Well, I didn't say I was done with my dark-themed kick.
They were twins.
That was immediately apparent. The twin on her left had bright orange hair, and the twin on her right had on a blue jacket. The twin on her left was speaking loudly, and the twin on her right was using wide hand motions. The problem, she concluded, was that everything that was true about the twin on the left was true about the twin on the right, and everything that was true about the twin on the right was true about the twin on the left.
She looked from one to the other, studying now their hair, now their clothes, now their gestures, and she could not find the differences between them. There were always six differences between two seemingly identical things, and she could always find them within three minutes. The last one was always the hardest, of course, but in this case she could not even find the first one. They even moved the same way. It was infuriating.
Calmly, she picked up her fork, turned to the twin on the left, and brought the sharp tines down decisively into his arm. All loud talk and wide hand gestures stopped, and the twin on the right (the twin without the gash in his arm) grabbed his brother by the shoulders and stared at the bloody wound. Now she could see the differences.
1. The one with the gash in his arm had tears welling up in his eyes, and the one without the gash in his arm did not.
2. The one with the gash was holding his arm and staring at the welling blood in horror, but the one without the gash was staring at her, with a different sort of horror in his eyes.
3. The one with the gash looked very pale, and his freckles stood out on his cheeks clearly. His brother’s cheeks, on the other hand, were growing redder, obscuring his freckles to dim outlines.
4. The twin with the gash in his arm was stumblingly trying to get up from the bench seat, but his brother had already stood and was helping him up.
5. The twin with the gash in his arm could barely walk, so distraught and wounded was he. His brother, in contrast, was supporting him as he helped him walk away.
6. The twin with the gash was focused solely on his wound, but the twin without the gash looked back at her once, twice, three times before she was out of sight.
She smiled each time he looked back, and once they were gone she turned with relief to the two lunches she had bought. Each tray had a slice of pizza, tater tots, a yogurt cup, and a water glass. At first glance they seemed identical, but she was confident she could find the differences between them in under three minutes.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
This one's a bit... dark.
Whew. This is quite a bit darker than the last one. I might have to rate it PG-13, but only for "dark themes and some suggestion of violence." Don't worry, this is me we're talking about. I can't stand anything worse than vaguely creepy and off-screen gore. I'm a wimp, and proud of it.
Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:
When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.
Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.
It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.
This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.
I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.
I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.
I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.
Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.
I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.
I knew it was time.
That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.
The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.
I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.
I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.
The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,
“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”
There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.
I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.
I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.
Sometimes it’s hard to sleep:
When I remember the screams and the squish of blood. When I think of my father missing half his face. When the dreams are so vivid I have to cut myself with my knife to make sure I am really in the waking world.
Sometimes I’m not so sure about that even then.
It’s early when I make my way, after another sleepless night, to the place of my punishment at the headmaster’s hands. He and I both know I have done nothing wrong, but he is obligated to mete out punishment anyway, because I am the foundling and the children with parents (parents who pay, parents who care, parents who ask questions) are never whipped.
This morning, in front of the whole school, I am whipped.
I bear no ill will to the headmaster, though I suppose I could. When I daydream of burning this place down, it is always when he is away, or otherwise conveniently not in harm’s way. He is the only one I treat so kindly in my daydreams.
I know someday I will not be able to bleed out all the ill will and then it will bubble over into my soul and take over my body, and I will do things even more terrible than in my dreams. I know that one way or another, that is the day I will leave this place.
I stopped crying out in my sleep very early. When I did, the older boys would take me out of my bed and beat me, and leave me shivering in my nightgown in the hallway, locked out of the dorm, for the headmaster to find in the morning. Though he was kind, he never rebuked the boys who tormented me, and so I quickly learned that if I wanted to avoid the beatings I had to do it myself. First I learned to stifle my cries in the night. This did not stop them from beating me, though it did deprive them of even that flimsy excuse. Next I tried defending myself, but they were always older and bigger than me, and they hit harder that way. After that I got really clever and told them all I liked the beatings, hoping for a little reverse psychology. But the joke was on me, because they started calling me fagg-o and pulling nasty pranks, and that turned out to be worse than the beating, though the lack of bruises was nice.
Eventually I got quiet and I watched them all for a long time, and I learned what each boy who teased me loved most in the world. For one it was a toy truck. He’d never admit it, for we had grown out of that stuff years ago, but he still took it out sometimes and played with it, when no one (but me) was looking. For another boy it was his blanket. He boxed the ears of anyone who made fun of it, but he’d had that ratty old thing since he was a baby, and couldn’t sleep without it. I know, because on nights when it was being washed I’d watch him lay awake all night, making the particular breathing sounds of someone who is fighting down panic. The next night, when it was back from the laundry, he’d curl up tight in it and rub it against his face before falling asleep. For others it was less tangible things, like reputations, such as being the fastest runner or the best at marbles. Once I had learned the secret love of each boy’s heart I set my plan in motion.
I waited for the right moment to carry it out, and after two days I got my chance. I was reading a schoolbook in the library when a group of them came up to me, picked me up, and hauled me outside, threw me facedown in the mud, and then proceeded to tear out the pages of the book and smear them with mud until the only thing left was a collection of bits of soggy paper. Then, laughing boastfully to each other, they went back inside, stopping to carefully wipe their feet on the mat before entering.
I knew it was time.
That night, after everyone was sound asleep (it was the middle of the week, far from washing day) I made my rounds, being careful only to target those who had participated in the mud slinging. I wanted my message clear. No one woke to the muffled sounds of me making my mischief.
The next morning each of the five boys who had attacked me woke to find their most precious thing covered in mud and torn apart. The blanket had been easy, but the truck proved more difficult. I had finally had to simply smash it with a large rock, and now it was barely recognizable as a toy. The running boy’s lucky shoes were totally unusable; the boy who was best at marbles found his precious collection replaced with muddy stones. And the boy who fancied himself the best-looking chap of all woke that morning to hair tonic bottles filled with mud, his best clothes torn and dirty, and his hair cut in ragged clumps. (Cutting his hair had been the most fun, and the most tricky.) It took a while for each boy to realize what had happened, and then to notice that it had happened to others, and then an eternity to figure out what it meant and, last of all, who had done it.
I had stayed to watch, but that had probably been unadvisable. Once the boys had figured out who was responsible for murdering their best loves, they congregated on me and, forgetting themselves, gave me the worst beating they’d ever given me. When they were done I could barely move, but I limped out and headed toward the headmaster’s office, hoping against hope that this time he might protect me, this time he might do something. Instead he gave me a sad look and sent me to the infirmary. That day at lunch it was announced that I would receive a whipping at breakfast the next day. The looks on the faces of the five boys (one with much shorter hair) made my blood boil, and I left the hall without eating, putting my knife to a patch of skin not already cut or bruised and letting the hate spill down my arm and out of me. It took a long time.
I am standing before the headmaster now, at breakfast, which I will not eat today, watching him remove his coat and pick up the whip. It’s a real whip, not a switch, and I know I will not be expected in classes today. I turn my back to him and bend over, taking off my shirt as I do.
The whip bites much harder than I expected, but I do not cry out. I have had much practice at this. Five times it whistles down and brands me with lightning, and then I am allowed to put my shirt back on. I make to go back to my seat, but the headmaster stops me. Without glancing at me he announces to the assembled boys,
“It has been decided that a whipping is not punishment enough for this boy. He is to be made an example of. I hereby expel him from this school, effective immediately.”
There is a loud ringing in my ears. I don’t look at the head master. I couldn’t see him through the gray haze in front of my eyes anyway. My poor headmaster, as much at the mercy of these boys’ parents as I am at theirs, both of us caught, both of us unable to do as we like. I do not blame him.
I was wrong. Bleeding the anger out doesn’t work. All it does is make me insensitive to blood.
I pick up the headmaster’s whip, and step into my dream.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Short story
I've decided to give short fiction another try. Working on novels is kind of exhausting, and I'm getting a little tired of my characters. I remember having a lot of fun writing short stories in high school. So I'm going to set a goal (yay for setting goals) to write a short story every [recurring time period]. Every week? Every day? Every other day? Some regular time. To be figured out later. And I'm not going to worry about making these polished works of art. I'm just going to have fun. Here's the first one, clocking in at 928 words. Tell me if you like it.
Being the new kid at school sucks balls, but it isn’t all bad. You can reinvent yourself, but you have to be careful of the way the people at school want to interpret you. Halfway through my first day, things were looking pretty good. No one had decided to beat me up, and there was a certain someone I already had my eye one. Shelby Barnes. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, great body. I was already in love. We had two classes together. In the second one, English, two minutes before ending bell, I finally got up the nerve to make my move.
“Hey, your name’s Shelby, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, you’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I just moved from two towns away with my mom and sister.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you like it here.”
The bell rang, then, and we all gathered our things to go.
“See you later, bro!” Shelby said.
Oh my gosh. He thinks I’m a dude.
GIANT PAUSE IN THE STORY
Okay, I should admit, this shouldn’t have surprised me that much. I’m just writing down what was going through my head at the time, but I’ll admit that, if I had stopped to think about it, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised that he mistook me for a guy.
But it hurt. And that made it shocking.
BACK TO THE MAIN STORY
He thinks I’m a dude. He thinks I’m a dude. Crap. Now what?
Now we go and slink off to the nearest bathroom. The girl’s bathroom. And find some sympathetic female to commiserate with.
Only there was no one in there. And, now that I was a little calmer, I doubt many girls would have anything useful or sympathetic to say about my situation. I am probably the only girl in the history of the universe that has been mistaken for a guy by the guy she likes. So. What to do.
I could see a few options:
None of these appealed to me. Number one would make everything awkward and he would probably hate me. Number two will probably never happen, and just turn into number three, which has no happy endings.
I flushed the toilet for appearances and went to gym, brooding over my fate.
Once there, several other people mistook me for a dude, despite that fact that I very clearly came out of the girl’s locker room. It came to a head when I was sitting next to the fat, asthmatic kid after twisting my ankle during dodgeball.
“Hey, bro, what’s up?” he said politely.
“I am NOT a bro!” I shouted, halting the game for a few seconds. I lowered my head, turtle-like, into my shirt, and play resumed. Crap. I was never going to live that down. The fat kid blinked at me.
“Oh. Huh. I guess not. Now that I’m really looking, I can see—”
“Aw, look, just shut up, okay. It’s not like I didn’t sort of invite this reaction with my behavior.” Somehow I was now pouring my heart out to the fat kid. How did that happen? “I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that people will treat you differently if you refuse to conform to the accepted social norms. But I’m not trying to be a rebel. I just want to be comfortable. Is there anything wrong with not wanting to have to worry about doing my hair or choosing an outfit in the morning? It’s not my fault I also have no curves. At all. Ever.”
Great, now I’d worked myself up into a depression. Smart move, Jennings.
“Well, hey, have you ever thought about changing your appearance to be a little more… girly, without being more uncomfortable?”
The suggestion made sense, but something in me just rebelled against the idea.
“I dunno. How would I do that?”
“Well, you could try wearing more girly colors?”
“Then I’d just look gay.”
“You could try wearing tighter clothes, to show off your feminine curves.”
“I just said I don’t have any!”
“What about skirts?”
“What? No, those are way too girly.”
“No, there are ways to wear skirts that aren’t too girly. For one thing, you wear them over pants. Not like tights, but like jeans and stuff.”
“Hm.” I considered it. I didn’t have any immediate objections. “But will that make me look more like a girl? Or just stupid.”
“We could go shopping and see?”
I turned to look at him. “You and me?” Incredulousness painted my voice. “Are you serious?”
“Sure. I don’t conform to accepted social norms either.” He grinned at me. I grinned back, slowly. I think I liked this kid.
PAUSE
Not like that.
UNPAUSE
The skirt idea was okay, but we decided that afternoon after consulting our older sisters that simply combing my hair a certain way and wearing different, still comfy, clothes would be the best course of action. The fat kid’s older sister, whose name was Melanie, also advised me to simply be patient. She said I would always have a streamlined figure, but that I would fill out enough to look feminine if I gave it enough time. That was the hardest advice to follow.
Being the new kid at school sucks balls, but it isn’t all bad. You can reinvent yourself, but you have to be careful of the way the people at school want to interpret you. Halfway through my first day, things were looking pretty good. No one had decided to beat me up, and there was a certain someone I already had my eye one. Shelby Barnes. Blond hair, bright blue eyes, great body. I was already in love. We had two classes together. In the second one, English, two minutes before ending bell, I finally got up the nerve to make my move.
“Hey, your name’s Shelby, right?”
“Yeah. Hey, you’re new, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. I just moved from two towns away with my mom and sister.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you. I hope you like it here.”
The bell rang, then, and we all gathered our things to go.
“See you later, bro!” Shelby said.
Oh my gosh. He thinks I’m a dude.
GIANT PAUSE IN THE STORY
Okay, I should admit, this shouldn’t have surprised me that much. I’m just writing down what was going through my head at the time, but I’ll admit that, if I had stopped to think about it, I wouldn’t have been all that surprised that he mistook me for a guy.
But it hurt. And that made it shocking.
BACK TO THE MAIN STORY
He thinks I’m a dude. He thinks I’m a dude. Crap. Now what?
Now we go and slink off to the nearest bathroom. The girl’s bathroom. And find some sympathetic female to commiserate with.
Only there was no one in there. And, now that I was a little calmer, I doubt many girls would have anything useful or sympathetic to say about my situation. I am probably the only girl in the history of the universe that has been mistaken for a guy by the guy she likes. So. What to do.
I could see a few options:
- 1.Tell him I’m a girl.
- 2.Don’t tell him I’m a girl, and hope he figures it out on his own.
- 3.Pretend to be a guy to get closer to him.
- 2.Don’t tell him I’m a girl, and hope he figures it out on his own.
- a.Then tell him I’m a girl
- b.Never tell him I’m a girl and love him from afar (across that great gender divide).
- c.Hope he’s gay.
- b.Never tell him I’m a girl and love him from afar (across that great gender divide).
None of these appealed to me. Number one would make everything awkward and he would probably hate me. Number two will probably never happen, and just turn into number three, which has no happy endings.
I flushed the toilet for appearances and went to gym, brooding over my fate.
Once there, several other people mistook me for a dude, despite that fact that I very clearly came out of the girl’s locker room. It came to a head when I was sitting next to the fat, asthmatic kid after twisting my ankle during dodgeball.
“Hey, bro, what’s up?” he said politely.
“I am NOT a bro!” I shouted, halting the game for a few seconds. I lowered my head, turtle-like, into my shirt, and play resumed. Crap. I was never going to live that down. The fat kid blinked at me.
“Oh. Huh. I guess not. Now that I’m really looking, I can see—”
“Aw, look, just shut up, okay. It’s not like I didn’t sort of invite this reaction with my behavior.” Somehow I was now pouring my heart out to the fat kid. How did that happen? “I mean, I guess it’s to be expected that people will treat you differently if you refuse to conform to the accepted social norms. But I’m not trying to be a rebel. I just want to be comfortable. Is there anything wrong with not wanting to have to worry about doing my hair or choosing an outfit in the morning? It’s not my fault I also have no curves. At all. Ever.”
Great, now I’d worked myself up into a depression. Smart move, Jennings.
“Well, hey, have you ever thought about changing your appearance to be a little more… girly, without being more uncomfortable?”
The suggestion made sense, but something in me just rebelled against the idea.
“I dunno. How would I do that?”
“Well, you could try wearing more girly colors?”
“Then I’d just look gay.”
“You could try wearing tighter clothes, to show off your feminine curves.”
“I just said I don’t have any!”
“What about skirts?”
“What? No, those are way too girly.”
“No, there are ways to wear skirts that aren’t too girly. For one thing, you wear them over pants. Not like tights, but like jeans and stuff.”
“Hm.” I considered it. I didn’t have any immediate objections. “But will that make me look more like a girl? Or just stupid.”
“We could go shopping and see?”
I turned to look at him. “You and me?” Incredulousness painted my voice. “Are you serious?”
“Sure. I don’t conform to accepted social norms either.” He grinned at me. I grinned back, slowly. I think I liked this kid.
PAUSE
Not like that.
UNPAUSE
The skirt idea was okay, but we decided that afternoon after consulting our older sisters that simply combing my hair a certain way and wearing different, still comfy, clothes would be the best course of action. The fat kid’s older sister, whose name was Melanie, also advised me to simply be patient. She said I would always have a streamlined figure, but that I would fill out enough to look feminine if I gave it enough time. That was the hardest advice to follow.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Thinking About Books: Rose Daughter
The last few book posts have been about books I just read and had a lot to say about because they were making my mind churn in that delicious way that signals to me "This is a good book." This one is a little different in that it's also one of my all-time favorite, mind-altering, life-changing books and has been since I was 12 or 13.
Rose Daughter is an English garden of a book: cultivated and orderly profusions of flowery chaos. Every time I read it it's like being in a beautiful, lucid fever-dream. Everything is described with gorgeous language. This book sort of defines the word gorgeous for me; not merely "very beautiful," but, "adorned with rich or brilliant colours; sumptuously gay or splendid; magnificent." (Many thanks to the OED.) The gorgeousness of Rose Daughter reminds me that the word shares a root with gorge and engorge, words that mean a delicious amount of too much of something. You could distill the actual things that happen in this book to about four chapters, but instead you get over 200 pages of pure linguistic delight.
I don't remember what I thought when I first read it. I was in Middle School, and Middle School was Hell. I probably was only grateful that it provided an unusually wonderful escape from my life, which is what books were to me then (and still are). Little vacations from life. Rose Daughter is less like going to the beach and more like going into a coma (in a good way). There are some books that almost literally immerse me, to the point that I have to fight my way to the surface and gasp for air when I must come out of them for food or sleep. This is one of them. I read it when I'm sick, in body or in mind, and I come out of it refreshed and strengthened. I believe this was the book that first showed me that words could be put to beautiful purpose. I won't say I wasn't writing before I read it, but I believe most things I've written after have been affected by it. There is a vague standard of quality off in the hazy distance that I try to pursue in my writing, and when I think about it more closely, Rose Daughter is really what I'm striving for. That sumptuous profusion is what I'd like, at least in small measure, to put in my writing. To not merely tell a story, but to tell it gorgeously. I hope I can come half so close.
Rose Daughter is an English garden of a book: cultivated and orderly profusions of flowery chaos. Every time I read it it's like being in a beautiful, lucid fever-dream. Everything is described with gorgeous language. This book sort of defines the word gorgeous for me; not merely "very beautiful," but, "adorned with rich or brilliant colours; sumptuously gay or splendid; magnificent." (Many thanks to the OED.) The gorgeousness of Rose Daughter reminds me that the word shares a root with gorge and engorge, words that mean a delicious amount of too much of something. You could distill the actual things that happen in this book to about four chapters, but instead you get over 200 pages of pure linguistic delight.
I don't remember what I thought when I first read it. I was in Middle School, and Middle School was Hell. I probably was only grateful that it provided an unusually wonderful escape from my life, which is what books were to me then (and still are). Little vacations from life. Rose Daughter is less like going to the beach and more like going into a coma (in a good way). There are some books that almost literally immerse me, to the point that I have to fight my way to the surface and gasp for air when I must come out of them for food or sleep. This is one of them. I read it when I'm sick, in body or in mind, and I come out of it refreshed and strengthened. I believe this was the book that first showed me that words could be put to beautiful purpose. I won't say I wasn't writing before I read it, but I believe most things I've written after have been affected by it. There is a vague standard of quality off in the hazy distance that I try to pursue in my writing, and when I think about it more closely, Rose Daughter is really what I'm striving for. That sumptuous profusion is what I'd like, at least in small measure, to put in my writing. To not merely tell a story, but to tell it gorgeously. I hope I can come half so close.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Because this is ridiculous, not because I care
Dear "Aaron's" Furniture Store:
I am assuming you are a furniture store, based on the content of the ad I found hanging on my door handle a few days ago. I don't know why you thought putting those up around here was a good idea; yes we're married college students, but we're married college students. What makes you think we have the money to be spending on entire, brand-new living rooms sets, no matter how much they're on sale? But fine, whatever, I understand that in order to make money you need people to know about you, and I admit I'd never heard of you until now, so good job, it worked, and I threw that ad in the recycling first chance I got.
This is not the body of my complaint.
My real beef is with whoever was delivering the dang things, because they apparently found it funny/easier/whatever to leave 10 or 15 extra ads under my door mat. WHAT. THE. HECK. I don't even know what to think about that. I'm pretty sure the blame rests entirely on whatever available teenager you roped into delivering these things; it's not like you would have instructed them to do this. (You didn't, did you?) And I know I live on the third floor, and I know that when it's a hot summer day you get lazy, but COME ON. Is it really that hard to just carry the extras back to the trash can or the Aaron's office or whatever? I'm not even mad. It's no skin off my back to dump them in the recycling with the original one. I'm just puzzled and saddened to find that there are people lazy/irresponsible/whatever enough to leave their problem under some stranger's doormat. Also, I actually am annoyed at having to throw them out. Not that it's that much extra work, but it's the principle of the thing!
Anyway, Aaron's, I'm glad you put your contact information directly on the ad, because I think you should be made aware that whoever you're paying $.50 an hour to deliver these things is not earning their paycheck.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. Dear Readers, do you think I should really contact them about it? I'm really not that angry about it. I think it's kind of funny, actually. And I don't want to waste my time and energy complaining about something that not only doesn't matter in the long run, but that really doesn't matter to me right here and now.
P.P.S. Kristina, don't worry, this hasn't put me off all Aarons. Just the ones with furniture stores named after them.
I am assuming you are a furniture store, based on the content of the ad I found hanging on my door handle a few days ago. I don't know why you thought putting those up around here was a good idea; yes we're married college students, but we're married college students. What makes you think we have the money to be spending on entire, brand-new living rooms sets, no matter how much they're on sale? But fine, whatever, I understand that in order to make money you need people to know about you, and I admit I'd never heard of you until now, so good job, it worked, and I threw that ad in the recycling first chance I got.
This is not the body of my complaint.
My real beef is with whoever was delivering the dang things, because they apparently found it funny/easier/whatever to leave 10 or 15 extra ads under my door mat. WHAT. THE. HECK. I don't even know what to think about that. I'm pretty sure the blame rests entirely on whatever available teenager you roped into delivering these things; it's not like you would have instructed them to do this. (You didn't, did you?) And I know I live on the third floor, and I know that when it's a hot summer day you get lazy, but COME ON. Is it really that hard to just carry the extras back to the trash can or the Aaron's office or whatever? I'm not even mad. It's no skin off my back to dump them in the recycling with the original one. I'm just puzzled and saddened to find that there are people lazy/irresponsible/whatever enough to leave their problem under some stranger's doormat. Also, I actually am annoyed at having to throw them out. Not that it's that much extra work, but it's the principle of the thing!
Anyway, Aaron's, I'm glad you put your contact information directly on the ad, because I think you should be made aware that whoever you're paying $.50 an hour to deliver these things is not earning their paycheck.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. Dear Readers, do you think I should really contact them about it? I'm really not that angry about it. I think it's kind of funny, actually. And I don't want to waste my time and energy complaining about something that not only doesn't matter in the long run, but that really doesn't matter to me right here and now.
P.P.S. Kristina, don't worry, this hasn't put me off all Aarons. Just the ones with furniture stores named after them.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Unemployment continued....
My job interview was today. I am optimistic. Well, about the interview part, anyway. I'm starting to have doubts about whether I really want the job at all, despite how pleasant a work atmosphere it seemed to have. For one thing, it might not even be full-time, which would kind of be a deal-breaker because, for the second thing, it's an hour's drive away. This is problem not just for the gas money and wear-and-tear on the car (which is a BIG problem) but also because, as I found out on the way home, I get terribly carsick. We had to stop at Wal-Mart for some Pepto Bismol because I wasn't sure I could make it the rest of the way home without throwing up. I just can't see coming into work every morning and making a mad dash for the bathroom being a good thing. This is mostly jest; if I did get the job, I know for a fact that my body, with its amazing powers of adaptability, would soon acclimate itself and I wouldn't get so sick. Also, I wouldn't be turning around and going home again as fast as I did today. But still. Those first few days would be murder. I'd be chewing on Pepto Bismol like candy. Which it almost tasted like. Did you know it comes in peppermint-flavored chewable tablets now? I do. Boy, do I.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Wry Like Me?
So I've been watching this TV show called Dead Like Me. It's quite funny, in the dark, sarcastic humor kind of way. Kind of like the MTV cartoon Daria, in that respect, only a little further over into the darkness.
Anyway, this isn't a TV show review. I was just thinking about how much I like the main character, an 18-year-old girl who now has to reap the souls of the dead because she was hit by a flaming toilet seat which had fallen from the Soviet Space Station. She is now known as Toilet Seat Girl. And while I'm glad I don't have such an unfortunate nickname, I do like her apathetic, sarcastic, wry attitude. I wish I could be like that, sometimes.
And at least she has a job, even if it is soul-killing. Ha.
(I have an interview next week; wish me luck!)
Anyway, this isn't a TV show review. I was just thinking about how much I like the main character, an 18-year-old girl who now has to reap the souls of the dead because she was hit by a flaming toilet seat which had fallen from the Soviet Space Station. She is now known as Toilet Seat Girl. And while I'm glad I don't have such an unfortunate nickname, I do like her apathetic, sarcastic, wry attitude. I wish I could be like that, sometimes.
And at least she has a job, even if it is soul-killing. Ha.
(I have an interview next week; wish me luck!)
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