Sometimes I come back.
so it’s probably over now.
Sent 12:48 AM
Me: I think I’ve had my fill of disneyland for a long time
L: LOL it’s a small small world
Me: Its a big fat ppl world and they all have doublewide strollers
Sent 1:02 AM
Me: OMFG couple with matching crocs cellphone holder necklaces
Me: Don’t let me forget that for my blog
Sent 2:01 AM
Me: Back at hotel which has no food anywhere after midnight
Me: I’ve decided everything in cali south of la sucks
Me: And maybe north too
Me: My face is red; did I get a sunburn or am I just indignant?
L: Ur Irish
Me: Ah, ok, so both 
Homeless lady who smells like dog shit. Her bag has been stolen. Estimated value: $600. The officer explains that the contents need to be itemized; what was inside the bag costing $600? Clothes, blanket… oh, and some airline tickets.
Guy walks up to the counter clutching a blue folder tightly to his chest. He takes a deep breath, and announces, “Twenty to thirty calls a day”.
“To you?”.
“Yes!”.
Eventually the officer is able to extract from him that a woman won’t stop calling, and she fills up his answering machine if he’s not there. Well, what does she say? “She says she wants to talk to me”.
Oh, what was I doing at the police station, you ask? Filing a report because my bike was stolen on Christmas. Happy fucking holidays!
Did you ever drink Alizé? It’s a sweet concoction of cognac and fruitiness. I used to drink it all the time in college. Back when I lived in JP, I’d come home from school, stop at the liquor store on Centre St., and pick up my little bottle. I had three guy roommates at the time, and they all thought it was the most disgusting drink ever. Every guy thinks it’s disgusting. But that was fine, because they never drank my stash.
So I was in Ralphs the other day, and saw a bottle on the shelf. Wow, I haven’t had that in years, I’ll pick it up for Thanksgiving! One sip, and I almost spit it out, it was so syrupy and intense. But I drank the glass anyway (I’m drinking it now!) because it’s funny how even taste can bring you back in time.
Alizé is the cold of Boston. AOL dial-up on my old Gateway computer, and not being able to afford anything at Urban Outfitters. The aforementioned roommates who hated me, and wouldn’t let me turn the heat on. Smoking in the hallway, with my Armenian coffee, hogging the phone, and bitching about them loud enough to hear me. My boyfriend was B., but I was still missing J., and still calling K, and still wondering why D. tried to kill himself by jumping in front of the red line. They all dead-ended, didn’t they?
The past seems to be a subject I am most prolific writing about. Never the present, never the future. The present is never good enough, and the future is always blank. Maybe I idealize the past, but the future is blackness, and it always has been.
Friday mornings- the happiest weekday mornings because it’s almost over. You can forget your misgivings, and your desire to pack up your Hello Kitty desk accessories and run. You go to Starbucks on the way to allergy shots. Those days, you find yourself wandering a different kind of office and, every once in a while, doors pop open revealing scary grey cubicle worlds inside. Threatening you with their businessy pants and microwaved Lean Cuisines for lunch. Ah, what fluorescent hells which send you scurrying back to the safety of primary colors and peanut butter cups. The devils in the details.
Recollections of a young woman upon her return from visiting family in Western Massachusetts
Kevin vacuming the cat; I could watch that video all day. Crunchy towels. Bees nest in the basement, be careful going outside. Red Rose lasagna, and Pajer’s grinders. Friendly’s. Foliage in Vermont. Bash Bish Falls. Drive to NY with two ten-year-old boys in the car who know I “won’t put up with any shit” and will “turn this fucking car around”. Knightsville Dam. Ski lift and alpine slide. The Virgin Mary of East Springfield. Pictures of people who think they see baby jesus in the streaks on a magical window. Whiskey sours. BBQ chicken and cheesy potatoes at Auntie Lissa’s. Photo albums at my grandparent’s new condo. My mom: nothing but a pretty blue vase of ashes buried in the dry dirt? The rose headstone looks beautiful and I brought the flowers you like. Am I talking to nothing? Dad’s birthday. Marble cake, and the presidential debate. No need for a drinking game with this crowd. Lisa, come with me, he won’t ask me for the money if you’re there. Katie’s birthday too- Max’s Tavern, and it couldn’t have gone better. Number of times John Couger Mellancamp was heard on Rock 102: 4. Number of times it was “Jack and Diane”: 2. Ah, the big suburban grocery stores, with their wide aisles and superior variety of selections. Lots of fat people, and grown women in pajama bottoms. At least the men don’t wear Crocs here. One-way streets, and narrow roads. Every one’s car is a piece of shit. California doesn’t exist. G—– doesn’t exist. Boston never existed, I must have never left because nothing has ever changed.
Well, we shipped Picasa3. I promptly went home with bronchitis and a sinus infection, the former of which I am still battling because I can’t stop smoking. Don’t judge me. Actually, go ahead, people do it all the time. Anyway, I finally get to take the lid of my “secret projects” and show off my gallery of things you can make with this cool little app which has been a part of my life for 6 years.
Yeah, I do sit in a cube all day and, sometimes, I wonder how that happened to my life. But it’s not without its creative side and, even though I thought I was going to be a rock star when I grew up, for this I am thankful. Picasa was a good planet to land on.
