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i hate this feeling that i have right now, it's killing me and i want sleep. My bed within reach is painfully tempting me to go have a minute snore but i can't. WORK, STUDY HARDER! i absolutely loathe my homework planner at this moment. it's crammed with la tarea for spanish and english and AP Bio. i'm like so what. who cares about grades who cares about college but i find my crumpled AP US quiz and i stop breathing for a minute or two. i close my eyes for a second, a nanosecond, then i start snoozing. dammit.
the story of a 10cm roach i encountered in the girls' bathroom on the first floor right next to the entrance office where the lady sits and smiles and says good morning to me everyday.
START. light on. WHAT THE HELL? light off. go out. nudge door open just a tiny crack. light on. i really have to go. check roach, still in upper right hand corner. i really gotta go. sigh... flushhhHhh! check roach. wash hands. glare at roach. creep towards hand dryer. whiiiiiiiiiin. and all of a sudden in a flash
scuttledropscuttleflyATTACK! and i'm out of there like that.
so i was thinking, as i was typing away my 100 words, what if there's life within the black boxes of my computer
keyboard? rows and columns of black smoky factories filled with alphabets and numbers and bosses such as Mr.Backspace and Dr.Control. the 'p's and 'q's are twins separated by the lines of factories scattered along the Keyboard City, given birth by Mommy Shift and Daddy Shift, divorced long before Instant Messaging was invented. the letters and numbers wait to get called out, one by one, to be printed in the newspaper or posted on an online blog.
when the world turns grey, i see a light. a pink light that cuts through the atmostphere and shoots off to another place, in a flash. it makes me think of an arrow bursting into the air and falling back down, back to zero, the mud. Gravity. it strains me from what i really want to do, when i want to. the lightening, it stimulates my mind and i go crazy, but only just. then i come back down, the muddy mud, and i'm drowning again, searching for my savior steamship. it's not here yet, i'm waiting, and still gagging.
So the mud is muddy and it's filling my mouth with muddier gunk and it's gross but it's life so i'm starting to feel okay with it. now that's a step. well i really want a lovely pair of wellies so i can stand in the mud all day and not worry about my Vans becoming shitty shitty brown or have my socks shrivel up into a dead mouse. i won't like that. the wellies will be my new best friend and i want frogs on them, you see, because then i can jump around and be a little kid.
i think i'm weird. i also think i'm boring. weioring. i can't talk properly to strangers, and even if i do know them, i can't think of a single thing to say. something interesting. it's just not possible for me and i make excuses for myself, repeating i'm more a writer than a speaker. which is true, btw. i stand alone and i don't feel left out, but that i'm choosing to stay out and clear. my choice. because i'm scared of saying something wrong or ruining the moment, or i really don't know what to say. i'm think slow.
and since i can't generalize, i end up continuing on this next day. i think i'm too soft on myself. but i was exaggerating, i do talk. i talk to people i want to talk to and that's just fine. it's fun! and i'm used to dead silences, i even like them. i'm not a celebrity bursting with zing, and i don't want to be one. not that there is a possiblity of me becoming one. now i end this blabba with my little opinion that i should be me. so what if i'm a weiore? i'm cool like that.
i wonder what i'd be like if i hadn't gone to newyork or london or hongkong. i'd be just another japanese girl with brown hair and loose socks and mini uniform skirts. i'd wear too much make up and go clubbing at midnight and skip school. i'd try to learn english and fail miserably, diss the ugly teachers who piss me off and do anything to look exactly like everyone else. conformity is everywhere. would i really? i think about this kinda stuff and worry that i don't belong in this niche in which i landed.
it's not my fault.
imagine a day when you can become invisble. no one can see you, but can feel, smell and hear you. you walk down the street, swift and sound as a feather falling from the sky and you glide. you don't have to please anyone and you can be yourself, doing what you normally think you cannot do. becaue it's against the society's Law. on that day you can go see a movie for free, enjoy giving a mini heart attack to your parents by 'running away' and just see what life would be like if you didn't exist at all.
pimples dot your face like little splats of paint, making you look ugly. uglyuglyfreakface. even worse if you have one humongo zit sitting dead smack in the center of your nose and you're Rudolf. some people have a whole galaxy of acne, speckled with the Big Dipper gleaming like diamond in the red of the Milky Way. it's interesting when somebody with long bangs suddenly has to tie her hair up in a bunch because of a chem lab or something, and you detect a bitsy blemish hiding underneath the curtin. it's like a whole new world. you discovered America.
i smell something in the air and it's not thanksgiving turkey or anything nice like that. i smell alcohol. at freaking 7:28 AM in the packed piece of shit i call the public bus. when i get on there are absolutely no seats for me to sit in, but two lines of worn out business men standing, or drooping, along the already taken seats. some of them salarymen sleep standing up, some eye the highschool gal text messaging in the seat, some glare at the evil elementary kids jabbing at our thighs with their rock-hard shiny backpacks and i stand.
i'm squished between the smelly salarymen and i do not breathe. only a few times when i feel like i don't have enough oxygen in my blood, i take a quick breath through my mouth. i wish i could do respiration through my ears. inhale from the right ear, exhale out of the left. no problemo. the dude next to me drank quite a bit last night and Everyone on the bus could tell. and yet again not since all of the salarymen smell like that. at least to Me. i start a little mantra inside my head saying pleasehelpmepleasehelpmepleasehelpmeifthereisaGod.
scary things scare me.
like the time when my friend showed me an email she got from her boyfriend that i didn't think would be too frightening. she opens it and there's a creepy landscape with a caption above it saying that the picture takes some time to load, so please keep staring at the picture because or else you wouldn't get it. so i did and i should've known, the picture's already loaded, wtf?
then i see it. the white ghost of a girl WHOOSHES out of nowhere and it's gone in a second. i now have a trauma.
look what i found. Page 82 Last Paragraph Analysis. a song too.
"Lemon tree, very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, But the fruit of the lemon is impossible to eat." i remember now, i did an analysis on the book
The Things They Carried
and i found a random song with the title "the Lemon Song" that the Jensen guy sings when Curt Lemon gets blasted up by a booby-trapped 105 round. poor guy. and i thought it was funny how his friend sings while he throws the bits and pieces of Lemon's body down from the tree.
Angelwoman, would I ever be able to sing just like you? Like candy floss your voice rings and people turn, expecting to see a dazzling owner of that sweet melody, only they see a raggedy woman standing there on the sidewalk with a shameful, shabby shoe and then you plead with your eyes and that's what you do every night, Angelwoman, you sing and cradle your baby and weigh the tin box every once in a while although you already know exactly how many pennies are in there.
Then one night you looked so lonely and where was your baby?
Angelwoman, you scuttled towards the people passing you by and you talked to them, you walked with them, you shook them a bit with the maple leaves you call hands. But they only brushed you off like you were some creepy maggot crawling in their hair and you crumpled right there in the middle of the sidewalk where you got stepped on and trampled over by bulky baby buggies and you looked like you wanted to snatch one of those little ones sucking their thumbs but you didn't, you spotted me instead. Watching behind the steamy glass walls of Starbucks.
Then there was a tear desperately clinging on to the corner of your left eye but you couldn't stop it, it tumbled down your scarred cheek and left a grey trail when it splashed on to the pavement below. I remember pressing some spare coins into your palm and lifting the corners of my mouth a bit, attempting to make you feel a bit better. And you did, didn't you, since you slowly slapped a silent smile on your face and oh my you looked so beautiful. Glossy eyes and chewed-up lips and straight teeth white as an angel's wings.
There's a lullaby that I heard long ago
The name or tune I cannot recall
This lullaby is not the usual lullaby
Like the one you used to hear
Before you went to bed
And got a kiss from your mommy
Be brave, it sings
You know you love him.
Maybe it's just my imagination
That I made it up long ago while I daydreamed
But it's there, somewhere
And it sticks in my mind, a broken record
It steals my thoughts & sings them away, away
Hoping you'll pick them up
One by one
Carefully, with your shaking hands.
Carving pumpkins was the easy bit. We finally finished tarting up after grabbing this lipstick and that eye-liner and poking our eyes out using mascara. Some of us looked like something out of a horror movie with dark rings around their eyes and killer-red lips, which was the impression they were going for, I guess. I, on the other hand, was Superwoman. My hands smelt of raw pumpkin. What kind of Superwoman has pumpkin hands? I told her we shouldn't have carved them until later. She didn't listen though, did she? Her being the birthday girl, and a selfish brat.
what did i say about her being a selfish brat? she pushed a kid to the side just so she could get the king-size Snickers bar. Okay, i did that too but he was taller than me. Homer Simpson was jostling me in the first place anyway and all i got were measly M&M's. they didn't even have peanuts inside! the houses we went over to mostly belonged to ancient Grannies who wanted us to be "healty so you could look like us when you become old!" har har har. i don't want to look like you, i want candy.
here's something interesting i bet you didn't know about me. i used to believe in Santa Clause until the Christmas 2 years back. this is my story. it's quite sad, yeah.
it used to be whiteness, light as feathers that stung my rosy cheeks
a jumbled harmony of kids caroling on the doorstep
the sweetness of that French log cake sprinkled with powdery stuff
the aroma ofa pine tree wearing angels and a star on top
and dreams i would dream of Mister Santa Claus
stuck in my chimney,
leaving a carefully wrapped box.
is this really what Christmas is?
come 2 Christmases back, the 23rd of the last month
shelves upon shelves of treasures kids adore
in Dad's hands, a pair of rollerblades
then Bang go the Citibank and Toys R Us cards,
slammed against the counter top.
come the 25th of the last month
my sock so lonely
too old, Mom says.
joyous yelps clog my ears
my little brother
clutching a carefully wrapped box
a pair of rollerblades, so familiar
with it a card, the last line reading
Merry Xmas, From Santa
there never was a Mister Santa Claus.
never. never never stinking ever.
it is a week or two free of stress and work
a moment of nostalgia for childhood
of knowing there is no way back to the times
when i still believed in Mister Santa Claus.
the trees dress up and the children sing on the fluttering snow blankets the back yard
the snowmen dance and the angels take wing
but there's nothing to look forward to.
so empty as remains my sock
my dream crushed, shattered, betrayed
and all that remains is the French log cake,
its aftertaste not too sugary on my tongue
This is what Christmas really is.
the train slides into platform number 5, shoving an aggressive wind on to my face, ruffling my hair. i force my eyes shut. when i snap them open, a hot pink balloon shoots out of her hand like an eagle. up and up and up. weightless, fearless. the little girl weraing a star-studded hair tie reaches out, "AH!" up and up. determined, hopeful. the blob, now the size of a chicken egg, clashes vividly and outrageously against the spray-painted blue above. everyone stands, transfixed by the contrasting colors, then shuffles forward to pack themselves into the train.
up. and gone.
Miki jumps to the right of the line.
Miki jumps to the left of the line.
back and forth she goes, bounding and leaping over the snaky wire of black. they march on and on from all the way here to all the way there. a continuous line of parading ants, stretching around that tree and under the swings. they swarm around the half-eaten Mars bar, taking bits and pieces back towards their quarters three feet down.
then Miki steps on top of the line.
a mad scrample. Panic. Anger.
their silent voices explode and all you see is turmoil.
they start moving at high-speed when the music hammers the speakers, going boom boom booom on the squeaking floor. up, down, all around and they do funky things like turnin' over and flippin' and makin' swirls. they meet other pairs and they all groove in synchronization, skipping, soaring, full of youth. battering the dance floor, they wiggle rhythmically, right up to the beat. when a slow melody pours from the amplifiers, they suddenly pause and scuffle timidly towards another pair. they glide into a mirrored pattern, a bit graceless and clumsy at first, but the next moment, closer together, one.
the milk tooth popped right out and it rolled and rolled. it stopped by a tiny, tiny bud smothered nder the car exhaust. the boy scanned the road with his laser-beam eyes and found a bud. and his tooth right beside it.
he said his thanks to the bud and walked home, alone. from then on he stopped by the baby flower, even though the Tooth Fairy decided not to collect his tooth. it's alright, he thought. there's always a next time. and he remembered that his mommy went away two weeks ago, swallowed by an angry truck.
rain pounded the earth on Saturday, with occasional streaks of light that danced. boy, was he scared of lightening. but he went out, all the same, to say his daily hellos to the tiny, tiny bud. wearing a yellow poncho and purple wellies he trotted in the rain, at times gulped down by the sludge in the ditch. he fought on, shivering and snuffling, towards his flower. it stood proudly even when the thick droplets smashed its petals. the boy grinned, and stayed there until the lightening disappeared with a pop. an evil car ran over the flower on Sunday.
did he tell you an evil car ran over the flower on Sunday after the rainy, rainy Saturday after the Monday when he found the milk tooth right next to a tiny, tiny bud?
it just went brooooom and the flower was paper. flat across the moist road and that was the end of it. the boy was speechless, rooted to the ground. he then dug out the flower from the caked mud around it and whimpered. then bawled. then yowled and howled until everything was water all over again. then he walked back home with his shoulders drooping, alone.
i feel jolly like jelly and a wellie i want for my prezzie or a teddy, not a penny but lady i would like something that'll fill my belly, if there is any, a very smelly lolly would be plenty, how many? twenty! oh just give me your specialty cuz baby i wanna watch the telly that's on new delhi, oh it's a field of full of lilly, wow isn't it pretty but by golly it's getting a big chilly let's start a rally, no really, ahaha just kidding, you silly, go ride a lorry and hide in an ally.
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