Dedicated readers, I wish you a glorious, larking, and merry 2012.
Felice Anno Nuovo
Selamat Tahun Baru
С Новым годом
Boldog Új Évet
새해 복 많이 받으세요
Laimīgu Jauno gadu
Glückliches neues Jahr
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Curried Away
You believe that, at their core, vegetarians are diabolical souls. And veganism, veganism should be illegal. She's yammering, on and on, about how she hasn't eaten meat in six years, how it might make her sick now--a textural thing, you know--and it mostly just makes you determinedly cheerless inside.
You kick yourself for having been too unconcerned to secure your regular spot in the back of the bus, against the engine, where the pulsation and dictatorial drones of the diesel tune out all superfluous inhabitants.
But the bus is gorged today, overfilled and squeezed. By not immediately securing your spot, you've lost your chance at a seat, and as the grimly-gazed driver maneuvers too quickly, people lean, dip, ebb, and stumble, yanking and clinging onto gray, faux leather hand straps. Toes crunch, ass odor abounds, and the fact that Homegirl's frizzy hair is grazing your shoulder is causing an excruciating, inner flip-out within you.
Shakespeare claimed that "suspicion always haunts the guilty mind", and you wonder what's so interesting about your tits to the joker standing next to you. It's a mystery how a human being can make it through life without a person educating him, equipping him with the knowledge that incessant staring will not, ever, help him score or develop into a moral, acceptable person. You muster your most bloodcurdling, squarest eyes, and you reciprocate with havoc, hoping to evoke carnage.
You calm yourself, crank Beyonce, your spirit queen, and try to dedicate yourself to your final effort at a clear mind. But your back stiffens when you realize that the guy that you're standing in front of either has the biggest wallet you've ever seen, ...or a very well-tended boner. You want to cry, and there's no way Americans smell as bad to foreigners as they do to Americans. You disavow the entire realm of Indian food and settle in, rooting all of your weight in your heels, locking all of your joints, and choosing to be victorious. You, all of a sudden, feel sorry for feet, with all of these people standing, and you clench your eyes shut with a zealous enthusiasm.
Dreaming of desolation, you admit to yourself that people skills have never been your forte. So, maybe, you shouldn't be so stunned that people aren't particularly skilled with you, either. A red triangle, next to a blue one, next to a purple one, next to a green one. Around and around, layers forming bands, overlaying atop of one another, a swirling cul-de-sac of colors. And a marble slides out of the curl of his tongue. It drops, hits the floor, gets notched in a groove, and rolls toward his own orifice.
You kick yourself for having been too unconcerned to secure your regular spot in the back of the bus, against the engine, where the pulsation and dictatorial drones of the diesel tune out all superfluous inhabitants.
But the bus is gorged today, overfilled and squeezed. By not immediately securing your spot, you've lost your chance at a seat, and as the grimly-gazed driver maneuvers too quickly, people lean, dip, ebb, and stumble, yanking and clinging onto gray, faux leather hand straps. Toes crunch, ass odor abounds, and the fact that Homegirl's frizzy hair is grazing your shoulder is causing an excruciating, inner flip-out within you.
Shakespeare claimed that "suspicion always haunts the guilty mind", and you wonder what's so interesting about your tits to the joker standing next to you. It's a mystery how a human being can make it through life without a person educating him, equipping him with the knowledge that incessant staring will not, ever, help him score or develop into a moral, acceptable person. You muster your most bloodcurdling, squarest eyes, and you reciprocate with havoc, hoping to evoke carnage.
You calm yourself, crank Beyonce, your spirit queen, and try to dedicate yourself to your final effort at a clear mind. But your back stiffens when you realize that the guy that you're standing in front of either has the biggest wallet you've ever seen, ...or a very well-tended boner. You want to cry, and there's no way Americans smell as bad to foreigners as they do to Americans. You disavow the entire realm of Indian food and settle in, rooting all of your weight in your heels, locking all of your joints, and choosing to be victorious. You, all of a sudden, feel sorry for feet, with all of these people standing, and you clench your eyes shut with a zealous enthusiasm.
Dreaming of desolation, you admit to yourself that people skills have never been your forte. So, maybe, you shouldn't be so stunned that people aren't particularly skilled with you, either. A red triangle, next to a blue one, next to a purple one, next to a green one. Around and around, layers forming bands, overlaying atop of one another, a swirling cul-de-sac of colors. And a marble slides out of the curl of his tongue. It drops, hits the floor, gets notched in a groove, and rolls toward his own orifice.
You giggle, and now you know what your eyes look like from the inside.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Google Translate: Malay. SMILE.
HELLO MALAYSIA!
Terima kasih untuk membaca. Aku Cinta Padamu.
Going global, going global, going global.
Terima kasih untuk membaca. Aku Cinta Padamu.
Going global, going global, going global.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Rusting Pessimist.
Your skin's dry, flaking, and that rancid jag told you that your nose is peeling again. And the tears, torrentially pouring down your cheeks, make it worse. They burn, and your skin feels so tight that even your blinking feels arthritic. And it's because you're unhinged, stuck in the dark hallway of another house, owned by more people who say that they'll be your family. You hate crying, the act itself, but you especially hate it on you, mostly because you can't stop, once it starts. It's a compiling, rolling snowball, a falling line of dominoes, an unacceptable, murky bunghole of regurgitated horse shit that you can't climb out of, until you pass out.
You're standing here, crying, in the dark, because you can't find the doorknob to the guest bedroom that you're supposed to be staying in. Furthermore, you're forced into silence, desperately trying not to irk any of the snoozing, other people in the house, feeling the door, up and down, eternally unsuccessful, obviously displaced in this environment. You're foreign here, contrary to what they all tell you, and you decide that you hate houses with closed doors. Even people together are people alone. None of it makes any difference, and you fucking hate cats.
These are the breed of human beings who clean their houses when people come to visit, the breed of people that turns the faucet on to take a shit, the breed of people who feels free to drag Jesus into regular conversation. And you're a real idiot for allowing yourself to become a charity case.
You're a retiree, a person who resorts to favorite spots when found overwhelmed or flustered by the presence of others. And whenever you happen to find yourself exactly here, your choice spot is in the bed of the abandoned pick-up truck, next door. It used to belong to a set of very nice neighbors, but their house was foreclosed on four months ago, and apparently, nobody bothered to take the truck. So, you lay yourself down, in the back of it, always, allowing its ribbed, metal floor to make you uncomfortable, dirty, and cold. No matter what anybody says, there's serenity to be found in habits. Plus, the truck is red, helping its expanding rust spots to, moderately, blend in, and you think that's just so clever.
You finally find the doorknob, quietly letting yourself into the room, but quickly shutting the door again, behind you. You let your wet towel sink into a heap on the floor, proceeding to crawl into the bed, smothered and sick to death by the concept of throw pillows. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and you rock back and forth, the movement helping you to realize that, in some small fraction of a way, you still exist.
The douscher of a neighbor's Christmas lights blink at you, through the window, blinding you every few seconds, and you wish you had a neon, "Fuck You" sign to graciously share with him, at this most beautiful time of year. He's going to give you a seizure, and these people aren't even your real family.
You're standing here, crying, in the dark, because you can't find the doorknob to the guest bedroom that you're supposed to be staying in. Furthermore, you're forced into silence, desperately trying not to irk any of the snoozing, other people in the house, feeling the door, up and down, eternally unsuccessful, obviously displaced in this environment. You're foreign here, contrary to what they all tell you, and you decide that you hate houses with closed doors. Even people together are people alone. None of it makes any difference, and you fucking hate cats.
These are the breed of human beings who clean their houses when people come to visit, the breed of people that turns the faucet on to take a shit, the breed of people who feels free to drag Jesus into regular conversation. And you're a real idiot for allowing yourself to become a charity case.
You're a retiree, a person who resorts to favorite spots when found overwhelmed or flustered by the presence of others. And whenever you happen to find yourself exactly here, your choice spot is in the bed of the abandoned pick-up truck, next door. It used to belong to a set of very nice neighbors, but their house was foreclosed on four months ago, and apparently, nobody bothered to take the truck. So, you lay yourself down, in the back of it, always, allowing its ribbed, metal floor to make you uncomfortable, dirty, and cold. No matter what anybody says, there's serenity to be found in habits. Plus, the truck is red, helping its expanding rust spots to, moderately, blend in, and you think that's just so clever.
You finally find the doorknob, quietly letting yourself into the room, but quickly shutting the door again, behind you. You let your wet towel sink into a heap on the floor, proceeding to crawl into the bed, smothered and sick to death by the concept of throw pillows. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around your shins, and you rock back and forth, the movement helping you to realize that, in some small fraction of a way, you still exist.
The douscher of a neighbor's Christmas lights blink at you, through the window, blinding you every few seconds, and you wish you had a neon, "Fuck You" sign to graciously share with him, at this most beautiful time of year. He's going to give you a seizure, and these people aren't even your real family.
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