m preaching.
But if you bastards know what’s good for you you’ll go find your own mounds.
‘Cause nobody gets my sense of humor so go fuck yourselves.
Amen.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Always Fine Tuning
Wednesday, on the cusp of twilight.
I returned from work bursting with expectations held tightly coiled in the tape of a video cassette. Toast and a glass of apple juice set on the coffee table, it was time. I slipped the tape into the slit of the VCR and sat back to watch the Miami I never knew unfold on my TV screen.
Not even one transsexual ass-whopping in and the call came.
“Are you still looking for a roommate?”
“Yeah, why?”
“The Peace Corp is putting me off until March of next year…”
And I throw my head back and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Saying Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, fucking Christ.
Because Jesus, sometimes laughing is the only thing that keeps you from crying when you know if you start you might never stop.
Because sometimes when the worst idea in the world seems like the only thing that could make you happy, you just got to laugh.
And for the past few days I’ve been indefatigable. All smiles and jokes. I sing along to the radio while I work and I don’t care who hears me because yes, yes I do know all the lyrics to Margaritaville and Running On Empty and I don’t care if you know it.
Because when you throw your head back to laugh, relief floods in. And you know what? That’s when you start loving people, everybody.
You forgive them for the war, rape, murder, all the terrible things you’ve been holding a grudge against humanity for doing.
You guys are bastards and I love you for it.
That’s when you stop gripping the side of the building.
That’s when you look up at the sky you’re almost, nearly touching and you smile.
That’s when you step back, off the ledge.
Story after story of nothing, your arms spread out like wings, like the crucifixion.
Just falling.
Do you believe you only get one real chance at happiness?
Nah, neither do I. But Christ, sometimes it feels like it.
I returned from work bursting with expectations held tightly coiled in the tape of a video cassette. Toast and a glass of apple juice set on the coffee table, it was time. I slipped the tape into the slit of the VCR and sat back to watch the Miami I never knew unfold on my TV screen.
Not even one transsexual ass-whopping in and the call came.
“Are you still looking for a roommate?”
“Yeah, why?”
“The Peace Corp is putting me off until March of next year…”
And I throw my head back and laugh. And laugh. And laugh.
Saying Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, fucking Christ.
Because Jesus, sometimes laughing is the only thing that keeps you from crying when you know if you start you might never stop.
Because sometimes when the worst idea in the world seems like the only thing that could make you happy, you just got to laugh.
And for the past few days I’ve been indefatigable. All smiles and jokes. I sing along to the radio while I work and I don’t care who hears me because yes, yes I do know all the lyrics to Margaritaville and Running On Empty and I don’t care if you know it.
Because when you throw your head back to laugh, relief floods in. And you know what? That’s when you start loving people, everybody.
You forgive them for the war, rape, murder, all the terrible things you’ve been holding a grudge against humanity for doing.
You guys are bastards and I love you for it.
That’s when you stop gripping the side of the building.
That’s when you look up at the sky you’re almost, nearly touching and you smile.
That’s when you step back, off the ledge.
Story after story of nothing, your arms spread out like wings, like the crucifixion.
Just falling.
Do you believe you only get one real chance at happiness?
Nah, neither do I. But Christ, sometimes it feels like it.
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