Not Typical But Nothing Special
Someone just cried because their organic hot dogs are supposed to be 3 cents off. Do they realize hot dogs still make you fat even when they’re organic? Oh my god, that girl is working out in a $200 tank top. Wait, who’s wrong here? Should I be more fashionable at the gym? Why am I wearing a DARE t-shirt? Why are my ears sweating? I should write on his bday wall, we’re really close. He’s a good guy. I’ll just double check to make sure he wrote on mine last year. Oh. I think I’ll actually take this time to delete evidence of all 3 years I wrote on his bday wall. I’m definitely not wasting 2 squirts of my expensive perfume on tonight. I’ll borrow someone else’s. Will they know my plan? Blue looks good on me, I wonder how many people will tell me that tonight. Should I act shocked? What can I predict about his intentions based on the time of the text and the number of characters in which it consists? Can I Google this? I knew it. My horoscope just said I’m predictable. That’s it. I’m going to Marshall’s and buying stuff that makes me look more Mary-Kate.
and you’re like, “I’m gonna write about this in my journal later.” Here’s my filtered version.
So, in eighth grade, my two best friends and I discovered A Walk to Remember. We spent the summer watching it, then reading it, then talking about it, then reading it, then watching it, then talking about it. That summer is marked by its’ soundtrack and us just truly, honestly, genuinely lusting Shane West.
None of this matters but today at work I was reading something about unsolved mysteries and it mentioned Amelia Earhart. It was so weird, like I couldn’t recall the song, but I remembered singing Amelia Earhart’s name, so I wrote down “amelia earhart song” on a piece of paper and taped it to the inside of my cell phone case. Then later I was at the gym and that note fell out of my phone and down the treadmill and eventually onto the floor. I found the song on YouTube and ran to it.
I flashed back to us singing this song over and over and everywhere. I can see it perfectly playing from the speakers of a black boombox set down on the sand at the beach. I remember singing it into household objects that were sort of shaped like microphones and into the phone on “three way” when that was a thing.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah” was/still is the most fun.
You probably don’t know this, but I remember that one week you drove to the Cape every morning and night because I wanted so badly to go to summer camp with everyone, but I was too afraid of sleepovers. Thanks for doing that.
Thanks for being supportive when I ramble about how well I’m doing out here on my own. Also for understanding when I’m pleased with myself for being independent and fear-conquering. Thanks for listening when I talk about single handedly taking over the world, and then comforting me when I call you devastated about a sore throat.
The thing is, I know I’m really lucky but I never mention it. These are just a fraction of the thank-yous that have gone unsaid.
One night when I was in high school, we were both sitting in my bedroom. It was back during the days of that white bedspread that had big purple flowers on it, the shoebox filled with handwritten notes that I kept at the top of my closet, and pictures of all my friends taped onto what were back then, eight pink walls.
You were assuring me that whatever terrible thing had happened to cause my incessant sobbing would someday never matter. You were promising that, the giant tidal wave of destruction that had left me hiccupping with tears, soon would seem so trivial.
I couldn’t fathom your logic then, but even when the thought of facing a day at school seemed unbearable, I knew I could trust you. Even then, with my reasoning warped by adolescent rational, you could somehow make everything feel okay again. Thanks for always helping me feel okay again.
Thanks for letting me express myself, even when it meant taking a deep breath to help me shop for an outfit that would work with pink hair and a tongue ring. Thanks for telling me to hang up and figure it out when I call whining that I’m lost driving somewhere. Thanks for forgiving me when I’m snappy and dismissive because of an upcoming work presentation. Thanks for saying you knew I would, when I text you right away that I did really great on my work presentation. Thanks for still encouraging me when I announced that my career “plan” was to become a successful writer after I’m through with my year adventure in Asia.
Thanks for being the strongest, hardest working person I’ve ever known. Thanks for creating memories of family and laughter. Also, for never once pressuring me about relationships and for showing me that all the little things about being me are okay, even when the world sometimes seems to believe they are not. Thanks for forgiving me when I don’t call back, and always answering when I finally do. Thanks for letting me have those teenage years when I declared my independence, and then being there for me in my 20s when I realized I still need you and I always did.
I appreciate your supportive smile even though I know my move has been hard on you. If someday I can be half as selfless a person as you are, then it would be really remarkable.
Happy Mother’s Day from the other side of the world!
You see, on a normal day I couldn’t tell you what I care less about, the environment or the environmentalists who bug you about the environment. In Boston they waddle about wearing signs dangling from strings over their shoulders.
They usually start of their spiel by pointing at a folder while you’re still halfway down the street in squinting distance and then they ALL, like every single one of them in the history of time, say something like this:
Can you spare 30 seconds of your day for the well-being of your entire planet and probably your future grandchildren?
That line is what pushes 100% of the recipients from “no” to “fuck no”, ya know?
ANYWHO!
I’ve noticed most Bostonians practice The Walk-by and I don’t blame them. This is when the answer is conveyed through a few irritated steps. Like, no words or gestures, but the type of movement that leaves the sign-wearer thankful there were no words or gestures.
Other people have their own system. Some haven’t found a system. You can usually spot college freshman stuck drowning in well-rehearsed factual statements and signing a pile of petitions. Myself, I tend to fib about being really sorry for my rush, then bounce my hair around and flash a pretty smile and leave them thinking something great just happened. You really need the right hair for that, though.
Anyway, so I was writing a real blog just now when I came across this video that’s got me rambling. Today I witnessed a loveable, adorable old man of an environmentalist.
I don’t think some people will ever be half as excited about anything as this guy is about paper towels. In the beginning, he makes a small fumble but then recovers and it’s so endearing you almost watch it twice, but you really can’t be bothered to actually watch it twice. Then, you can sort of tell he’s been advised to engage with the audience, so he came up with some delightful little Jay-Zish type shenanigans. In the end, he walks off proud as a peacock about how well his big presentation just went.
So, you can watch the video if you want. If not, stay tuned for whatever shit I just got sidetracked from which seems to be a letter to Hannah Horvath. But, it might turn out to be just a bunch of sentences about Han. Or, it might not be about Han at all because sometimes that happens. But probably, though.
It seems a group of tiny invisible beings that live inside my mouth are refusing to let a 900 degree sandstorm keep them from using the back of my throat as their target in an ongoing game of darts.
Another failure of mine:
Example of how not to tell a guy you met one night ago that you found his facebook.
April 18
the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull
and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation
I would not remember you
or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these
and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops
a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight
I’m from Boston. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m not actually a perfectly badass, naturally cool, always charming sports fanatic. I’m a former undergrad who moved to South Korea four months ago, where I’ve been teaching English, occasionally clamming up in social situations and I guess being really brave and stuff. Here are five things I never thought I’d miss about the States.
1. The Kardashianspleasedontstopreading
There’s a siren ringing outside my window. It’s been going off for a minute and a half now but I know why. It’s an ambulance stuck at a red light because in Korea, nobody seems to pull over for them. That’s ridiculous! You know what else is a little ridiculous? Me, because I really miss the Kardashians.
Those girls breathe in oxygen and exhale superiority. They radiate flawlessness. That’s a pretty tough thing to do—radiate flawlessness. On a good day I pull out a dress I haven’t worn in a while and muster up enough conversational words to radiate mediocrity. Not them. They sip coffee behind tinted windows and glide strikingly through layers of flashing camera lights. It’s all a little mesmerizing.
I’m fascinated with well decorated master bedrooms and real gold zippers because I’m just this girl who hangs two umbrellas on her closet doorknob, you know? I’m someone who occasionally empties a pile of receipts and tampons on the floor of a public area when she grabs her purse from the wrong end, which is okay with me. But some people don’t have those moments, and I’m really curious about it.
I miss watching new episodes with my roommate, talking shit about our neighbors during commercials and discussing how maybe I’ll develop a taste for red wine. I have no desire to live a photo shoot lifestyle. All I’m saying is that I miss watching the Kardashians. Also, that I sorta miss hearing about them.
2. Eavesdropping
It was so different in Boston. I spent a lot of time underground, red lining it and green lining it and orange lining it through the city. I used to sit Indian style on the train wearing pink sneakers and a college sweatshirt, bopping to a song I heard on Ellen. Sometimes I’d fuck around in a notebook or rummage through my purse when the ride got boring.
Usually, though, the subway’s filled with people who are nuts or who don’t regard the general public as any reason to postpone a cheeky conversation. It’s where I could part my hair in the window reflection while pretending I didn’t happen to have a list of opinions, about no one I know, scrolling through my head like movie credits. It’s where a stranger’s shirt said something funny and where an advertisement almost had me thinking I should get groceries delivered. Sometimes I’d ask which stop we’re at.
Living in a foreign country has been the coolest thing I’ve ever done. That being said, if there’s any type of interesting or personal exchange happening a few feet away, I’d just really prefer to have the option of quietly tuning in. Here, it’s just me and my thoughts left alone, out of our element.
I’m typing this at a coffee shop, where there’s a curious bulletin board hanging above the milk and a bunch of chatter that only amounts to white noise. It’s so peculiar. I’m sitting at a small circular table near the register surrounded by mannerisms, clothing choices, voice tones, and facial expressions.
I guess that to me, it’s one of the strangest aspects of this adventure I’m on. But once in a while, when I see a sign on the subway or read the Korean side of a menu, I can sound out the characters I’ve been memorizing and form a familiar word. It’s just a tiny accomplishment that leaves me feeling like 1,119,350,000 Korean won. (See what I did there?)
3. Yoga Pants and Sweatshirts
I already explained about being here at a small corner table of this coffee shop, but there’s something else. It’s Saturday morning and it seems again today, that I’m the only one who just rolled out of bed. It’s really busy here, and the Koreans are all stunning per usual.
It blows my mind. I just ordered a second coffee. The girl in front of me was wearing a long floral scarf and thickly framed glasses. Around me, they’re dolled up in high waisted skirts and skinny heels with black tights, even on this day I thought was designed for yoga pants.
Saturday mornings are pretty standard in Boston, a long line for coffee filled with a crowd who definitely couldn’t go to work in their weekend attire. It’s comfortable and expected. Here, everyone appears very becoming and put together all the time.
I admire how lovely they are, but I still don’t mind too much that my ensemble occasionally gives me away as left of center. I think I’ll always prefer oversized sweatshirts on the days drenched in relief of no responsibility, but I miss when everyone else was in on it, too.
4. Chemicals
At home, it’s completely normal to pour chemicals into your coffee, cereal and everything else you consume. It’s not at all unusual to enhance coffee with a powdery pinch of unnatural elements that are made to taste sweet like sugar, but are not sugar at all and are potentially damaging in so many ways, yet do not harm your very necessary low-cal diet. I really miss that.
Koreans are so much better at being human. It’s actually usually impossible to find little packets of chemicals at any of their coffee shops. The only choices are white sugar, which comes in a white packet, and brown sugar, which comes in a brown packet. It’s so simple and sensible, and yet so not compatible with my hundred dollar monthly gym membership.
I know how this sounds and I’m not particularly proud, but honestly it’s only a matter of time until I break down and have my family send a box of Sweet-n-Low, blonde shampoo and a bunch of other stuff I can’t possibly live without.
5. Non-problematic Elevator Rides
Maybe I was just lucky during the 24 years I lived in the US, but this is a new experience for me. I step onto the elevator and a few bewildered seconds later I’m pinned against the back wall peeking frantically through shifting heads that all appear to belong to some individual who is in a huge rush. That’s when it happens.
The elevator announces some sort of error message. It means there’s too much weight. As in, we’re all weighing the elevator down and the group of us must figure out some sort of plan to get this thing back to working properly. It usually involves a flashing red light, a non-lyrical tune and me thinking I’d like to volunteer myself for this one.
I’ve realized that my lack of familiar language and the other passengers’ understandable disinterest in whatever the hysterical foreigner is stammering on about, leaves me no way of successfully communicating my sacrifice in time. I watch one person stroll off and a moment later we’ve begun our journey.
I try to tell myself that thankfully, someone got off the elevator. Otherwise, we would undoubtedly be plummeting to our deaths. But wait WHAT? What the hell kind of man made contraption is this? I’m on some sort of makeshift machinery that’s a few pounds away from another slip-up. I miss when the suspense of being pancaked by a free-falling elevator was only a ride you needed a fast-pass for.
they be learnin not concernin what nobody wanna say
I remember four months ago when I wished I could flash to right now before getting on a plane. The closest I could get to now was an idea based on images I’d come across. My room at home is an octagon. Eight pale green walls. I looked at them knowing that in a few days I’d be worlds away. This move was so big I thought I’d never see them again.
I’m really good at thinking. Sometimes it means scribbling shit down for a while to break through layers of memory until I’m reliving an experience with every one of my senses. Occasionally, it means slicing a situation into tiny pieces to scrutinize until I claim to know the motivation behind everything that happened.
On those few days, thinking turned into staring at two packed suitcases, but not really noticing them at all. I thought about experimenting and exploring and being really brave under lots of perfectly dazzling neon lights. I saw remarkable skylines and picturesque cities.
The reality isn’t as polished but a lot more spectacular and right now I’m caught up in it.
It’s sometime during the first few hours of a Saturday morning when I look down at black leather boots. They were brand new only a few weeks ago. Now, they’re worn like the filthy, littered, dirty street I’m standing on. It’s lit up the way I imagined it would be. Faces of tall buildings are covered in lights, forming designs that I know stand for sounds.
For these few moments I’m alone, and it occurs to me again that here I am in Seoul. On a winding alley way off of a main road, I’m stepping on flyers and cigarette butts to get back to my friends.
It’s loud here. From every angle around me, it’s so bright and overcoming that it feels as though it’s meant to be a blur, but I can see all of it perfectly.
I weave through some wasted passerbys. It’s a place where strangers are usually friendly and where small bags filled with trash pile up on street corners. The smell is unpleasant. Sometimes it’s overpowered by a cart of hot food where I stop and search for cash. All of it’s so gross and so captivating. It’s surreal when I watch, but I’ve become too preoccupied for observation recently.
There’s a light purple circle on the inside of my wrist. I walk down stairs, sliding one hand on the wall because it’s dark. At the bottom, someone shines a light on that circle to let me back in. I recognize the guys playing pool. Here, at a little smoky bar on a side street in Seoul, I see an empty chair and a table full of people expecting me.
It’s so far away from Boston, where familiar faces chat in pubs that have glassless windows throughout the summer. Back home, a spot underground where I waited for the red line every day is in a different time zone. There’s a bench near that station and right now, I bet someone’s walking past it on their way home from work. Where I am, it’s still dark outside.
Here, my seat’s in a dimly lit room below ground level of the second largest city in the world. All this detaches me from the moment, until I hear sarcasm and an English accent. She says that only the guys have managed to pick up any guys tonight. Then waves away the cloud from her own cigarette and declares we’re not going home until the trains start again in the morning.
Sometimes really awesome things happen when you make the right decision. I’ve experienced a bunch of those things over the past four months. I bet more than I even know.
The other day I found myself knocking on the door one floor above mine because I had nothing to wear. We made tea and talked about how we’ll always stay friends and we planned my trip to London. I dove into the closet for dresses, delighted the way you always are when it’s someone else’s
On repeat all day.
A little something I wrote! :)!
Please don’t send me anonymous messages on Tumblr unless you end it by complimenting my physical appearance and deleting everything you wrote before that.
There’s a siren ringing outside my window. It’s been going off for a minute and a half now but I know why. It’s an ambulance stuck at a red light because in Korea, nobody seems to pull over for them. Cut the shit, Korea. That’s ridiculous. You know who else needs to cut the shit? Me, because I really miss the Kardashianspleasedontstopreading.
I miss those three sisters who have no concept of reality and a limitless fortune they’ve done nothing to earn but pollute society’s perceptions with their manipulated perfection. It’s because despite every truth in the rants we hear about their pointless existence, I still love them.
Those girls fucking breathe in oxygen and exhale superiority. They radiate flawlessness. That’s a pretty tough thing to radiate-flawlessness. On a good day I pull out a dress I haven’t worn in a while and muster up enough conversational words to radiate mediocrity.
Not them. They sip coffee behind tinted windows and sit cross legged at important events with their guys almost invisible next to them like potential arm candy. That’s why it’s all so mesmerizing. Maybe they read cue cards. Maybe they constantly live in overlapping shades of reality and fabrication, but the way they so strikingly glide through layers of flashing camera lights has me a little captivated.
I love it. I want to watch it from my twin bed. I want to watch it in the comfiest yoga pants from my tiny apartment, that doesn’t even have a damn dishwasher. I just want to watch it because they wear mittens that cost more than my college tuition but somehow I’m still on their side.
I’m fascinated with well decorated master bedrooms and real gold zippers because I’m just this girl who hangs two umbrellas on her closet doorknob, you know? I’m someone who occasionally empties a pile of receipts and tampons on the floor of a public area when she grabs her purse from the wrong end, which is okay with me. But some people don’t have those moments, though, and I’m really curious about it.
I miss watching new episodes with my roommate, talking shit about our neighbors during commercials and discussing how maybe I’ll develop a taste for red wine. I miss announcing that I’d marry Scott and then announcing that he’s a dick and then announcing that I love him again. I miss my friends all siding against me when I decide out loud that those tattoo sleeve things really are sexy.
I’ll admit I’m jealous of people who are genuinely disinterested in everything I’ve said. They’re beyond it, probably above it, probably good at cooking and discussing bands and picking out curtains. They definitely didn’t put off buying one of those dish drying racks that hang on the sink and I’m sure they never dreamed of being the pink power ranger or marrying Jonathan Taylor Thomas. Some of them are the type to ramble on about how much they truly don’t care, which is fine.
I have no desire to live a photo shoot lifestyle. I’m happy with being the girl who avoids washing this one sweatshirt because it hardly still smells like cologne and even with being the foreigner who shattered a plate at Starbucks over the weekend. All I’m saying is that I miss watching the Kardashians. Also, that I sorta miss hearing about them.
I shouldn’t have admitted that up there, about the Kardashians and all. I kept doing this thing where I just wanted to go off gushing about it but then I’d close my laptop because I knew I shouldn’t and then I’d just sit there tapping blue fingernails against a hard surface until it got boring. Then I started typing again.
