In the South

In the South, everything is a giant suburb, even downtown Birmingham. Public transportation is a joke; funding for Birmingham’s bus system is more like a sick prank that goes a little too far.

In the South there are still a few places you can smoke in. These are the ones we frequent. Waffle House is where we have wasted many calories and cigarettes bullshitting until three in the morning, possibly hung over, sometimes on the way to inebriation.

Addicts

I board the eastbound Madison bus, nauseated and hungover, my bones aching to just be home already so I can smoke weed with my boyfriend Dylan. There are only a few people on the bus: an elderly woman crumpled up on the handicapped bench, a middle-aged man dozing against the frosty window, and a group of supposed tourists sitting in the very back of the bus. After swiping my college-issued train card, I head to the back, where the seats platform like a little stage. In my hands is a bag of Taco Bell and a medium soda. On my back is a backpack filled with the clothes I’d worn and subsequently puked on the night before. After getting off the Metra train, I was ravenous, and while waiting for the bus, I’d had just enough time to scarf down one of two burritos. As the TexMex monstrosity settles in my stomach, I try not to think about drinking, or throwing up, or anything else that might induce throwing up. I remind myself about how, before I know it, I’ll be shoving my keys into the back door of my apartment.

I have no idea where this is going, but I already know it isn’t true.

In breaking news today, author Christine Langston was found in a hotel room with four teenage females. The victims were all reported to be fans of Langston’s best-selling book series Sauntering Down, as they all met Langston at a book signing held the day before.

Fiction will feed me better than poetry, any day.

“Poetry is like a bird; prose is like a potato.” -Billy Collins

Upon first seeing this quote, I was put off. But then I realized you can’t even compare birds and potatoes. You just can’t. Two different things, in two different spectrums. You can kill two birds with one stone, but you can’t kill a potato until you eat it. Or something like that. I’m not sure where this is going, really. This is me all doped up on DXM and expectorant, trying to kill time, and waiting on something to happen.

Some ranting and raving.

Since I got home I’ve been filled with an unbridled passion to talk about some things.

This semester feels strangely invigorating. I’m way overworked than previous semesters, but I’ve also never felt this urge to kick ass and take names. I can write fucking great shit like everyone else. I do have meaningful things to contribute in class. I am an awesome person to know, and I write interesting stuff. Or I’m a narcissist. Either way, I’m still figuring the shit out that I don’t quite have down.

1. Read more. A lot more. I wasted my time this summer. Because now that school has started and I’ll be reading 10+ novels this semester, all these great recommendations are just flooding in. So many afternoons I could have been sipping a sweaty tumbler of lemonade, lounging in my purple papasan, reading that Craig Ferguson novel, or Rant so I can figure out what the fuck everyone is talking about. For some reason I forget to seek out my immediate friends for book recommendations. I just need to start making a list now. There are so many books, and I want to read them ALL. But mostly because CRW so far has been filled with me missing really obvious shit to point out in class or annotate. I’ve always been slow at that, often needing to read things over a few times to really soak everything in. I’ve decided it’s because I’m embarrassingly under-read.
2. Write more. Which so far I’ve been following to an excellent standard. That is, writing when I usually play DS or surf the internet. I usually fill up one-and-a-half composition notebooks in a semester. Let’s see if I can make it to two.
3. Revise more. I’m really taking the “don’t shit out an assignment five hours before class” thing seriously this semester. I’m tired of reading my stuff aloud and having to correct my own typos or shitty syntax or skip over things that just suck. If my process dictates that I have to edit a hard copy of everything with an ink pen, then goddamn it free printing is officially taken advantage of.
4. Make some friends. I will when I turn 21… Actually I’ve been pretty goddamn jovial. I am a face of the fiction lab, after all. Gotta be nice to people. Use that sweet voice; you know, the one you use for calling customer service numbers or your family. Mine goes up a couple octaves and I tend to replace periods with giggles.
5. Expand story horizons. I’m mostly leaning on my two gen-ed classes to educate me in some new direction of plot elements. Forensics and Ancient European History, which I didn’t realize was my favorite until first class last week, since I’m too daft on history to immediately associate “Ancient European” with “Greek, Roman, Egyptian, etc.” Which are some of my favorite periods of time thanks to the mythology from each. Fuck yeah, Zeus. And then forensics will probably give me all these crazy science-y ideas. In addition to that, though, I should figure out some specific thing to immerse myself in every week. Oh wait, wikipedia has a random button…

Life realization of the weekend.

The problem with most people I meet: either I fall too in love with them, or they fall too in love with me.

(the realization is that the balance is what makes me truly happy)

Bearded rabbits.

I went to some music show that was being held in a huge warehouse out in the middle of nowhere. From what I remember I walked there, expecting to catch a ride home from someone. I don’t remember much of the show, just sitting outside in the parking lot afterwards, chainsmoking in a circle. Then I run into someone who I’ve had in a previous class (in real life) and we exchange the jubilant, “Oh hey! Didn’t think I’d see you here! What the fuck!” Then he starts telling me about this pet rabbit he recently got, showed me a picture on his phone, which is strange because in reality I’ve been considering getting a rabbit lately. Then I asked him if he could give me a ride home, and he sheepishly replies that he caught a ride with friends. I said that was cool, I didn’t want to impose, etc. After that he was suddenly back to his normal, distant self, and after awhile I excused myself and just walked home.

( This is the second dream about a previous classmate, both of them different people. Go to hell, subconscious. )

Browser remorse haiku

Chrome: awesome at first,
but then missed the sweet add-ons.
Returned to Firefox.

(fire is spoken as two syllables where I’m from, though.)

Putting dreams into words has never been easy.

Last night I dreamed about a huge snake trapped under a front porch deck that seemed to be attached to a gas station. Think a rattlesnake, but the size of a fucking python. My mom simply told me to get rid of it. I specifically remember an orange cat hanging around and getting  involved.

Some nights ago I dreamed about working at a crisp white catering place with nice but aloof people, and a long, white-haired boyfriend who met me after work every day to walk me back to my apartment. Completely fictional, but splendid.

At some point I had a nigthmare about a vicious, vampire-like creature stalking around an apartment complex that I seemed to be living in, leaving corpses disembowled from the waist up hanging on my shower door (because in this dream I possess a shower with a door). It never got caught.

And the best one: An ex, his sister, and I are running down an alley, away from some horrible apocalyptic plague that seems to be possessing people in town. We pass a back porch, and I catch this rhythmic thud. I see a dog trying to force its way out of this back porch, unable to get the screen door open. I open the screen door, and the dog darts happily out, sniffing at me inquisitively. I don’t see him as a threat, but I notice something lying on the porch stairs. I bend down to pick it up, and my shirt rides up. I feel the dog licking at the exposed skin. “What are you doing?” I ask the dog rhetorically, to which the dog responds, “Taking a chunk out of your side.” The last thing I feel is his teeth sinking into my hip.

I’m not really sure how I feel about sleeping anymore.

Do the robot.

Cough drops taste like sickness, but that doesn’t mean they don’t fill my mouth with warmth. Throat’s been sore most of the day, felt like I’ve had globs of sediment slowly oozing down those tubes that connect my nose to my esophagus.  But after 5 tablets of “Mucus Relief DM”, some Jello red triaminic spray, and a cough drop mixed with one cigarette, I’m feeling pretty good for someone about to get slapped in the face with The Crud ‘09. This is like the time I snorted that molly, but without the stinging and horrible sensation. There’s still some cork back up in there, making me regret swallowing ice tea. This is the worst high. You’re wired for a bit, and you know when you go to sleep–or really, you know you won’t wake up for a long fucking time. You’ll feel like you slept under a mattress–something heavy but not bone-crushing.

At any rate, there should be some awesome dreams tonight. And that may or may not be sarcastic.