So in lieu of exploring the misogyny in Poe’s Ligeia, I thought I would describe my desk and its contents to you, since this is where I spend 80 percent of my time. I would take a picture and save the trouble, but my camera is tanning on the sunny beaches of Orlando with my lounging buddy.
So, on the top shelf of my desk there is: a snow globe Abbey gave me for my high school graduation. Inside is Times Square, with the main focus being on the theatre billboards.
Perching behind the snow globe is jasmine perfume I don’t wear anymore (I really only wore it to begin with because I somehow got obsessed with the idea of jasmine perfume when I was 10. I thought it sounded grown-up). Also, there’s hand-and-foot cream I stole from Mom last time I was home, and Sweet Pea hand lotion that Erik’s lovely stepmother gave me two Christmases ago, before I had to break up with her, too.
Also: Rain Shower air freshener, which reminds me of our sophomore year vacuum cleaner named Shaquita because we had carpet powder of the same fragrance, and a packet of Beth-made lemur made of clay and David from Lilo and Stich, a present from my lounging buddy this summer, when he was still sneaking out my fire escape in the early mornings.
To the right: the clock that I smashed against the wall above Erik’s head when our hearts were breaking. A framed picture of my me, my Mom, my Grandmother and my Great-Grandmother. My glasses and a touch lamp, a lamp I bought because we have the same one sitting on the piano at home.
On the bottom shelf: a Gone with the Wind music box also full of Secret Stuff, a Christmas present to represent my Southern Steel, a pile of mismatched gloves, a pair of fancy-looking headphones on borrow from Christopher.
Staples, red nail polish that I used exactly once during the Spring that my lounging buddy and I fell in love. I painted my toes, and couldn’t get the polish off for months. A bottle of lotion that says “Be Well,” a present from the director of Conference of the Birds, to remind us of the unbelievable show we produced.
A candle holder with fireflies holding various bits of junk, tape, a coffee cup given to me by Jason and Corina two summers ago when they went to Disney World. On it are the words that are supposed to describe me, words I doubt anyone agrees with now.
My Cetaphil, a silver hand mirror, masses of candles, the blue perfume-y stuff I do wear, Vaseline for my lips, contact solution, a checkbook and spilled wax from a million different candles from a million different lifetimes embedded in the wood.
My Sunday routines are unproductive. I don’t go to church; I don’t catch up on homework; I don’t spend hours writing fabulously intense novels whilst drinking green tea and chewing thoughtfully on my bottom lip. Instead, I usually wake up around 1, either take in a Pizza Luce brunch or have a bagel with expired cream cheese (this morning), and then my lounging buddy and I retreat back to sleep for several more hours, until the sun has given up on us.
Then, when I’m finally awake for the day, feeling gross and overslept, I come home in my pajamas and drain-like mouth and scraggled hair and present you with a fascinating list such as this, which is a playlist of songs I consider happy to keep me peppy and smiley through the rest of the day, to keep the outside unpeppy and unsmiley forces from pressing down on me.
When I feel oppressed by unpeppy and unsmiley forces, I totally have this second-grade urge to make lists of people that I want to give raspberries to, but I’ll suppress that urge and just give a collective raspberry to those poor misguided vindictive souls who believe if they pour enough water on me, I’ll melt.
I woke up at 8 AM with blue bruises on my shins, mascara in my hair and my fake tattoos rubbed to bits, which means it was probably a good night. I also woke up emptying the contents of all of my organs, which is why I’m eating spaghetti now at the rate of one strand every ten minutes.
Enjoy.
Guys, guys, guys, I don’t know why I’m not writing lately. I have things to say, but none of them seem to warrant posting here. Right now, I am completely trashed out (not trashed, mind you, but trashed out, which consists of two fake tattoos, black eyeliner and an extremely constricting push-up bra), listening to a little Blink at top volume, waiting for our nerd party to begin. There’s a blizzard outside, but it’s the type of snow that makes the world seem like one huge down pillow. On my walk to the liquor store the snow tickled my ankles.
At the very least, you can be 98.9% sure I’ll have pictures up tomorrow, if you like looking at trashed-out college kids wrestling each other on scratched wooden floors.
Here’s one last list before I go back to regular juicy meaty pulpy updates.
A few random links I have accumulated since the last time I made a list of accumulated links:
Pictures of a drunk driving victim
Foreign language translator
Ralph Fiennes pictures
Musical theatre information
Daschle’s Sept. speech on Iraq
A history of Virginia Woolf’s psychosis
Sarah Hepola
Red Synapse
Out with lists, in with content for the week February 17!
(P.S.: Chicago: Holy mother of God, that movie made me cream supreme. I loved it so much I almost fainted. The Hours: Unfortunately, I saw it right after Chicago, so I was underwhelmed. Some fantastic parts, some not-so-fantastic parts, much like the book.)
Okay, I admit it: though I walk around yapping about how I don’t like Valentine’s Day, I actually do like the sentiment behind it because, of course, I’m a tree-hugging mushball at heart. In honour of the day, I’m going to completely rip off Sarah B.
The three moments I knew I was in love:
July 1997: Standing by the James River on a sweltering humid evening. Crickets were singing wildly in pockets of dry grass all around us. We were watching a small night boat light up the river. I turned to him, grabbed his hand and kissed him, taking him completely by surprise.
July 2000: Laying on a dock next to him at midnight in Detroit Lakes. It was warm enough that we didn’t need blankets, and we both fell asleep next to the water, fully clothed, curled into each other. When we woke up, hours later, the lake had grayed and the moon had moved across the sky. We held each other in complete silence.
August 2002: Sitting on the floor of his apartment, slightly drunk on raspberry rum, listening to Mirah blast from the speakers. I hadn’t seen him in weeks. He came up behind me, put his arms around my shoulders and told me how in love he felt. I was too giddy to speak. I was just about to say the same thing.
Things I have done in the past two days to avoid reading Walden:
a) Cleaned the coffee pot by making pot after pot of boiling soapy water. Furthered this procrastination by deeply inhaling my new aromatherapy Green Tea dishwashing liquid. Even furthered procrastination by standing in the kitchen, watching the water drip into the decanter (is that the right word?)
b) Looked up the word “decanter” - a bottle with a stopper, for serving wine. Nope, not the right word.
c) Organized my AIM away messages into neat, organized sections. Very helpful for the long hours I spend agonizing over the perfect away message for the evening.
d) Watched what I thought was going to be the season finale of Joe Millionaire, but actually wasn’t, you filthy Fox life-stealers. Watched Alex get so pissed about this that he turned red and couldn’t speak for several minutes.
e) Analyzed, and I mean really analyzed, the taste of new Ritz Cheese Crackers as compared to the original Ritz. Definitely not much of a difference, really. Decided to stick to putting sliced Muenster on regular Ritz.
f) Determined, after careful analysis of symptoms and various internet resources, that I have (in no particular order): mono, an ulcer, a sinus infection, chronic fatigue syndrome, skin cancer, hypothyroidism, bipolar disorder, a torn rotator cuff and rosacea.
g) Thought about this picture (courtesy Timothy): From left to right, Timothy looks unbelievably ecstatic; I look like some guy at the foosball table just revealed his pasty round ass to me; Drew takes the time to pray for his sins; Minh gives Drew the puffy-lip-model pout, and Robin, who is anything but, looks like a 30-year-old ex-con who picked up Minh at the local AA meeting.
h) Made this list.
Things I have been thinking about, but have only malformed fragmented thought bits regarding:
Columbia space shuttle: As someone else said already, I found myself scarily passive about the explosion, and I believe it’s because in the past year and half, my brain has been desensitized to everything horrific. (link thanks to Anil)
War/The terror level threat: Thanks for opening your big mouth and getting us in this mess, Mr. President. But is it necessary we’re in this mess? My bloody liberal heart says no; my one lone objectivist cell says maybe.
The Michael Jackson special: Bashir, the interviewer, was a melodramatic unethical ass. Michael came off looking like an innocent hippie child, and Bashir was a pretentious close-minded meanie. And what’s with the special afterwards that “deconstructed” Michael’s face to see if he truly did have plastic surgery or not? He’s a person, folks, not a jigsaw puzzle.
Affirmative action: After attending an hour lecture today on this subject in which the lecturer was an absolute nervous wreck, I still don’t know where I fall on this. But I do know that watching other people fidget and pull at their tie and blush and shake makes my body sympathetically do the same.
Jalapeno poppers: Could be the world’s finest invention.
The latest quandary here at zosiablue.com: how does a mostly-heterosexual sexualized woman fit into the scheme of feminism? I’m a feminist and I consider myself a very sexually open person, and yet the deeper I delve into my Women’s Studies classes, I’m finding (as far as I’ve learned) that there might not be a place for me in conventional feminism.
When I say sexually open, I don’t mean that I’m running around, sleeping with every warm body my radar picks up. What I mean is that if I did want to sleep with every warm body my radar picked up, or if you did, I have absolutely no problem with it. More power to it. Sex is a fabulous activity and meant to be shared (safely) in my opinion, with as many people as you see fit. I have no problem with pornography, and while one could make the assertion that it obviously objectifies women, I’m not so sure of that - I think the way our culture perceives pornography is where the real objectification comes from. If America wasn’t so terrified of its own sexuality, I have a feeling the female form wouldn’t be so offensive. I think prostitution should be legal. I don’t think sex is the greatest gift you can give a man on his wedding night, no more so than a fun concert or rowdy football game could be considered a gift. I think sex can be absolutely mind bogglingly sacred between two people, but it doesn’t have to be.
This semester, I’m hoping to be able to focus those thoughts. I am a feminist, and if I choose to put my nude body in a magazine or down a pole, I am still a feminist. I want to talk to more people about this before I get back up on my sex pulpit here, however, because I think I’m barely scratching the surface.
And that, kids, is what I learned in school today.
I deleted the entry that was up here from last night, so don’t look wild-eyed at this screen and think you’ve gone crazy if you happened to have the misfortune of reading it. A number one rule for all online loggers: don’t write, publicly at least, while under the influence of several several mixtures of 7UP and whiskey. The point I was attempting to sloppily make in the drunk entry was this: we all have moments, while watching an old video or looking at old pictures, where we collectively wonder, “What if? What if everything had stayed the same?” Last night, I sat on a couch next to my ex-lover, rubbed his back while he leaned into my shoulder with familiar weight and we collectively thought, “What if?” But the night ended, and in the morning, we were strangers again.
