A note on girly manga

I've been reading so many girly manga lately, it's disgusting. The plot is practically the same in every one. Unless they somehow have a good gimmick, I rarely even remember whether I've read it or not as I go back over the list a couple of months later. Anyway, there are some common things that are really starting to bother me.

The girl often can't stand up for herself. She is sometimes picked on incessantly by the really bitchy girls in her class (we're usually talking high school here), until SURPRISE! The guy stands up for her and saves her. But wait, she hates this guy! He's a total asshole to her! He's always forcing her to do things she doesn't want to do (some of these sexual in nature)! But she can't help but feel drawn to him.... She can see his GOOD side.

Some things to think about, girl. When a guy forces you to kiss him, whether it be physically or by a form of manipulation, that is called SEXUAL HARASSMENT. Same goes for when he's always grabbing you and bringing you in close. Maybe it makes your heart go "doki-doki!" but if you weren't really cool with him doing that in the first place, you have the right to turn around and smack him, especially if he does it more than once. And if he tries to rip your clothes off or forces you down/against a wall? Please, call the police.

So ladies of the fictional Japanese comic book world, know that you can stand up against harassment. Tell a teacher! Or at the very least, please for the love of God tell him to fuck off.

I know, it has been a while

But I don't know what to write about. I've been editing things that I'm not going to post here, so that's out. I haven't had any interesting things to think about lately. I went home (to Minnesota). I ate. I went shopping. I watched anime. I worried about my cats. I came home (to Chicago).

What an uneventful life I lead. I've been baking potatoes in the oven, since the microwave is broken. They taste even more delicious this way. I rub vegetable oil on them, poke holes in them, and salt them. Then I just put 'em straight into the oven. I found the recipe here: http://howtobakeapotato.com/
Just ignore the "tips to cut down on belly fat" ads. Only problem is they take forever.

Maybe next time I'll have something important to say.

Silvertongue reading

I read a very short story tonight at this reading series called Silvertongue. It was about my cousin Jennifer's autism and how it's dealt with in the family. Surprisingly, I managed to keep my nerves under control until I was up at the podium. Then my face turned red and my voice started shaking a bit, but I finished it! Then afterward, a couple of people said they liked my story, which made me very happy!

Silvertongue was combined with Verbatim tonight, which is a poetry reading thing. The only other guy reading a short story instead of poetry was very good. He pulled off a difficult form, and his words almost sounded like poetry. Much better than me and my purely straightforward writing style. I wish I could muse more beautifully.

Here's a piece of what I read. The topic was "keep it in the family."

When I was a kid, I always got pissed off when Jennifer and her family came to our house to visit. It meant that I had to put all of my important things at the top of my closet or bookcase so Jennifer couldn't get to them. It meant that she would eat my mother's tall, beeswax candles, although that was more funny to me than it was to my mother. It meant that I had to constantly stay in my room, or keep an eye on it at all times. If I left, I would come back to the door cracked open.
"Jennifer," I would growl, bursting in. And there she would be, on the floor in the middle of a mess of my clothes and toys and CDs and secret stash of makeup.
"Sorry!" She'd screech. Then she'd run out, muttering in a voice garbled with other half-words, one of my family's video tapes in hand.


Then I went to this photography gallery opening thing, and it turned out that it had been canceled and there were very few people there. It was kind of awkward, since I brought wine to share, and ended up hiding it and keeping it for myself. Now I'm drinking it and it's pretty good, so it all evened out. It's Hirschbach and Sohne Riesling.

Until next time!

Shit, it has almost been ten days since I last posted!

I've been writing, though, I swear! I wrote a piece of flash fiction that I want to submit to the Story Week Reader, so I'm not so sure I want to post it here. Although there are a few short shorts that are already on this blog that I may submit as well, like the "Changes" story. Those of you that aren't reading, give me some feedback! I will post the first paragraph of this new story that I wrote.

She had eaten nothing all day. Flashes of light from neon signs pushed themselves into her consciousness, their bright pinks, greens, and reds demanding, “pay attention to me!” She wondered if they were hot to the touch, and was disappointed when she stretched up both arms and found the lights too high to reach. She figured that the burn of the glass on her hands would distract her from the ache in her stomach. She looked up at the sign, slowly reading the words that advertised food and warmth inside.

But she couldn't eat. Not just yet.

She was starving the baby out. A hunger strike against her own flesh and blood.

I kinda like the story as a whole. I wrote most of it on the train on the way home, it was awesome. I just got an idea and wrote it all out. If you wanna read the whole thing you can tell me or something.

Okay, bye.

Entries typed from my journal.

Written around 4:15 PM:

AAAAAAA! An obese woman in an electric scooter just got on the bus. I looked up as she rolled to the space designated for wheelchairs, and saw under her far-too-short skirt that was pulled taut above her knees. Her legs lay apart, and the fat leading up from her knees pooled inward, her thighs touching right before I could see her underwear.

I am scarred for life. Just kidding, that happened a long time ago.

(there is a line across the page)

I think it's time to start writing my memoir/novel thing. Or compiling it and filling in the cracks. I guess I'll start by editing the other half of this essay on self-injury. Then I can piece together and edit the chapter on being in the hospital. Then I connect the two together. Probably the hospital chapter after the self-injury chapter.

And I can write an introduction after the whole thing is done, Fat Girl (by Judith Moore) style. The interviews need to be in there, too. There's a lot of stuff I've done since sophomore year. I'll have to edit and rewrite a lot, since I wrote each piece to stand on its own, and now a lot can be explained early on and not need explanation later. I wonder how long it's gonna end up to be? I was kind of figuring that it shouldn't be less than 200 pages. Isn't that still novella length, anyway?

I get distracted so easily, but I really want to do this. I've worked pretty (?) hard (?) on this subject matter so far.

(End of journal entries.)

Thoughts on Faces

I've been realizing lately that I don't like looking at people's faces. Especially in photographs or commercials when the face is right there, zoomed in and looking at you, it bothers me. I just don't like facial expressions.

This isn't the case all the time, because I do like looking at the faces of people I like, such as my friends. But the expressions of some people just makes hatred well up inside of me.

I think this is one of the reasons why I don't like American comic book art that much (well, as opposed to Japanese comic book art). The faces of the characters are twisted into positions that aren't very flattering. The lines in their faces are accentuated. Whereas in manga, their faces are simplified and everything is made to look "prettier." Does this mean I'm obsessed with beauty? I don't know.

Sometimes it's like a car crash: I just can't stop looking as these people's faces move into different, ugly positions. I suppose this happens more often in real life, where I like to stare into people's faces. I like to read as much as I can about them before looking away. I am a creeper. But when I watch commercials or see close-up photos of faces, I can't look. I must divert my eyes. Even if it's a picture of someone I perceive as beautiful, sometimes it's too much.

But not all the time.

Don't judge me.

Associated Content

Please view my articles/reviews, since I apparently get money that way?

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2334118/a_review_of_my_new_cat.html?cat=53

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2333996/a_review_of_the_golden_nugget.html?cat=22

Thanks!

A Review of My New Cat

When I first picked out Kite from the shelter, she seemed like the perfect cat. Calm, laid back, sweet: a lap cat. I took her out of her little cage and set her on my lap, where she promptly curled up and began to purr.

It has been two months and I am beginning to think I was swindled.

I wanted another cat to be a companion to Mims, my shy little tabby. I wanted this new cat to be equally as laid back, but less shy, a cat that I could pick up and carry around. It would stand to reason, then, that I should not get a kitten.

Of course, I got a kitten. A black-and-white spotted, adorable little thing that seemed happy enough to come home with me. She even purred in her carrier on the way back to my apartment.

I guess I should have taken it as a sign, when right away she meowed constantly if I left my room. I had her locked in there, separated from the other cat until they were ready to meet. But, I shrugged it off as a kitten thing.

When I let her out a week later, she was shy around Mims. She sniffed at her tentatively, and looked oh-so-innocent when Mims hissed and ran away. Mims knew what was up.

The weeks progressed, and Kite began to get used to living in my apartment. That is to say, she began to take it for granted. She was used to Mims by now, and took great pleasure in chasing her around the room, much to Mims' dismay. I found my temper becoming frayed as the sounds of sharp meows, hissing, and racing feet became more commonplace.

Then, the meowing started. Not even gradually, just all of the sudden one day. She decided to sit by the door and meow loudly and constantly. She had already acquired the habit of trying to escape every time I came home, but apparently that wasn't enough. She had to alert me to her absolute need to be in the lobby of my apartment building.

This behavior has continued to the present day, and needless to say, my patience is wearing thin. I find myself yelling at her lot, something I have always tried not to do with my cats. She seems to know exactly when I'm trying to work, and launches into her meowing escapades for the hours upon hours that I am sitting at my laptop, fruitlessly trying to concentrate.

She is already a year old, and she still acts like a hyper-active kitten. Do yourself a favor: adopt an older cat.

Thoughts on Where The Wild Things Are

I saw Where The Wild Things Are a few days ago, and it made me think about a bunch of stuff. Like, how barricaded adults are in their own emotions. Blocking out true emotion and making things so complicated, when Max just sat down next to whoever was feeling bad, even if they were angry with him, and talked it out. Those child-eyes cure everything.

The simplicity of pure, unadulterated emotion, and the complexity at the same time. When it seems like everything can be solved by being genuine and truthful, can it? It always feels that way to me, but in the end, people are clouded by their emotions. Their anger. Things that need to be said don't come out right, or don't come out at all. An unwillingness for confrontation postpones conversations that need to be had.

I am guilty of all these things. Does this mean I should be more like a child?

I've decided. I'm going to update more regularly!

Today in Writer's Portfolio, a woman came in to talk about websites and getting your name out there through search engine optimization and all that. She said that if you're going to have a blog, you should update regularly. In that moment, I was motivated to BLOG. And here I am, making empty promises.

I think I'm going to try to update at least once a week. Maybe I'll even get more than two followers! I feel as though what I write should still be well thought-out and well-written (ha! I try.). So, wish me luck, dear reader(s)!

creepypasta

This artist decides to take a commission from a guy he meets on craigslist, asking for a portrait. When he gets there the house is incredibly run down, and there's a strange smell about the place. The artist finishes sketching the man in front of him and sets to work at home on painting and filling out the details. Only when he finishes does he realize that HE JUST PAINTED HITLER.

Review: The Golden Nugget

Orange paper jack 'o' lanterns dangled from the ceiling. Designs of kangaroos (or some shit) were frosted onto glass partitions. And there seemed to be far too many booths that were only big enough to seat one person on each side. My roommate Megan and I had decided to eat breakfast at The Golden Nugget, a 24 hour “pancake house” on Clark near Diversey.

It kind of reminded me of Denny's, as I told Megan. Only Denny's has awesome buffalo wings. This place didn't have buffalo wings at all, which upset me.

There were plenty of appetizing choices on the menu, although everything seemed a bit overpriced. I settled on Chicken Parmigiana, while Megan went for some sausage-egg-hash brown combo.

Mine came with a salad; hers did not. I was shocked to find out, as the waitress told me, that they do not carry bleu cheese salad dressing. This is kind of my standard for restaurants—if they don't have bleu cheese, then they're too trashy for me. For God's sake, even Denny's has bleu cheese!

Well, I settled for ranch. And I must admit, the salad was delicious. It came with plenty of cucumber, and the bad parts (onions, green peppers) were on top and easy to pick off. And it didn't have any croutons! Hooray! Alas, I didn't finish it, wanting to save room for the main course. Besides, I was out of delicious ranch dressing. This was to be my downfall.

I had never had Chicken Parmigiana before, so I don't know if it's usually that gross. I regretted my choice moments into my first bites. The spaghetti noodles were too thick, and the “meat sauce” on top of it was composed mostly of chunks of tomato. Just the way I hate it. The chicken was dry, and the breading it was wrapped in was far too salty. Spread across the top of the dish were layers of melted mozzarella, as if in a last-ditch attempt to save the flavor. This actually kind of worked, but not well enough for me to finish the meal. About ¼ of the way in, I stopped, pushed the plate forward, and announced that I was done. I felt as though I had just been served a meal from a homeless shelter. I had to ask the waitress for more water, another thing that annoys me. She didn't visit the table to refill our glasses once.

Not quite satisfied, I dumped some mustard on a piece of Megan's sausage and went to town. On her sausage. Heh. It wasn't too bad, although we both agreed that it tasted a lot like ham.

We both ended up paying about fifteen bucks, which is far too much for me. I'm not sure whether we were supposed to pay in the front of the restaurant or not, but we just left the money on the table. The service wasn't nearly good enough for me to care.

All in all, I would probably eat there again, seeing as it's close to my apartment and open 'round the clock. But only if someone else suggested it first, and then I would hold it against them all night.

New Glasses!

I decided to go to LensCrafters today. I woke up late and didn't have time to wear my contacts, instead slipping on my green plastic frames with the wiggly limbs. There are screws lose in that pair of glasses, making them loose around my face. If I look down, they slip down my nose and fall off, making me afraid to look over the sides of bridges.
So, I went to LensCrafters for the second month in a row to get them tightened. After waiting, explaining my situation to the guy there ("I think the screw is stripped..."), and waiting some more as he took them into the back, I decided to get up and wander around a little, looking at glasses. Coveting them. LensCrafters is ridiculously expensive, but they have some pretty cute glasses. True, many of them are pretty emo, but that's not quite a deal-breaker for me. I looked over at the blurry image of the man sidling up to me.
"I went to adjust the screw and the frame just snapped," he said, quietly, apologetically. I squinted and looked closer at the glasses in his hands. On the top right side of the left lens, the frame had broken cleanly apart.
"Oh, no!" I exclaimed. No way in hell could I afford new glasses. "Do you think I could superglue it?"
"Uh, maybe," he said, "but you really need new frames."
I let out a short laugh. "I can't afford that, I can't even afford to buy groceries."
"Well, it wouldn't cost you anything, I mean, I broke your glasses." He looked at me seriously. My mouth dropped. New frames?? Of my own choosing???
"What about the lenses?" I asked excitedly.
"We would replace those too," he replied. I put my hands over my mouth. "Let me see if we can order those frames," he said, referring to my broken glasses.
"Wait," I said quickly, "can I get different frames if they're around the same price?"
"Well, yeah, sure," he said. "I'd say these were about 150."
I am a kid in a candy store. I quickly call my roommate to come down and help me decide which glasses I want. I try on pair after pair, looking for something colorful, maybe trying out wire frames again for the first time since high school.
We decide that between the light pink plastic frames and the purple wire frames, that I will get the latter. They're nice and tight against my face, too, no more glasses falling off as I play my DS on the bus!
They're 170, a little more expensive than the green ones, but the awesome guy who broke my glasses says that it's okay. I keep expecting something to go wrong, or to be charged for something, but amazingly enough I'm not.
Me and the roommate come back in an hour to my new glasses, fitted with my prescription. I am definitely a fan of my smaller, sexier glasses!

Shit Fuck Goddamn

Tonight is just a big ball of shit, being rolled around on my life katamari-style.

Why do I feel the urge to have a boyfriend? It's a constant problem in my life. I claim that it's because I get bored without one. It's true that they're fun to hang out with on a regular basis, I guess. I don't fucking know. They're so difficult to sustain. I think half of the reason I feel the need to have one is for sex, anyway. I'm not a big fan of fuck-buddies or one-night-stands.

Alls I know is, I gotta break the habit. I'm sick of boys. Gimme some girls! Either that or no one at all. Relationships are fucking stupid. They're for people who feel the need to have someone else to depend on. And most other people don't give a shit about your problems. As I realize over and over. I get sad and consider calling people, and realize that people either don't want to talk about it, or just don't care. A big thank you to a certain friend who hung up when I tried to call her. No explanation. Not like she's ever cared much about when I try to contact her, anyway. I'm just fucking sick of it.

I'm supposed to just depend on my family, but I was never really able to talk to them about personal things, anyway. I don't know. I should just stop fucking whining.

I've been called a lot of bad things lately, and maybe I deserved it. Well, I don't think I'm a cunt. Maybe a bitch. Maybe paranoid or crazy.

Well, I broke one guy's heart, and strung along an internet guy that I didn't really like. I'm just waiting for the drama to be over. I QUIT. Internet and boys and relationships.

Rant

The advertisements on myspace really piss me off.

"Overweight? Looking to lose those extra pounds? Look like our ridiculously skinny girls bordering on anorexia!" Really, it's horrible. Even the women on television and magazines are usually nowhere near as skinny. I fucking hate how women are portrayed in the media. Ever since I took the psychology of women class I've begun to notice it.

Women are just bodies to the world. They swoon over the dominating male (nothing against men), touching him as he looks unimpressed and unemotional. I saw this calvin klein advertisement in cosmo recently. A woman is laying across two shirtless mens' laps as they look off in opposite directions, ignoring her obvious plea for attention (as all women obviously crave).

On that note, it's getting just as bad for men, especially in ads by abercrombie and fitch. I've seen gigantic ads on building of just the torso, head cut off. Everyone is just a body, an ideal to set for the rest of the world. Men are expected to have a six pack and perfectly shaped muscles and women must be big breasted and skinny as fuck.

Screw the media. This is why I don't watch TV or read magazines.

Hot 2 Trot

I leave Steve and Katrina in the Clark and Division station. My train is here, going north.

I sit down in a row of seats facing the direction the train is going. I always sit in the direction of motion because I get restless and sort of dizzy if I don't. It's closing in on midnight, but there are people around me, coming home from their Sunday nights. The train is bright and there's a sleepy air about everyone, an end-of-the-weekend feeling.
For a while, I just draw the face of a boy I see in the reflection of the window. The train calls out Fullerton, then Belmont. Almost everyone gets up and leaves. Addison. The boy gets up and I put away my notebook. Sheridan, Wilson, Lawrence and Argyle. I notice that someone is sitting in front of me and he's got his cell phone out.

His back faces the seat to my left. The hood of his sweatshirt is up and he's wearing blue track pants. My mind goes in and out of focus as I stare out the window, and he opens his arms in a stretch.

A very, very obvious stretch. Cell phone in hand, screen facing me, lit up. I squint and look at it.

What is that? Is that...? ...Yep. That's a penis.
It's a thick-ish, dark brown penis. The shaft is darker than the head, which is almost tan. It's wrinkly but erect.

I quickly look out the window again, slightly taken aback. I mean, it's not like I've never seen a penis before. But I wasn't expecting to see one on the train tonight. What was he trying to accomplish by showing me this? Did he think I would jump up from my seat to sit on his lap and compliment his enormous penis? Or wait. I get it, he's a flasher. A more modern kind of flasher. And don't those people get off on seeing you scared? I should just laugh at him. I should just burst out laughing and embarrass him. But oddly, I don't feel like laughing.
I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and I turn my head back casually. I'm not scared. This situation is hilarious, right?

He's still pretending to stretch, and rest his hand on the bar in front of him, and scratch his ear. The dick is still on the screen. I squint again at it.
Is that... on the train? Does he have it whipped out right now?!
On the display I can see the blue of his track pants, a line, and a gray floor. I look down at the floor of the El. Gray. In front of me the man has his legs spread apart, and in front of him the bottom of the seats makes a line. Dear god. Is his cock still out?

I avert my eyes, my mind racing. I really want to insult him. I want to say something or laugh at him. But I can't, what if he retaliates? Could he be arrested for something like this? I should press the CTA call button. Or call the cops. But will they care? It's not as if I'm in any real danger. I've gotta say something, have to get back at him somehow. Okay. I'll do it as I get up to leave.

I turn my head to the left. It's black outside. The reflection of the two of us is shown clearly in the line of square windows.
I can see his overshadowed bulbous eyes, staring at me. His face holds a dangerous expression; it's almost obsessive. It's dark below his hood, and there's a short black beard circling his solemn mouth.
I should have realized. His head was tilted to the left this whole time. He was watching me, gauging my reactions.
My body suddenly feels light and tingly, and my knees start to shake slightly.

"This is Loyola." One more stop, one more stop, one more stop. My eyes avoid the cell phone. He's making it even more obvious now, practically waving it in front of my face. The train rushes past the windows of apartment buildings and finally begins to slow to a stop.

Have to wait until the train's about to leave, or he'll get up and chase me. Am I wearing anything baggy enough to grab onto? No. If he gets off with me, I'll just run down the the cubicle where the CTA man sits.

"This is Morse." The train slows and comes to a stop and my legs shake as I get up, balancing myself with the seat behind me. I face the windows in front of me, looking at the reflection of his shadowy, serious face.

"Pencil Dick," I say clearly to the image, and he turns around in his seat.
"What'd you say?" he demands, voice muffled by the hood of his sweatshirt. But I am not waiting around to repeat what I said. My feet move quickly to the doors and I cut in front of a small group of girls; the only other people in the car. The doors open and I rush down the stairs to the El station.

No one is in the cubicle.
I don't think he followed me, but I turn to look behind me anyway. No one. Only the group of girls at the top of the stairs.
Anger surges up in my chest; the CTA man is NEVER here when I need him. I sigh and turn my back to the cubicle, leaning on the empty glass-paned box.

"Hey, can I use your phone? The pay phone here is broken." A man, also with his hood up, approaches me in the station. His face is almost gaunt and there are deep circles under his eyes, although he looks no older than 25.

I stare at him for a moment. No fucking way, I think. "I forgot it at home. I'm...sorry."

He shakes his head in defeat and looks down at the ground. He tells me that the '7' button isn't working on the pay phone on the platform, and that he's trying to call his friend.

"Oh, I'm sorry, that sucks," is all I say, and he leaves to wait outside the station.
My body is vibrating with nervous energy as I curse the CTA man.
Keys jingle somewhere behind the box and an old man appears behind the turnstiles. I stare at him, wondering what to say. Why did I think he could help me?

"Is something the matter, miss?" He asks, and I glance back to the figure outside of the door.

"Are you usually here?" I ask stonily. He looks at me, confused. "Why is it that there is never anyone here when I need help?" My voice is beginning to shake.
"Do you need help?" He asks, his wrinkled face alert.
"I-I don't know, I'm just scared...nevermind."
"Is someone bothering you?" He says from the other side of the gate. I glance back again to see if the phone call man is still outside. He is. "Is that man bothering you?" He nods toward the other man's back.
"N-no...." Well, technically he isn't. "It-it was someone on the train, I... nevermind." I turn my back on his confused expression. He can't help me with anything.

I pull out my phone. I call Steve, he doesn't answer. I call Katrina, and she does. "Kat?" I say. I realize that the man outside is going to know that I was lying about my phone, but at this point I don't care. "Just stay on the phone with me, okay?" I say as steadily as I can, and I push through the door into the freezing night. I walk past the man without looking at him, and he doesn't follow me.

"I know I pretend to be a strong person, but...." I say when I am out of earshot of the phone call man. "I-I guess I'm not." And to my surprise, I start to cry.

We Are Family Guy!

I'm on the train coming home from work, and as soon as I position myself into a corner of the train, a group of little kids comes in, escorted by their very angry sounding mother. There are four kids, and shortly after the man next to me gets up, a little girl sits down next to me. She leans over, watching me play my DS, until her older brother begins to sing.

"It seems today, that all you see..."
She chips in with "Lah-da-dah-da-dahdahdah..." Apparently the boy is the only one who knows most of the words, but that doesn't stop the rest of the from joining in.
"Ladadah-dadadah-da-SEX ON TV," they yell in unison.
"Sexy sexy sexyyyyy, sex sex sex!" The tiny girl next to me sings. I'm trying desperately to not get pissed off; to concentrate on my game.

Their off-tune voices raise up in chorus and they finish with, "WE! ARE! FAM! LEE! GUYYYYYY!!!"

Then they start all over again.

I get up, stumbling to get my balance, and push past the mom to a seat on the other side of the doors. Sighing, I sit down and return to my game. A few minutes pass, and I feel a shadow fall over me.

The little girl is watching me again. "Why did you move?" She finally asks.

"Because it was too loud," I say, and she locks eyes with me for a moment before running back to her mom.

"Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom!" She shouts, trying to get through whatever conversation the mom is having.
"What?!" The mom responds angrily.
"Do-do you know why that girl moved? It was because it was too loud!"

I laugh, look back at them, and turn back to my game for a minute before the little girl comes back to watch me play.

Thug Lyfe

The El passes me by and I run for it, glancing to my right for a relatively friendly looking train car. I choose the second to last and sit down, looking around me.

Oh, the red line at midnight.

Chinstrap and Ballcap over there are drinking vodka from a plastic bottle when Ballcap decides to stumble over and sit next to me. His poofy jacket is wide enough to crowd me against the window.

"Hey, --- - -- - -?" His drunken mumbling is obscured by the sound of the train.
"What?" I lower my head to hear, wondering whether I should tell him to fuck off, ignore him, or act nice so I won't set him off.
"---&@)-(--?" He asks again.
"I can't hear you." I say, raising my voice slightly.
"You can't hear me?" He manages to say.
"You're too drunk, I can't understand you."
"You can't hear me?" He looks up at me and offers me an earbud from his MP3 player. I shake my head 'no.'
I'm frowning heavily by now, because it's midnight and I'm tired and I'm fucking sick of being harassed by dumbfucks who want to show off to their pals or solicit me for sex on the train. Finally he turns his attention to the guy across the aisle who is conveniently ignoring my discomfort. Ballcap says something to him, and the guy shakes his head. At last, the thug next to me gets up to rejoin Chinstrap and I bolt up and out of my seat, headed for the next car up. I'm glad I know how to work those emergency handles now.

Either I attract creeps, or I'm asking for it by riding the red line alone at night. Maybe I should just act crazier than they do.

Tryin' to face the strain

I've been wearing makeup and contacts lately and dressing nicely for some stupid reason (because I want to feel pretty, let's just admit it). I don't want to admit it, so I say I'm doing a "social experiment." I've gotten compliments.

"No one wants you, girl." I wonder if that actually got to me, if a creepy guy on the train who seemed like he wanted to mug me and then rape me (he donned a mask) somehow changed my opinion of myself. He shot it at me as he was leaving the station. I was waiting by the CTA booth in case he decided to try something. Usually I try to calm myself down about these things, thinking it's just paranoia, but I think this one was justified.

He sits down in front of me, apparently done panhandling, and faces me.
"Hey," he says.
I glance up, raising my right eyebrow. "Hey," I say nervously, and go back to playing my DS.
"You going anywhere?"
Well, I am on the train. "Uh, I'm going home." I look around. We're the only people in this car.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Smooth guy.
"...Yes," I say. You always gotta say that, even though I'm a single woman now.
"Well... what he don't know won't hurt him."
My mouth opens a little in surprise, and I take a second to answer. "Sorry, I'm really not interested in that."
This is when he stands up and pulls a mask out of his pocket. Not a ski mask, but something like a Zorro mask. He starts to put it over his eyes, and lowers it at my stunned look.
"What?" he asks. "What?" he keeps saying. He's getting a kick out of this, I can tell.
I get up, and my hands shake as I try to figure out how to work the goddamn emergency entrance to the next car. Lift up handle cover. Slide lever. I move to the next car, hands a little scraped up from the experience.
When I leave the train, I nervously glance behind me, and of course, there he is.
When we reach the turnstiles, I pause.
"No one wants you, girl!" He says, turning his head toward me as he passes. Swearing, I look around for the CTA guard, who is conveniently absent from his or her cubicle. I wait there for a few minutes more before deciding that he wouldn't have bothered to wait outside for me.

And this is why I don't really feel safe in my neighborhood anymore. Along with many other reasons: gunshots, plenty of car alarms, a few more incidents witnessed on the El at my stop, being propositioned for sex, being screamed at by a crazy guy ("Don't go past here! There are niggers everywhere!").

Too bad Uptown is the ghetto, I'd move there.

Up at night

So, I'm up because I don't really feel like sleeping.

Today I attempted to go to Evanston to get my hair cut. I wasn't quite sure what stop to get off on the purple line, so I had a little adventure.

First of all, I'm exhausted for no reason. I got a good seven hours of sleep, and was almost late to my appointment because I slept in until 8:40 when I was supposed to leave at 9. So of course I'm drifting off on the train, falling asleep playing my DS. I'm in and out listening for the Central stop, which I remember getting off at before (heehee getting off).

In. Ding Dong. Doors closing. Central is next. Doors open on the left at Central. Sweet, I think. I'm almost there.
Out. I'm leaning over into my legs to sooth my buzzing head. A vague image of people getting off the train. But this is still the stop before, right?
Nope. I wake up and we're passing suburban houses, and it's taking longer than it should. Shit.
Yep, this is Linden.

Of course it has to be snowing like crazy and freezing outside. But at least there's already a train back to Howard in the station.

Now, you would think that the Central stop, for its name, would have something to do with the shopping center of Evanston, right? Nope. Not true at all.

"Do you know where Sherman is?" I ask the CTA person.
"Sherman? Um... I think it's somewhere that way." She points behind her. "It's a ways away, though. Where are you trying to get to?"
"1704 Sherman. I think there's a Hair Cuttery somewhere around here."
She gazes off into the distance, thinking. She points her thumb behind her again, trying to gauge her surroundings. "Sorry," she finally says, shrugging.

I exit the CTA station. and realize that this is not the shopping center. This is the place where my good ol' friend Mason picks me up sometimes. A deserted wasteland.

So, I call him and he tells me that Davis is the stop where most of the stuff in Evanston is. And because I'm obsessed now, on a mission to get my hair cut and dyed, I wait in the cold for the train, shivering, hunched into my scarf like a bird hunching into its chest feathers to protect against the cold. I almost just wrote "to protect against the corn."

Well, I get off at Davis and actually manage to find Sherman without too much trouble. The hair cuttery is right there, and I realize that this is not the place I had been to before. Fuck it, I think.

Nervously, I enter the hair cuttery and try to judge the quality of the hair cuttresses. Yes, I just made that a word.

Well, this blog is getting to be way too long so I'll just sum up the end. Basically the woman who cuts and dyes my hair, Nuran, a Turkish woman, is awesome and friendly and very good at what she does. She keeps asking who cut my hair before, like my head was a disasterpiece before she got to it. Hey, it was cute before when it had just been cut.

Speaking of, I realized today that cut and dye=cut and die. Why is hair cutting suddenly so morose?

And there's this guy who keeps clapping his hands around his woman coworkers' arms and shaking them. He seems really annoying, but they're speaking in Spanish so I don't know what they're saying.


Well, I wait for the dye to set and decide to play a little DS; Animal Crossing, of course. And the dye soaks in and turns out amazing and I leave happily. I get to Howard and realize that I left my DS in the hair cuttery, so I call the place (luckily Nuran gave me a business card). Yes, my DS is still there. I rush off the train and after it leaves I realize that I left my hat, the one with the ear flaps that I was just beginning to warm up to, on the train. So I pull my hood over my still-wet hair and wait for the train. Again.

This time things go okay, I get my DS and a new hat from CVS and make it out to Morse without too much trouble. I buy groceries on the way and watch a couple episodes of X-files while eating ravioli under my incredibly thick and comforting comforter. And I doze off, and here I am not, awake.

If you're still reading, thanks. I guess I rambled a lot about nothing in particular. I'm glad that I don't get worked up over little things like this. I laugh it off as another adventure and wait for the train.

Changes

My girlfriend has changed.

I woke up about a week ago and she was like this. Her skin was gray and her eyes were rolled back into her head. She was sitting up in bed, staring ahead and drooling. I turned over in an attempt to spoon. It took me a few seconds to realize that her skin was cold.

"Anna?" I said sleepily.

"Gruahhhgh," she groaned, and that was it. That's the only sound she makes now; a mixture between a groan, a growl, and a gurgling noise.

She won't sleep. She hasn't eaten all week. Her once beautiful long, red hair is knotted and tangled. I wake up to her sometimes, her dirty fingernails pressing into my scalp, with that blank yet somehow menacing look on her face.

"Go to sleep, Anna," I say, and she gurgles at me.

I think she still loves me. I mean, I still love her. I do. But lately I feel like she's only attracted to my body. She looks at me hungrily, but not in that horny-romantic sort of way.

She's just not the same anymore.

"Anna," I say, "come watch TV with me." I'll guide her to the couch and turn on the TV, but the picture just reflects off of her white eyes as she stares blankly ahead.

"Anna," I say, "do you want to go shopping?" I'll put the purse in her hands, but she drops it every time, as if her muscles are too stiff to curl into a grip.

I tried to get her to go on a bike ride with me the other day, but she only got as far as lifting one leg over the seat before toppling over. The bike landed on top of her and I ran over yelling, but she didn't react at all. She lay there under her bike, foaming at the mouth and staring off into space. She had a nasty scrape on the back of her leg, but she didn't even flinch when I dabbed rubbing alcohol on it. And I have to admit, I poked her harder just to see if she would.

She doesn't go out anymore, preferring to spend the day in bed. When the sun goes down, I can hear her in our bedroom, walking around in a daze and bumping into things.

Her parents don't know. She hasn't called them, and that's her decision. But I'm getting worried. I think they should know the state their daughter is in. Who knows, what if this turns out to be dangerous?

I suppose it's not that strange. I've overheard four or five other people at work talking about it. It's spreading like a trend. It's not like Anna is the only one.

I figure she'll snap out of it eventually. I'll wake up one day and she'll be sighing in my ear, her warm breath smelling like day-old plaque instead of rotting gums.

Yeah, I can stick it out until then. I mean, it isn't that big of a deal. How long can it last?

Welcome me, goddammit

So this is a blog, eh? Just kidding, I've had blogs before. Many blogs. Blogs to pimp my writing. Much like this blog. Blog blog blog. The word is starting to lose meaning 'cause I wrote it too much.

So, I'm Amelia. I'm 20. I work at a pet supply store and I go to school for Fiction Writing. I live in Chicago in Rogers Park.

SO. Now that the introductions are over, we can get on to the good stuff. Me writing about nothing in particular.

Today wasn't as bad on the anxiety scale as yesterday was. Yesterday was hell. Or was it two days ago? Either way, this week and last week have sucked. Other than that, life is grand. Work is a good distraction, so I'm thankful for that. If I didn't work almost every day, I would have too much time to myself to think. I might end up laying in bed, depressed and listless.

But really, it isn't that bad. My medications seem to be working. I haven't had an extreme low in months, and I haven't hurt myself since July. I will grin and bear everything and anything that happens to me. I am strong enough to recover from anything now. And because I know that I can recover, I don't take it too hard. If you don't take your problems too seriously you can maintain a distance from them and not have to worry so much. If I don't realize that what is happening to me is real, I'll be just fine. It's when that revelation comes that things get messy. But I'm not a fragile little girl anymore who cries over her own lack of confidence and self-esteem.

Sometimes I feel estranged from my soul or my consciousness, as if I could just put all my energy into a ball of light and transfer it to someone else. Sometimes I imagine that if I concentrate hard enough, I can transfer my consciousness into a ghost-like form of myself that can travel wherever I want and see whatever I want. Weird, huh? But I can feel it as a sort of warmth above my head sometimes, quivering and waiting to wander.

I wish I could drop everything and travel around the world. I wish I could leave tonight and move to Canada. In the woods as a hermit, of course. I would collect edible plants and kill a moose every so often. Or I could live off of my millions in the bank, moving from hotel to hotel, never staying long enough for anyone to know my name.

Or I could go for a nice three-month-long sleep.