Feed on POSTS
#13: “Oh, How the Weary are Woeful”
Oh, how the weary are woeful
wondering when the sorrow will end,
only to learn that the woefulness
is someone the weary should befriend.
#7: “Logistically Speaking”
Logistically speaking,
this campaign ad was vetted
by, like, an entire campaign staff,
right?
Interns,
organizers, managers, and
fundraisers.
Logistically speaking,
they all
stood or sat there
and absorbed these
thirty seconds,
right?
Logistically speaking,
right.
#6: “Y-O-U-N-G”
Girls
die
y-o-u-n-g.
Pop
star
neon energy.
Tribal
ethnic
profitability.
I’ve danced my face off to MIA, but there’s just something about the lyric “live fast, die young/bad girls do it well” juxtaposed against the imagery of Middle Eastern women that does not sit well with me. Sadly, the revolution will not be on YouTube.
#5: “Surround Sound”
“Hurt
Locker”
before bed.
Surround
sound conflict.
Between a piece
of glass,
a DVD,
and land and ocean.
*Tap tap* Is this thing on?
My head hurts, probably from eating greasy Mexican food so close to my bed time. Dang, that horchata was yum. How is it that sometimes bad Mexican food can both, at once, hit the spot and make you feel really miserable?
Is that why I’m writing?
It’s been months, hasn’t it?
It isn’t that I’ve devolved and become less interesting. It’s maybe because I am too interesting and busy with all matters of existence that may or may not include: trying to improve my posture; teaching myself flawless mascara application; having very detailed dreams about joining the CIA; learning about succulents; gaining an appreciation for modern Danish furniture; not wearing a bra; slaying yetis; running at least nine miles a week; feeding my latest smoothie obsession; totally killing it for social justice. You know, the usual.
I think I will make it a habit now, like my habit with running, wherein I shall just write here at least once every few days. Otherwise this is just a storage unit.
Did you hear? Of course you did. Osama Bin Laden was killed.
Shot down. Assassinated. Gone.
Guess what else? Gas is still $4 a gallon, the unemployment rate hasn’t changed, and my cell phone is falling apart.
But double guess what? At least my internet is fast and I can try to find a good deal and succumb to full connectivity so that I can buy a smart phone with a good data plan. Then I can use the phone to find gas stations that are selling that shit for .05 cents less than a gas station 4 miles away. I can google nearby Mexican food joints when I need to be satiated and don’t know what I want to eat and default to Mexican.
Osama is dead, I had a bad Monday at work, will the sun come out again tomorrow?
Here’s an awesome website that helps me write quick flash fiction and gets my rusty gears rolling again: Typetrigger. They have new prompts every six hours, and just enough space to write 300 words.
It caught me sitting here for a few minutes this afternoon, pondering my story for this prompt: why he hasn’t called
This is what I came up with:
Every tip of each of his fingers hurt, except for his thumbs. But his thumbs are wide and thick like the length of dough before it bakes into breadsticks. He cannot squeeze them into the small holes of the rotary phone, and turn it clockwise until it hits the small metal stop and rewinds itself. And so he hasn’t called.
Every tip of each of his fingers hurt because he has been practicing a song he wrote for him, the first song he ever wrote on an acoustic guitar he never played. He learned three chords, strung them together with loose plucks, and wrote words about how the grass needs the sun to grow. He wanted to play this for Roman, but the flesh of his fingers burned from holding down steel guitar strings against metal frets and from plucking them diligently. He wanted Roman to hear this over the phone, across the ocean, into his bedroom through the crackles of the handset.
But his fingers hurt and he couldn’t dial Roman, all he could do was hum and listen and wait.
The latest prompt is: her conundrum. Woah, that’s a big one.
Now that I’m trying to get back on the blogging horse on a regular basis, I’ve been checking the search terms that bring people to my blog again. These little phrases, typed into empty field boxes, that bring people to my interwebian presence never cease to amuse me.
Ya’ll Are Still Thinking of Me:
amy adoyzie is a big, funny hustler.
adoyzie ugly american
Ya’ll Are Still Thinking of Really Random Stuff:
my pain is too hard
write spelling of prease
net typy bikini for mens
flashing images love
holy shit awesome cookies
writing gobblygook on the internet
Ya’ll Are Still Thinking of Body Parts:
chinese women thighs
indian butts
More: Quiered
This was written more than a year and a half ago. I’ll admit I was a little buzzed from a cocktail of fruit juice and whatever vodka I purchased at the Thai airport. I can’t recall what prompted it, but here it is in all its desperation, accusation and seeming randomness.
I’m calling ya’ll out.
Sandra Cisneros
Dave Eggers
Muhammad Yunnus
Ira Glass
Mathangi “Maya” Arulpragasam (MIA)
Sam Bailey
Maria Eitel
David Sedaris
Natalie Solomon
I need you guys to pick me. Life, this pulsating beat of Earth, is a game of dodge ball. And as far as I can remember, I’ve always been picked last for that Darwinistic schoolyard game because I was the shortest kid in class and I have no upper-body strength to hurl a cherry ball.
But now I write, and I’m calling you guys out to pick me- not last, not second to the last, but first in our metaphoric dodge ball game.
I need you guys to validate what I’ve devoted the past few years of my life to.
I have a voice, it stumbles out of this five-foot-one-inch body attached to a beer gut. Its high and shrill or low and mumbly. It makes sounds and enjoys it most times when people listen to the noises that squeak out of it.
And I’m calling out Seth Rogen to take me on a date. Seriously. It’s him or Stephen Merchant. Gregg Gillis looks like he likes to party, I’d be down with that. Or that Gordon-Levitt kid, he likes smart girls, right? James Franco should call me when I move to NYC.
