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Don't ever watch a "romantic comedy" with your boyfriend who's on the sofa wearing holey pants (and that shirt you'll toss one day when he's away), chomping chips, because you're never gonna want to set eyes on his face (or any part of him) when the movie ends. If he's lucky, you won't hate him for not being carefully disheveled like John Cusack or for not planning rooftop candlelight dinners or serving breakfast in bed (complete with burnt toast). All the things you "hate" and pantomime cringing over when he laughs at them in movies – but that you secretly desire.
Hello, ugly fat girl on 24th Street with the pink bandana thrown around your unwashed blond hair. Stop pretending to be cool about your fatness and your waddle. Stop pretending you're confident in and about your body. Stop pretending the pint of orange juice you pulled from a rumpled brown paper bag is the only thing you're having for lunch or the entire day. Stop pretending you wouldn't trade your lumpy lard for silken svelteness if granted a wish. Just guzzle your juice publicly and then gobble that huge candy bar (hidden in your backpack) in the ladies room, alone.
I hope that the health problem that you hope is "nothing" turns out to be quite something. I hope it spreads to every organ of your body, every twisty turny intestine, every bit of stomach and pancreas and spleen and liver. And don't forget the gall bladder. I hope whatever it is isn't just a benign tumor or growth. I hope it's malignant. I hope it's spreading. I hope it eats every part of your body and that you waste away to nothing. But I wish you a slow death. Agony and pain and suffering. For you AND your family.
Tonight I hate everyone with few exceptions and just want to tell them what I think of them, no holds barred, nothing held back, nothing censored or so-called sugar-coated or in any way sanitized or cleaned up for better ratings. No, tonight I want to tell people the fuck off, on, up, down, in, and out. I want to yell in their faces, quite possibly punch them there too, and tell them all to just "shape up or ship out" and then realize, later, that that was a really retarded thing to say but still happy that I punched them.
Excuse me, madame, but I was just across the street and happened to peak into your living room (or is it a library?). I adore the deep, warm colors and the plush velvety burgundy sofa. I have always wanted a room exactly like it. So may I please come inside for just ten minutes and have a little look around? You can go about your evening however you ordinarily do; I promise I won't be a bother. I just want to sink into my dream sofa and imagine what it would be like to be so fortunate. So, may I?
On my list of things to do today, I had the following: Dry cleaner; manicure; lightbulbs, paper towel, straws, lemonade, popcorn, Diet Coke, coffee; actively hate every snooty humorless bitch in SoHo. I forgot to pick up the clothes at the cleaners (but I didn't need them until next week anyway). Bit all of my nails until they were too embarrassing to expose to a manicurist. Spent all of my money in Banana Republic (more black pants!) instead of on groceries. But as luck would have it, BR was in SoHo, so I at least accomplished one of my goals.
Dear thirty-something dark-haired guy in the bright yellow, large armhole tank top who keeps seriously checking out your own abs in the mirror and strutting around as if you're the king (or perhaps the queen) of not just this gym but all the gyms in all the land and who can't even deign to break a smile as you make the biggest jackass out of yourself with that huge, broad weight belt cinched around your waist so tightly that Scarlett O'Hara would have been green with envy: You are going bald. I'm on the mezzanine above you and can see!
When the phone rings, you don't have to pick it up. You can ignore it, yell at it, and tell it to shut up. You can mimic its ring, and, if you have Caller ID, you can mimic the caller's voice. Badly. You can call that person disgusting or amusing names that you wouldn't necessarily say to his face but that thrill you because you're at home, in your floppy old pajamas, hair unbrushed, while he's standing on a corner two blocks away, calling to see if you want to join him somewhere you know you'd hate. So don't answer.
Ladies, when eating in a restaurant, please note that I'm watching what you order. You should know that I know that although you are eating a platter of steamed greens and a particularly orange sweet potato (and not even finishing anything), you will be jamming everything in sight down your throat once you get home, where no one but you (and I) know that you have boxes of Snackwells and cartons of frozen yogurt and all other manner of fat-free this and that. So why don't you just knock it off and order what you really want from the menu?
He has no idea who you are except for what he reads on your website, and he sends you email with no introduction as to who he is or why he's writing. So why do you answer it at all, especially when it's not interesting in the least, and each successive message is even less interesting than the one that preceded it? Is it because you think he may secretly be connected to someone in the publishing world, and he's "testing" you to see if he likes you enough to publish a book of your work? Yes. Yes it is.
Now that I know you, I can't imagine ever not knowing you. How strange it is to think that last December, and even six months ago, I didn't even know you existed. I didn't know you breathed, you ate, drank, slept, and ran around town like an idiot with your friends. I didn't know your eyes, your face, your smile. Your walk. I didn't know your laugh or your voice. I didn't know you, so of course I didn't know what I was missing, but now that I know you I know I'll never have to not know you again.
So of course in the movies it always winds up that the boy and girl who are "just friends", and who have been just friends forever, go through some sort of crisis where they both, individually, pine for some obnoxious cretin who basically doesn't even know they exist (figuratively) and who doesn't deserve their attention anyway. So it turns out that the boy (so handsome!) and girl (so beautiful!) eventually realize they're in love with each other and probably have been for some time. But in real life the girl realized it months ago. And the boy? He never will.
You're not John Cusack and I'm not whatever "ingenue" they're pushing this year. We're better, actually, and our real life banter much wittier than anything I've heard in sappy romantic comedies at I watched, alone, on my sofa, and allow to manipulate me into thinking that's the way things really could be. I try to convince myself it's all just movie "magic" that really doesn't exist. But why, then, on Third Avenue, somewhere in the 70s, do I see it in that beautiful young couple? And why must I pray with all my might that it won't last for them?
The best way to get my attention is to not try to get it. The "clown" who keeps glancing at me to see if I'm noticing him while he talks loudly to his circle of cohorts is the one I want to avoid. The quiet handsome guy standing in the corner holding a drink, laughing to himself, playing with a snack bowl on the edge of the buffet table, is the one I want to know. The one who isn't trying hard to get me to notice him. The one who probably doesn't even know I want to know him.
If everyone would just be honest with themselves and knock off trying to be good and magnanimous and in the so-called holiday spirit, they would realize that the entire undertaking of the season is absolute bullshit and then freely admit it instead of running around like crazy to schlocky, crowded stores they detest to buy presents that they don't care about for people who will probably return them anyway. No one wants to do the gift thing, really, but no one has the guts or balls to say it. What a bunch of fucking losers, buying into the whole charade.
I'm hostage to UPS and the package that I'm eagerly awaiting. (It's a scanner.) Today I put my life on hold, thinking the damned thing would be delivered within the timeframe indicated on the front of the InfoNotice I received yesterday when I missed the first delivery attempt, but as of 6:04 this evening I'm still waiting. My life is still on hold. I am living for this delivery. But I'm secretly thankful that it held me hostage all day so I didn't have to go outside and actively participate in life outside my apartment. Thank you, UPS! Happy holidays!
The key turns in the front door lock and her shoulders hunch toward her ears, shuddering shudder in recognition of the end of her daytime solitude. Her fantasy of living alone in the fabulous apartment, a hip ‘n' swingin' girl about town who can go out with any boy any night and stay out as long as she wants, is instantly replaced by the reality that she lives with an old man in this apartment and can only go out with boys once in a while in carefully doled-out portions rather than indulge in the salacious smorgasbord that she desires.
I don't care what your situation or story is, or what you problem or issue is, or what your concern or proposal is. I just don't care. How do I impress upon you that no matter what it is that you feel is so important that you must bore me with it ... I just don't care. I don't care about your family, I don't care about your job, I don't care about your health problems. You speak, and I can barely even pretend to listen. I just want to respond long enough to say, "I don't care." And then flee.
When something you originally intended to be fun turns into something that you dread, you know it's time to give it up or at least try to inject more fun back into it so you don't give up entirely. As soon as you start to regard the activity as an obligation or chore, that's when everything goes downhill. You procrastinate. You make up excuses. You do everything (anything!) else, if only to avoid the dreaded obligation. Then when you get around to doing it, you think maybe it won't be so bad. But you're only kidding yourself. It still sucks!
Oh god, not another pseudo-sensitive person on the internet with a pallid poem to present to the world. I suppose I have to be the one to tell you: Your poem stinks, honey, I don't care what anyone else tells you. Encouraging you to commit that drivel to a permanent form or forum should be cause for arrest and incarceration. Your poetry rhymes. Your symbolism is trite. (Symbolism, anyway. Oh please.) It stinks, it does, oh don't you know? I hate it, yes, I hate it so. And you, my dear, I do detest. So give the poetry a rest.
Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. Enough. You hear me?
I'm done with trying to do "cute" things to make him like me. I'm done with trying to impress him. Why do I always feel like I have to be the one to make "cute" advances and the one to impress someone rather than the other way around? I can't stand it. HE should be the one clamoring for my attention. HE should be the one who falls all over himself trying to get me to notice him. And you know what? Starting right now, I am over it. If he wants me at all, let him come to me.
After you decide that you're no longer going to let daydreams of someone else occupy a place in your mind anymore, and you realize that you've wasted enough time allowing those thoughts to squat there in the first place, you almost want to slap yourself on the side of the head or beat your head against a wall for allowing it in the first place. After you make this decision, you wonder why you ever allowed the obsession to take such a big chunk out of your life and why you ever allowed it to be born, let alone breathe.
I wonder how many people doing this 100 Words thing tonight will write about Christmas Eve and inject into it trite, sappy sentimentality. How many of them will write about friends and family and home and hearth, and the "true meaning of Christmas", when all they're really thinking about is how much money they just spent on obligatory gifts and all other manner of material bullshit that they are now, tonight, in 100 Words, pretending to realize isn't what the "holiday" is all about after all. (And of course they'll pretend that 100 words aren't enough to express their love.)
You invite commentary on your "blog", but when someone says something that's contrary to all of the other sycophantic ass-kissing left by those would think you'll adore them because they say they adore you, you and your legion of blind and faithful followers immediately put up your shields for a battle that the naysayer has no intention of starting or waging. All that person is saying is that she doesn't agree with what everyone else is saying. You should be happy that someone is being honest. And if you were honest with yourself, you would allow that. And welcome it.
Oh look. It's your new baby boy. He's on his back on a blue "blankie". And look, he's giggling. And his eyes are shining. And his little balled-up hands are so tiny. And his skin is perfection. And if I look very closely I can see in his big brown eyes the terror that he'll try desperately to convey to you as you shake him really really hard one rainy morning because he won't stop crying and howling and wailing because you, you shameful sack of inhuman flesh, were too lazy to go out and buy a box of diapers.
What will happen, careful lady, if you allow yourself to let go and drag your paint brush heavily against the canvas instead of delicately dabbing it with all the temerity of a reluctant virgin? What will happen if you paint from your soul instead of from your head, if you create from a place that is deeper than the surface that you show to the world, the surface that you tell yourself is as deep as you can go? What happens if you give up the soft pastel for the greasy crayon, and color outside the lines? Do you disappear?
That couple laughing and holding hands and kissing in the cold afternoon air. That couple, red-nosed and laughing, huddled together as they take their dog for a walk, clutching hot coffee cups in their gloved hands (actually, she's wearing mittens). That couple with the newspaper crossing through the park on their way home to grilled cheese and tomato soup. That red-cheeked girl in the chunky striped sweater running home with stuff to make dinner for her new boyfriend tonight. I hate them all. Or at least I say I do. I hate them all because I'm not one of them.
I hate when people say, "Just kidding!" after they insult someone else. There always seems to be a kernel of truth to the supposed joke, so the backpedal of "just kidding!" is really the insulter's way of making sure he doesn't come off as a dick who would purposely hurt the other person's feelings. When all along that was his intent. Even if he pretends it wasn't. So then the person who was just insulted has to wonder: just how big was that kernel of truth? And was there just one kernel, or enough for an entire ear of corn?
Tomorrow's the big day. Or at least to many people it is. A time for them to do, one last time, the things they resolve they won't do in the coming year. The last time they'll eat sweets or drink excessively. The last time they'll be slobs around the house. The last time they won't go to the gym five days a week. So they'll eat Snickers, drink a fifth of vodka, throw their socks on the floor, and roll around on the sofa all day in defiance of the asinine resolutions they know they're not going to keep anyway.
When it rains, you are to drop everything you're doing and find the nearest place to take a nap. It's always nice if there's a skylight so you can hear it on the glass and see it too. At least until you fall asleep, that is. It's always nice if there's a ridiculously comfortable bed to nap in, with covers to pull up to your neck and bury underneath. However, failing that, it's all right to just find a corner in a file room somewhere and ignore the world as you drift off into a rainy nap. Adios, 100 Words.
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