stains

I don't know why, but it's always easiest to change my sheets in my underwear.  It's probably because it's easiest to change my sheets when I've just gotten out of the shower, that idea of being so clean, so fresh, with new clean sheets and a new clean self.  It's the perfect way to go to bed, even if your hair is still wet.
But today I'm only changing one of my sheets.  The flat sheet to the blue flannel set I wanted to put on got ripped in the dryer and I've only had them a month, so it's pretty lousy, but as they are solid colored, they will be easier to replace.  The fitted sheet that was on my bed, got pissed on.  Not because I was so retarded drunk that I pissed my own bed, like I've known many drunk people to do, but because my dog slept in a little too late this morning.  Yeah my dog pissed my bed.  And I didn't think to pretreat with my  Spray & Wash stick, because I didn't think it would stain, but I should know by now, that everything stains one way or another, either its all over your sheets or it's forever fixed in your memory.  And either way, it sucks.

on journalism....

    The first article I ever wrote for my journalism class in college was about eating healthy on campus. I let my roommate read it and she said she was surprised at how good it was.  She said it was funny and clever and informative.  She was older than me and normally one of my harshest critics so I was excited to turn it in and see what my professor thought.  I ended up getting a C, which was utterly disappointing.  She said that is was well written but lacked any real investigative reporting.  She said the information I provided was not new or interesting but merely stuff that most people on campus already knew.
     I was bummed, but have since learned that to really write something worth reading you need to dig for some good information, so imagine my disappointment when every time I read an article lately about eating healthy or going green I feel like I could have written the same exact one without any research at all.  Why does Laura Turner Seydel get to write articles about going green, when she is obviously already wealthy and I could do it much better? Why does Gigi Stewart get to write about going gluten free, when she couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know, and I still feel like I could tell her some things.  I don't even have a gluten allergy.  I don't think InTown Atlanta is that great of a newspaper, but if you think I didn't volunteer myself to write articles for them, for free already and get turned down, then you're wrong.  
     I have lots of opinions.  I'm full of useful information.  I'm not particularly good at spelling.  Why can't someone pay me to write things?

The 10 best songs you've never heard

1) Swans- the format

2) Exeter, Rhode Island- Jennifer O'Connor

3) Get Around-Pablo

4) Gone, Gone, Gone- John Ralston

5) Til It's Done to Death- John Nolan

6) Around the Bend-The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

7) People Have a Way- Matt Pond PA

8) Honk and Wave- Limbeck

9) The Sad Waltzes of Pietro Crespi- Owen

10) Kill Monsters in the Rain- Steel Train

brett

He drives a blue pick up truck.  It's not a Ford or a Chevy; it's a Nissan, and its bright blue, like the color of a gem you'd wear on a necklace.  It's a truck your brother would call gay, and your niece would call it a baby.  He doesn't remember the time you drove it though, so when he starts to tell you what it looks like to describe his house, you remind him.  And he still doesn't remember.

           He doesn't remember calling you frantically that night at 3 in the morning and leaving you a long message about how he was scared and cold, and needed a ride, or the text message he sent you that read "HELP ME!!!."  He sent it to you 4 times, before you called him back.  By that time he had found a ride and was waiting for some anti-drunk driving service that was willing to drive him and his truck to his house for more than your weekly paycheck.  You offered to go pick him up, so he'd stop complaining about the cold and so maybe you could get some sleep even if it wasn't in your own bed.
           You called him back on the way, so he could give you directions.  He wasn't very helpful, but you mostly knew where you were going.  He told you about his conversation with his other ride, the one he had to cancel.  They had already started in his direction when he called, now they'd have to turn around, all because of you.  He told them that he had a beautiful girl coming to pick him up instead, and they said "Lucky you," but weren't actually happy for him.  He probably doesn't remember calling you beautiful.  He probably didn't mean to do it, but it was pretty flattering at the time.
           When you got there he was waiting in his truck, playing music you had never heard before, some jam band, so loud that the bass made you think your phone might be vibrating, but no one else would call you at this hour.  He was parked in a shopping center, a dry cleaners and a sandwich shop that wouldn't open again for the next 5 hours.  There was no one else around, and all the store fronts were dark without their neon lights.  You understood why he was scared.  He didn't want to leave his truck there overnight, his beloved truck, with more than your cars blue book value in stereo equipment.  So you left your car there instead.  Your little Volvo 240 would be safe, where he was not.

You drove him and his truck to his house, where you had been just once before, but you found your way with little help from him.  The first time he called you and asked you to come over and snuggle was about a month after you met him.  A month after you lied to him at a bar and told him your name was Eden, because you were 19, and that is what your fake ID said.  You let him call you Eden for over a week before you told him you had lied.  It seemed so sketchy; you're still surprised he talked to you after that.  You're still saved in his phone as Ed, but he knows that's not your name.

He was the first boy you ever kissed who owned a house.  It was small and quaint, blue with darker blue shutters.  His living room then had just a couch and a TV, now it has another love seat and a chair, a fish tank in the corner.  He has two goldfish, but they don't have names.

When you got to his house this second time he wanted to listen to more Wide Spread Panic.  You went with him to his bedroom and got in bed. You took off your jeans but kept on everything else.  You got under his clean white sheets, under his thick fleece blanket.  It was five in the morning.  He told you what it was like to trip on acid, something you had never wondered about before then.  He told you how all his senses were heightened and when you started to run your fingers up and down his chest you thought he might explode with pleasure, but he didn't.  He just told you not to stop.  So you let your hand wander aimlessly over his body.  It was the least sexual touching you've ever done to a naked man.  He's still the smoothest boy you've ever known.

He was so happy you were there.  He told you so many times.  Every night you were there, all three of them, it was like he had been alone his whole life, like he hadn't touched a woman in years.  He seemed so happy to have you there that second night, it made you wonder why you never went back, not for a whole year.  He must have forgotten how good you felt between his sheets, just like he forgot calling you beautiful, and forgot you driving his truck.

You've seen him a few times in between but you never talked when you ran into each other at a bar.  He was with a girl sometimes, so you let left him alone.  So most of the time he just sent you a message when he was drunk, sometimes you would respond, and sometimes you wouldn't.   And you feel like such a booty call, but you never sleep with him, even though you want to, and he wants to.   But he never has a condom and you don't tell him that there is one in your purse, because you can't sleep with someone who only talks to you when he's been drinking.  Who you only really see twice a year.

And the last time you were there it was great.  You had a bad night and a bottle of cheap wine and then he sent you a message:  "Come over," so you did.  And he told you what his truck looks like, and gave you directions to his house.  The same house that you know just where is, and think of every time you pass his exit on your way to the airport.

You sat on the same couch and talked until he said he was tired.  His house was cold in early fall because his heater was broken.  He considered giving you a pair of his pajama pants when he noticed how cold you looked, but decided out loud that the less clothes you had on, the better.  So you got in his bed and under the covers with him to get warm, without your jeans and without your sweater.  You waited for him to get close, and your lips met his in a way that seemed so familiar, like you could have been lovers for years.  He told you he loved it when you bit his lip, and he peeled more and more clothes off until you were both naked with nothing to do.

Because you can't sleep with him until he meets your dog.  Not because you believe your dog is this wonderful judge of character, but because you have met his dogs.  All three of them and you know all of their names.  Charlie, Houser, and Trout.  Houser was just a puppy that first time you were there, and now he's big, or at least as big as a Basset Hound gets.  But he still thinks you have a Great Dane.  If he ever came over to your house, he would meet your dog, he'd know you had some sort of pointer mix, but he won't.  Because that would be him showing an interest in something other than your body, your face, your lips, and if he did that he might be worth sleeping with, but he won't.  So you don't have to worry.
           

oh NaNo...

Hannah was sleeping soundly in her bedroom at midnight of August 23^rd 2008.  She slept on the bottom bunk in the corner of her blue room.  She was snuggled deep into the covers, and she pulled them up to her ears, so her face was barely visible.  She did this because she had felt a cold breeze, and then almost as if it had been an alarm clock she woke up.  She sat perched on the edge of her bed and waited.  She didn’t have to wait very long, the cold breeze had been the beginning of what she knew must be coming.  And slowly the breeze got stronger, making what looked like a tiny little tornado in her room, but without moving any of her belongings or even moving her long brown hair.  Suddenly the wind stopped and a man appeared out of thin air into her bedroom.  He had on a mask, but Hannah could still tell that he was startled to see her waiting for him.  He was dressed all in black and had a number of funny gadgets that Hannah had never seen before.  “what are you doing up so late, Hannah?” 

Hannah didn’t seem surprised that he knew her name.  “I have to stop you.”   

The man seemed even more startled now, and he looked at Hannah through the tiny holes in his mask, like she was the most fearsome thing in the universe.  He stepped back from her, and she started to cry. 

“You can’t kill my father, you just can’t,” she said while sobbing. 

The man stared at her for only a moment, before he ran out of her bedroom door.    

bad writing....

....I promise there will be a good story in here somewhere.


Jessica woke up on Sunday morning confused.  The previous night was a blur of sipping and spilling drinks. As she opened her eyes she struggled decide at whose apartment she must have past out.  Her head was surprisingly ache free and she assumed she must still be drunk, but as she looked around the room she realized where she was.  She was not on a friend’s couch but instead in her old bedroom at her parents house.  She was horrified. How obnoxiously drunk must she have been for her friends to drop her off with her parents of all people at some ungodly hour of the morning?  She laid in bed thinking for awhile before she even noticed the calender.  

It had all started a few weeks back when Jessica ran into Trevor.  Trevor had been one of her many love interests in college, but it had never panned out the way it should have.  He was always going abroad or seeing someone else, and Jessica did her fair share of the same, but they both seemed to know it eventually would happen.  But it didn’t ever happen, and when she ran into Trevor just 17 days ago there was a sense of regret she had not expected.  Especially since it was the day after her long time boyfriend had proposed to her.  She was so excited to finally start her life with him, to see Trevor felt like a punch in the stomach.  He was nice, and just like she remembered and she tried so hard to suppress the feelings she felt rising up inside her.  She knew she couldn’t move forward in her life without at least entertaining the idea that she could be happy with Trevor, but no self respecting man, especially not her fiance would wait around for her to figure things out.  

She reached for her phone on her bedside table and was surprised to see it plugged in and charging.    She felt momentarily proud of her drunken for thought, but that feeling quickly evaporated as the confusion of why her phone had morphed from an iphone to an old nokia.  She picked up the phone; struggling to remember how to use it, she searched through her recent calls and text messages.  None of her friends from the night before showed up.  She searched through her contacts looking for someone to answer the questions racing through her head now.  She did not want to go talk to her parents with no recollection of the night before or how she ended up there.  But she seemed to be missing most of her friends from her contact list.  A feeling of dread sunk in as she noticed her most recent call was to Trevor at 11pm.  

Just then her mother knocked on the door, and pushed it open slightly.  “Jessica, It’s time to get up.  The race is in 45 minutes.”  “What race?”  She replied not even taking into account the fact that her mom didn’t seem at all surprised to see her.  “the turkey trot.  you know the one we go to every thanksgiving since you were about 10.”   Jessica stared at her blankly not putting any of the pieces together.  “I think you had too much to drink last night, I know the night before thanksgiving is the best night to go out and see your friends but you should have maybe had a few less.  I think you’re still drunk.  who drove you home last night?”  Jessica thought her mom was right about still being drunk but she also thought she must not be understanding her correctly.  “It’s thanksgiving?” was all she came up with.  “yes It’s thanksgiving.   hurry up and get dressed so we can run this race.  I’ll even let you go back to bed afterwards.”  Her mom left and shut the door behind her, leaving her more confused than ever.  She looked at her phone and remembered in college how she had one just like it.  She got up and out from under the covers and realized she was in her favorite pajama bottoms and a long sleeve t-shirt she got from a race in high school.  She searched her bedroom for her clothes from the night before.  She had been wearing striped shorts and a tank top.  She had carried her new pink lesportsac.  She couldn’t find any of it.  She looked at her phone again.  It said the date was Thursday November 28th.  She turned to the calender above her desk, where her laptop sat covered in stickers.  It showed the picture for October but the year was 2007.  
She had no idea what was going on but as her mother yelled again to hurry up, she grabbed a sports bra and shorts from her closet and got dressed to run the turkey trot.  

The race seemed like a dream to her.  She saw all the same people she always saw on thanksgiving day, but they seemed more familiar than ever.  her eyes were drawn to Mr. Blake’s large hat that was shaped like a turkey, and as soon as she saw it she thought “not again” but everyone else seemed to be seeing it for the first time.  She ran the race, determined to finish as soon as possible so she could go back to bed, but her legs seemed to refuse her.  She still got third place in her age group.   

Her mom lectured her on the way home, “I know you’re tired, but I don’t really get your attitude right now?”  “I’m sorry, mom”  “you know when you go back to school,”  Jessica imagined she was a dog and her ears perked up.  she had graduated several years ago, was she talking about grad school? “if you want your dad to keep putting five hundred in a month, I think you need to act a little more like we’re your parents.”  Jessica just stared blankly back at her mother.  She hadn’t gotten an allowance since junior year.  

old friends

When I was in high school I told people that if they stopped being friends with me they would get fat.  I don't remember what friend it was that did this, or who I threatened with this power the most.  But I remember the theory now because, in the past two years all of the people that fall out of friendship with me seem to gain a lot of weight.  And in high school when I claimed it as my power, it was a means of revenge.  But now I just feel guilty.