Hi Vin, it’s Anoush again. Just so you know that last thing i said wasn’t an insult. it was more like a “YEAH this is how i feel” kinda thing, i don’t know. Ok. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you, bye.
Archive for August, 2008
Hi Vin, it’s Anoush. I know we said we might go into the city tonight, and that we should try to live (well, I should) but now that I think about it, I don’t have a lot of money for the city AND i’m exhausted cause I was out til 4 drinking last night – weird – and I feel like if i really wanted to look into my heart and figure out what I want to do tonight, It would be to probably stay in or stay local and possibly fall asleep early. I am working in the morning tomorrow and … wait a minute, You’re a normal person who doesn’t really care about all these things/stuff because you don’t over-think everything. Ok, great, awesome. So, Yeah I’ve decided and i woke up at a time too normal for someone who saw dawn last night. So I’m going to say no. Also, if you could get back to me with your thoughts and input on what it means to be 24 and the surfacey pressures of living life to the fullest. i’d appreciate it. K, Love you, bye.
There’s something special and cute about waking up at 5am and just laying on your back and… NO. NO! It’s Horrible. Horrible waking up at 5 and wondering about all different possibilities of a situation, or a dozen situations, while occasionally enjoying a tweet of an early morning bird (that was nice, though. The tweet was nice) is NOT something to do. NOTHING I’d recommend to my family or friends I really like. I waste energy on NOT even trying to enjoy the early morning. Like, ya know, make the best of it and all that. Appreciate, yeah, appreciate the world, the nature, grass and morning dew of it all. Instead, depleting the energy sack I’ll need when the real day actually begins. I’m thinking about being out of here, whether it’s today or the next five years, or what.
Thinking about Moonstruck. I’ll also entertain the idea of… th…that. Then I”ll think about Peggy-Sue and Kathleen Turner. Then I’ll tell myself to stop. Just STOP. C’mon, Jeez. Then I’ll think about Margaret Cho and her vagina.
One of the lines that struck me from that movie (not Moonstruck, not Peggy-Sue, not Cho-woman) was “Not all of us can afford romance.” I want to afford it. I want to swim in it – drink it (before I swim in it.) Everything is fear. Romance wrinkling up, lives being worthless, waistlines lengthening. Fear of cuteness/shyness stretching out into some large, gummy elastic of hair loss and bad teeth and absolutely nothing published or…done… to make up for it. The fears do not paralyze but they’re there. In the meantime, I’ll work ‘cause my state of mind doesn’t grow on trees.
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Things I want to do to small groups of people who gaze at the sky at night. Right as they point up and say, “Look, it’s Polaris” or “Look it’s Venus”:
*I push them so they fall on their sides, and I go: “Heh Heh that’s a curb, not Polaris.”
But that’s mean and unwelcoming. Especially if I want to be invited back again.
It’s not an unmotherly devil that lives inside me – just an impatient one. I stand in line, or I lay in bed and the sound of screaming/crying and complaining – re: ages 4and up – make me want to shake the children til they lose consciousness and fall asleep. Shake them til saliva dribbles out of their uhhhh-looking mouths. Everything I’m angry about and every hunger in my bones channels through my arms as I shake them to quiet. I dislike parents (foreign parents) who now live in the states and let their kids get away with this loud dumbness because this land is about FREEEEEEEDOM of speech :::giggle, giggle::: But aren’t they cute? No. No, they’re not cute. They’re up at 7 am and in the backyard yelling about whose turn it is to use the scooter and the smart relative who said “Hey kids, it’s early. Why not have some cereal and watch some Pink Panther or Flintstone episodes…” is dead now and worshipped and the parents are like; We’ll take it from here, thanks!
Is there such thing as a real life Chocolat-Juliet-Binoche character? Could that exist? And I don’t even mean the whole mystical, “I’m gonna solve your difficulty with magical food” thing ’cause I know THAT doesn’t exist. Not that I’d want it to.
I mean as a woman. Could a woman be so alive and in love with baking AND taste her own work AND be so charming and beautiful AND so smart? Could she also save a town and bring up a daughter who respects her? Named Anouk? Could she also gain the interest of a folksy Johnny Deppish character who is years younger than her? I wish she existed. I’d pretend I wasn’t an adult for a moment and cuddle with her under a blanket and look up to see a remarkable neck and jaw line, which even with age would continue looking graceful and swan-like. I’d tell her everything and when she gets tired of listening she’d tell me to Shhh and I’d be like, Anything for you. I’ll Shhh as long as you want me to. She’d get annoyed that I don’t like chocolate, but she’ll get over it. Or she’ll see that it’s a result of some psychological dilemma or fear and she won’t try to fix it.
Then I realize I haven’t grown up yet. I don’t want a mother – I want a role model. One that dances (well) to the folk music not to impress anyone or have that “what, you don’t think I got any rhythm” attitude. She’d just do it ’cause she knows herself SO well. Ever inch of her low V-neck blouse, coming in at the waist. Dancing til her nose gets runny and skin glistens (it’s night time). I wouldn’t roll my eyes at that. I wouldn’t.
And I’m researching each of these people on this list I made after reading Article 1, 2, and 3. Not to be a knowing things whore – just so I know. And so far: Fascinating.
Something happened. I heard a spunky comedian get up and talk about how hard it is to be a chick. And I go, um, yes. But if you’re making this part of your bit, um, please talk about something else. Or put a modern spin on it – one that doesn’t involve your bra + a match.
Don’t men have their own shit to deal with? I think, i think, i think what’s REALLY going on here is that men can get away with much more and it often annoys the gentle sex. (Novels have been written about this, so I will not go on. Or find a women’s studies professor family friend and get a few drinks in her. She’ll tell you ALL about it.)
On a bad day, this is what I’ll let myself think: A tall, lanky male writer with a big nose and ugly face will do better than a short, frizzy funny girl with an impeccable sense of humor, which often gets mistaken for swarming bees of cynicism. “Oh, she’s funny, but she’s ugly funny. So if it’s a swing and a hit, it’s knee-slapworthy. If it’s a miss, uh ohhh, she’s angry about some’um.” (Probably stemming from some kind of resentment about her looks.) This is just what I think OTHER people might think if they DO think about it, or even spend the brain power, ’cause it’s unnecessary and quite the headache.
*And women CAN be funny. I’m being funny right now – i’m being incredibly funny – you just don’t realize. Just put a little ice on it – it’ll be fine by tomorrow.
It’s not a big issue. It’s not pressing. I don’t wake up to my alarm clock in a “don’t Wake Daddy” gesture thinking, “OH THE OPPRESSION!” It’s only there if you want it to be… unless you wanna do a bad stand up routine. Imagine the progress we’d make if some of you just shhhhhhhhh’ed up now and then. Not that I don’t want to hear it. But if you’re gonna open a can of worms, use one of those heavy duty openers. Not your fingah nail.