If you've ever noticed, the best break ups happen at night, usually after a fun filled evening, and possibly a steamy hot love making. This is commonly known as a "pity fuck". Well, enjoyment is had, for at least one of the party members, normally for the unsuspecting victim there is a great deal of joy.
Now, the reason behind the break up at night is so you do not have time to wallow in self pity. The emotions that one goes through physically and mentally exhaust you to the point where your body screams "FUCK IT!!", forcing you to collapse to sleep. It is the next day that really messes you up. Between crying in the bathroom at work, talking to co-workers and more sobbing in your cubical. Of course, I am speaking from a woman's perspective. The women will call their best friends, eat ice-cream and watch chick flicks. Oh, and never forget, that steaming hot bashing that damn bastard deserves.
Now, men, on the other hand, take a different approach to things. Instead of staying in, most men will call their "boys" up and go for a beer at the local club with prospects of reigning in another filly. Also, the ever saying of "Your girlfriend was a bitch any way. Good riddance. What a Cunt."
Ah, the C-Bomb. An ever favorite word of the male gender whenever they feel it is necessary to down a woman in the worst fashion. Half the time, they never mean it. They only say it to make themselves feel better for a time. Later in the night, if they are sober enough to remember, that is, they will think back on their relationship and wonder where everything went wrong. What they had possibly done to make her doubt. C'mon, hadn't he done everything to make her happy?
Obviously not.
Men, if you are wondering what it is you did wrong, just stop. You're never going to figure it out; nor pestering your ex's friends will reveal the answers you seek. Just drop it. Move on. You'll be driven crazy if you don't and then nasty labels like, stalker, for example, will put put to use. In the end, your throbbing ass in that cold cell will make you realize your mistake.
Women, if you're wondering what it is YOU did wrong, open your legs a little wider and just lay there and say the right things. You know what they are.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Diary Fiction 1
A series of fictional diary entries:
Again, I find myself sitting in front of the mirror, gazing at that reflection. A finger trails down my cheek, watching the skin dip and then re-mold itself. My father's words, ones that I have heard countless times before, sting like salt rubbed into an open wound.
"You're getting fat."
Those three words. They have such an impact, both on the mind and the body. Sharp teeth bite down at the sound, eyes shutting, trying to blind my mind to the shape of those harsh words. At twenty two, I should already be in line to be married to a man worthy in my parents' eyes. Fingers paw at my blond hair, blue eyes swimming in tears. Damn him. Even now, those words cause me to break down, even though it is like listening to a broken record. I know the reasons to why he says it. I always have.
He will never know, never ever, that over those three simple words, I have contemplated death and what it would be like to kiss it.
Pity.
Again, I find myself sitting in front of the mirror, gazing at that reflection. A finger trails down my cheek, watching the skin dip and then re-mold itself. My father's words, ones that I have heard countless times before, sting like salt rubbed into an open wound.
"You're getting fat."
Those three words. They have such an impact, both on the mind and the body. Sharp teeth bite down at the sound, eyes shutting, trying to blind my mind to the shape of those harsh words. At twenty two, I should already be in line to be married to a man worthy in my parents' eyes. Fingers paw at my blond hair, blue eyes swimming in tears. Damn him. Even now, those words cause me to break down, even though it is like listening to a broken record. I know the reasons to why he says it. I always have.
He will never know, never ever, that over those three simple words, I have contemplated death and what it would be like to kiss it.
Pity.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
A Shattering Day
This was an email I recently wrote to my professors. I think it makes a great story.
My dearest Professors, I bid you all a Happy New Year and that all goes well over the course of the next twelve months.
Some of you may know that I have been struggling with what to do in order to fulfill my requirements and graduate Montserrat College of Art in Fall of 2008, and if you didn't know this, then I suppose you do now. I do not think I will ever forget the experience I received from applying to Fine Arts Seminar. Perhaps you will take the time to read what happened that day? I promise the point of my email will be made clear.
My idea that I presented to the panel was to write a book about my family, printing it through the letterpress, illustrate it with etchings, bind the book myself and then have it published by the end of fall 2008.
The day started out like any other I suppose. In this case, there were no clouds in that winter blue sky. As if there was no care in the world, except for the playful wind that plucked the warmth from your fingers through fleece lined gloves. I awoke before the alarm shrieked, staring at the blazing neon blue numbers for a moment, and then I rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the appointed time. It took about half an hour to finish and the alarm sounded. I had forgotten to turn it off. The noise made me jump and my boyfriend awoke with an annoyed grunt, in which I quickly silenced the alarm and kissed him to quiet. Gathering my things, I left the house, crossed the street and passed through those black doors that welcome all into the building. I felt as a specter might when crossing the river Styx for the first and last time of their afterlife, knowing that this would be the doom of my time.
The stairs were longer that day. For some reason, it felt as if time slowed down to a crawl. It was as if an hour passed when in actuality it had been five minutes and I made it to the third floor. My feet knew where to take me. Room 305. The room was devoid of life, except for two tables and a few chairs. I quickly set the room up, scrounging for chairs before turning to the empty wall and pinning my work up. I received a blister on my thumb for my effort, those walls are so hard to tack work into. Then I waited. For an hour and a half.
They all came in, one at a time. I think that if they entered the room in a single file, I would have lost my nerve right there and fled from the room. As they walked in, each panel member, well the ones who did not know me, introduced themselves cordially before sitting into the chairs, staring at me. I was naked before them. All I had to cover myself was my idea and a piece of paper. Once they settled, I was prompted to begin my proposal. My voice shook as I read. I mentally cursed myself for it. My fingers held onto that paper as if it was my only life support. They had turned cold and clammy. My heart was pounding in my chest and I tried to breath. Tried to calm down. Then it was over. I looked up. They began to question me. I was lost to the wind.
As I answered their questions, I felt like such a moron, sounding as if I had no idea what it was I was talking about, like I was a freshman. A longing to be a small child again and hide behind my mother filled me. Shoulders were shaking, but I bit my lip and squared them, trying my best to answer the panel members. The words ‘visually weak’ and ‘too ambitious’ washed over me like a sickness. They asked questions. I was being spun in a circle. I was hating myself. It was obvious what the decision was. I wanted out of the room, out of their sight, away from their cruel honesty.
Then it was over.
The Seminar Panel walked to the adjoining room to devour their next victim, and I was left in silence to gather my things and wait a few hours to meet with two of the panel committee. The walk home was harder than the walk to the Hardie building. Footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor of my home. The footfalls resounded in my ears as I shut the door of my bedroom. My boyfriend took one look at me and hugged me and I started to cry and complain and boy, howdy, cry. Retelling the experience sent a new shock wave of sobbing through me and I just wanted the day to end, but that wasn’t the case. Two hours later, I was in one of the offices on the first floor with two committee members, their paper work, my disgusted self and a partridge in a pare tree. Fun times. They handed me a paper telling me I was not accepted. Everything was blurred. I knew the decision, but seeing it on that official sheet made it more real and whatever hope I had died swiftly. We spoke briefly, and scheduled a meeting for the upcoming Monday. One member left, the other stayed and we talked more. This time, about my work for classes where I was told that some work was too similar, if not the same project. It was an accusation of ‘double-dipping’. The day was just plummeting to the core of the earth and I was on the front of it. My face went white, the blood draining to my feet and explained the misunderstanding. The committee member listened and told me that it would be talked about with the other teacher. I nodded and was given leave to go home and sweat out the weekend.
((Almost there))
Monday came and I met with the same two committee members where we sat and talked about what it is I need to do to get my idea going. They gave me names of authors I should pick up, suggested that I do a cross registration program at one of the colleges connected with Montserrat. They also suggested that I start a blog where I write shorts of experiences I had as well as come up with my own committee of people to help me get this idea out into the open. This, I guess, is where the point of the email comes to light.
I need your help.
I am stubborn and from what I hear ‘strong-willed’, so asking for help is a serious thing for me to do. I implore you to kick my ass, so to speak, when it comes to this project. Ask me questions in the hall ways, read pieces of the manuscript or manuscripts, take a look at the blog that I have set up, give me names, help me to be an artist. I’m lost and I am doubting whether Montserrat is the place for me anymore. Maybe I am just looking for a convincing conversation to get me to finish here at Montserrat in the next two semesters, or maybe I am looking for someone to say ‘Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to continue here.’ Your opinions and suggestions mean a lot.
Thank you for taking the time to read my email and I hope that I did not bore any of you and I hope you consider my plea. If you are interested, please read my blog:
www.observations-polixeni.blogspot.com
Again, many thanks, and a Happy New Year to you all.
My dearest Professors, I bid you all a Happy New Year and that all goes well over the course of the next twelve months.
Some of you may know that I have been struggling with what to do in order to fulfill my requirements and graduate Montserrat College of Art in Fall of 2008, and if you didn't know this, then I suppose you do now. I do not think I will ever forget the experience I received from applying to Fine Arts Seminar. Perhaps you will take the time to read what happened that day? I promise the point of my email will be made clear.
My idea that I presented to the panel was to write a book about my family, printing it through the letterpress, illustrate it with etchings, bind the book myself and then have it published by the end of fall 2008.
The day started out like any other I suppose. In this case, there were no clouds in that winter blue sky. As if there was no care in the world, except for the playful wind that plucked the warmth from your fingers through fleece lined gloves. I awoke before the alarm shrieked, staring at the blazing neon blue numbers for a moment, and then I rolled out of bed and began to prepare for the appointed time. It took about half an hour to finish and the alarm sounded. I had forgotten to turn it off. The noise made me jump and my boyfriend awoke with an annoyed grunt, in which I quickly silenced the alarm and kissed him to quiet. Gathering my things, I left the house, crossed the street and passed through those black doors that welcome all into the building. I felt as a specter might when crossing the river Styx for the first and last time of their afterlife, knowing that this would be the doom of my time.
The stairs were longer that day. For some reason, it felt as if time slowed down to a crawl. It was as if an hour passed when in actuality it had been five minutes and I made it to the third floor. My feet knew where to take me. Room 305. The room was devoid of life, except for two tables and a few chairs. I quickly set the room up, scrounging for chairs before turning to the empty wall and pinning my work up. I received a blister on my thumb for my effort, those walls are so hard to tack work into. Then I waited. For an hour and a half.
They all came in, one at a time. I think that if they entered the room in a single file, I would have lost my nerve right there and fled from the room. As they walked in, each panel member, well the ones who did not know me, introduced themselves cordially before sitting into the chairs, staring at me. I was naked before them. All I had to cover myself was my idea and a piece of paper. Once they settled, I was prompted to begin my proposal. My voice shook as I read. I mentally cursed myself for it. My fingers held onto that paper as if it was my only life support. They had turned cold and clammy. My heart was pounding in my chest and I tried to breath. Tried to calm down. Then it was over. I looked up. They began to question me. I was lost to the wind.
As I answered their questions, I felt like such a moron, sounding as if I had no idea what it was I was talking about, like I was a freshman. A longing to be a small child again and hide behind my mother filled me. Shoulders were shaking, but I bit my lip and squared them, trying my best to answer the panel members. The words ‘visually weak’ and ‘too ambitious’ washed over me like a sickness. They asked questions. I was being spun in a circle. I was hating myself. It was obvious what the decision was. I wanted out of the room, out of their sight, away from their cruel honesty.
Then it was over.
The Seminar Panel walked to the adjoining room to devour their next victim, and I was left in silence to gather my things and wait a few hours to meet with two of the panel committee. The walk home was harder than the walk to the Hardie building. Footsteps were heavy on the wooden floor of my home. The footfalls resounded in my ears as I shut the door of my bedroom. My boyfriend took one look at me and hugged me and I started to cry and complain and boy, howdy, cry. Retelling the experience sent a new shock wave of sobbing through me and I just wanted the day to end, but that wasn’t the case. Two hours later, I was in one of the offices on the first floor with two committee members, their paper work, my disgusted self and a partridge in a pare tree. Fun times. They handed me a paper telling me I was not accepted. Everything was blurred. I knew the decision, but seeing it on that official sheet made it more real and whatever hope I had died swiftly. We spoke briefly, and scheduled a meeting for the upcoming Monday. One member left, the other stayed and we talked more. This time, about my work for classes where I was told that some work was too similar, if not the same project. It was an accusation of ‘double-dipping’. The day was just plummeting to the core of the earth and I was on the front of it. My face went white, the blood draining to my feet and explained the misunderstanding. The committee member listened and told me that it would be talked about with the other teacher. I nodded and was given leave to go home and sweat out the weekend.
((Almost there))
Monday came and I met with the same two committee members where we sat and talked about what it is I need to do to get my idea going. They gave me names of authors I should pick up, suggested that I do a cross registration program at one of the colleges connected with Montserrat. They also suggested that I start a blog where I write shorts of experiences I had as well as come up with my own committee of people to help me get this idea out into the open. This, I guess, is where the point of the email comes to light.
I need your help.
I am stubborn and from what I hear ‘strong-willed’, so asking for help is a serious thing for me to do. I implore you to kick my ass, so to speak, when it comes to this project. Ask me questions in the hall ways, read pieces of the manuscript or manuscripts, take a look at the blog that I have set up, give me names, help me to be an artist. I’m lost and I am doubting whether Montserrat is the place for me anymore. Maybe I am just looking for a convincing conversation to get me to finish here at Montserrat in the next two semesters, or maybe I am looking for someone to say ‘Hey, it’s okay if you don’t want to continue here.’ Your opinions and suggestions mean a lot.
Thank you for taking the time to read my email and I hope that I did not bore any of you and I hope you consider my plea. If you are interested, please read my blog:
www.observations-polixeni.blogspot.com
Again, many thanks, and a Happy New Year to you all.
A Little Joy
When actor Charles Keating tells you that you that 'you certainly get the imagination going you naughty creature' you cant help but get a little joy in it. The man is a wonderful conversationalist and so knowledgeable. Much love to him.
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