I don't give a R.I.P.

August 13, 2012.

One time, when she was six, Maggie's mom and her new Cuban boyfriend left her at the Miami Zoo.
Told her they'd be back in a few hours, only they didn't come back.
So it got dark and her toes had blisters, and Maggie asked a zoo vendor selling cotton candy if she could call her gram.
It was really a big deal.
"Lost Kid", rent-a-cops, and golf cart rides, you know.

But her gram came, and Maggie was sitting on a bench, under a tall light with lots of bugs, pretending that she could read the zoo map pamphlet.
She crooked her head from side to side, raising her eyebrows, saying the words she definitely knew out loud.

The Lions. Lion. Lion. Lion.
Because the lions were Maggie's favorite.

Then, like a hiss, a baggie with exactly three Oreos in it was dangling in front of her face.
The free arm wrapped around her head, palm on her forehead.
The perfume, familiar.

"C'mon, Mouse. Sunburned, time for home". A smooch on top of a sweaty kid's bobbed haircut.

Nobody remembers the name of the Cuban boyfriend.
Only that he slept in his van and showered at the public beach.

"Hey, Mags. Remember that one time when we got drunk? Ate hot dogs on top of that cable box?"

"That wasn't me, Mom".

yes, already.

herculean effort

moving to japan feb. 1st. who wants my chicago lady gaga tix (2) for feb. 14th (valentine's)?

This morning...

...I used my oven to warm my jeans. Am I turning into Liz Lemon?

Also, just so we can all make fair assessments of Javier Bardem (outside of his spooky Skyfall garb), please consider the second photo a part of your cinematic education.

WWF(a)C Fastwrite: November 14, 2012

Dear Dog Upstairs Who Always Smells Like Fritos,

As far as dogs go, you're really not cute. But, you're one of my favorites, and I've known you since middle school. That is to say, I knew you before I had real problems. Suicides and cancers, plane crashes and fires. That is to say, I knew you before I was preoccupied with the notion of carefully choosing my friends.
You treat me the same as you did in middle school, and outside of my siblings, you're one of the only ones.
Accordingly, most of my relationships exist in a post-event warp, my daily aquaintances and small friendships consisting mostly of people who know me, post-something. Everybody "pre" gets wiped out, mostly by me.
I've gotten to a point where I'm tired of lost relationships, though. Tired of fearing a trip to Montgomery Krogers. Tired of always looking for other locations for my favorite stores. I'm tired of being scared to run into people who know me, pre-whatever.
So, with Japan. I'm not scared of going---I'm thrilled to go. I'm scared of leaving. Will I lose more? Will I have a post-Japan life, too? Will you remember me in 2014?

Will you still be alive in 2014?
Generally, I enjoy that the dog smells like Fritos.

Newest Painting Venture: Color Me Moody

December 31

"Rescue me. There's no one fun here. It's, like, forced festive."
The New Year's Eve SOS text from Dante, Alice's best friend.

Every message is a movie quote.

Alice is alone, sitting in her too-small efficiency, what she calls "cozy".
Sitting in her armchair, she battily dons her mother's old fur coat and hat.
She refuses the muff, on principle.
Auld Layne Sayne rolls on repeat, the lights are off, her champagne bottle is corked and in-hand, and every surface--every single surface--is covered in rainbow twinkle lights.

Alice is naked under the coat, tears rolling down her chest, and this newest message, lighting up her iPhone, has forced an unconscious recoil from glow.
Vampiress.

"Also, I wanna make sure you're not hanging from your shower rod," he adds, when Alice fails to respond.
She always has her phone, Dante knows it, and Alice hates him for it.
She smirks at him from her chair and pops an eyebrow.

"You're fit for a straight-jacket, Al."
"...fucked three ways towards the weekend."

Alice throws her phone at the ground.
A loud clunk because of the wooden floor.
She worries about the wrath of the blind lady downstairs and stands up.

Carefully, determinedly, Alice lifts the coat to her waist with both arms, hands situated on her hips, and, slowly, she pees on her iPhone, aiming carefully for the curvy square, all-purpose button.
Girls can aim, too.

There's ankle spray, and Alice wipes herself with her right hand.
None on the coat, she flicks it off in one go of it.
.....
"Good morning, Al."
Alice stretches her legs in her chair.

"I haven't had a good morning in a good, hot minute, D. Shut up, please."

"I don't even know what we're talking about anymore, Al."

"See, that's your problem, D. Right there....
...I always know exactly what we're talking about."