Tuesday, December 27, 2005

PART ONE - AND SO THAT IS HOW I ENDED UP .

"what do you want to be when you grow up?" said the authority.
"i want to make greeting cards," i responded.
"people do that?" said the authority.
"i don't know, i think, i mean, someone has to do it," i said hestiniatly. "well, something creative, anyway."
"well how about marketing or advertising?" said the authority.

and so that is how i ended up here, kneeling on the floor of a storage room at Arnold WorldWide, organizing piles of posters and promo display cases when i came across a storyboard, with hand drawn cartoons on it which told a story. as i read and admired the masterpiece i wondered who had made it. so i walked out of the storage room, down the hall, carrying the board, when the long-haired asian with the bright yellow converse shoes whom i noticed in the elevator every morning yelled, "who's new board?" from his closet sized office. "uh?" i said as i stopped at the door. he told me then and there that he was a "creative." he concepted ideas for commericals and drew them up. cool, i thought, but how do you get there. "if you want to be a creative, go to a portifolio school, make a book, draw up your own storyboard ideas and then come back here."
"ummm, ok, sure," i responded and walked out of his office.
i never saw that "creative guy" again not even during the remainder of my summer as the storage room intern. but i have always remembered him.



"so i'm going to ireland," said the best friend.
"for real?" i responded.
"i applied today," and she threw the catolag at me.
"you can't leave me here, alone, our senior year!" i said.
"so go abroad too," said the best friend.
and so that is how i ended up here, in a tiny village on the west coast of the green aisle, residing in a cottage with a straw roof and sheep in the backyard. currently, i lay under 2 comforters, a fleece blanket and piles of clothes and stare up at the sky-light window that is directly above me, the stars are so radiant that my room is glowing as bright as a night-light from them. the air is so pure that it makes me feel clean just sleeping with the windows opened. i love the air, i love the clearity and humility that ireland has given me. but i am dreading class tommorrow. 12 art school students sitting in a castle, ripping on everyone's work, over-analyzing it and philiosophing it. and when it comes to mine, i know what they are going to say, i know they will say it is "too" commerical. it is not "fine art"
but then
breathe in the air again and soundly go to sleep.



"eueh," i said as my body jumped up in the bed.
"what's wrong?," said the boyfriend.
"nothing. "i said, "its just that.something does not feel right"
"its not me? is it?" said the boyfriend.
"no. i have to do something, i have to go," and then i jumped up from the bed, threw on my clothes, threw my bra in my purse, took out my keys and headed for the door.
and so that is how i ended up here, laying on the cement stairs of my new apartment building, inhaling and then exhaling as i slowly open my eyes to see the greyish yellow peeling paint on the underside of the set of stairs above me. i wonder if i should move, did i break my back? one by one, panicky questions came into my head. what if i my neck is broken? am i paralysized?. o god, i hope i'm not paralisized, i havent even started classes yet? at orientation yesterday, "they" said this would be a overwhelming painful two years..for some reason i dont think they meant this kind of pain. shit! waht did i do? what should i do? i wish the best friend was here. i wish a best friend was here. dont panic. maybe i should try to stand up? should i call 911? i wanna to go home!
"help", i yelled, but no one seem to be around.
"um, someone, anyone, i slipped down the stairs, i'm afraid to move. ' "help" i yelped. nothing, no one. well if i broke my back i won't be able to move my fingers. "dear brain, please make my fingers wiggle" and then they did.
i think i am going to be ok and i slowly push my body to sit up right and breathe.

Monday, December 19, 2005

"i'm kind of burnt out from that place," she said. "it gets kind of old, u see a lot of girls there with fake boobs and packed on make-up."
"fake-boobs, in cleveland?" i blurted out.
she turned her head and glared at me for a second. and then she continued telling her story about how she used to enjoy hanging out there but not so much anymore, which was fine by her.

fake-boobs in cleveland, just seem utterly ridiclous. granted the concept of cosmetically placing plastic baggies full of jello into your body, regardless of where you reside, is obserd in itself. but in cleveland? who? what? why? are you trying to prove? or impress? i don't get it.

but then again, i don't get much about cleveland.

on friday night, we went to this bar (that "she" above does not enjoy patronizing anymore) in the suburbs of the typical-small-all-american-city of cleveland, ohio. at first glance it was quite a typical bar with a typical scene. except, for one thing.

ok, ok, two things,
after finishing my first $2 beer i began to scan the room for potential boys to flirt with. i made eye contact with one, and then with two sitting together and i roamed around the bar, waiting for something to happen, but nothing happened so i was forced to buy another beer. as i'm waiting for my second round, i again, make eye contact with the boys around the bar, they see me and smile back, i accept my beer from the waitress and take a sip, look back one more time and then turn around and talk to my friend. waiting, and waiting, for one of the boys to come and talk to us. only after i am more then half-way done my second beer, i realize, that if i want to talk to them, if i want a free round, if i want to be entertained with flirtish stories, we are going to have to walk up to them

and so we did, and so they responded well, they bought us a round, they talked to us, and they told us semi-flirtish stories, one even gave me his business card. and then, like most flirthing does, it came to a point to stop and move on. and so i began to make new eye-contacts and again the same scenerio happened over again. this time the guy says to me, "i knew you were going to talk to me when i walked into the bar." "how did you know that?" i responded. "you made eye-contact," he said as he shrugged his shoulders.


Oh. i get it. eye-contact is a sign that i am desperately wanting to come over and tell you how adorable you are??? what the hell? that is not how it works you cleveland boys! you are suppose to chase the girl. the girl is not suppose to chase you. and hell, with beers being $2 a pop and all of your ordinary all-american looks, you'd better think of a way to be charming, and mysterious. not lazy.

and so, i dont get why cleveland girls, that go to that bar, order themselves painful surgery for leeky boobs. how do they work in your favor? cleveland boys are backwards, and your boobs cost about 4 years worth of rounds at the bars here. so save your money, and for your sole get out of cleveland and find a real boy. (o, in case, you cleveland girls dont know, a real boy asks for your number, keeps his business cards in his pocket, and calls you within the following week, buys you and your friends a round and picks you up at the bar first, without you having to work at it.)

Saturday, December 03, 2005

THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN BEING BORING

i cant think of anything worse then being boring. an ex-boyfriend of mine would disagree. i would acuse someone of being boring or an "it" of being boring and he proclaim, "well, melvin, there is worse things then being boring" this comment of his always erkked me. i thought, "o yeah, like what??" and i still to this moment cannot think of anything worse than boring.

if you are boring you are nothing more than boring. you are not nothing, you are boring but that is really it.

if you are interesting, something has made you interesting, experiences and observations have happened in your life and you are able to spin some uniqueness of your exposures into a part of you.

if you are boring, you are not able to do that.

if you are intriguing, or mysterious, or adventurous, rebellious, preppy, overly-cautious or shy... you are still not boring.

hell, even if you are mean, you are not boring, there has to be some reason as to why you are mean.

if you are boring, you lay everything out there, and everything is usually plain and boring. not even nessarily nice, but definitely just boring.

so dont be boring. because its boring. and being around a boring person is absolutely dreadful. like i said i cant think of anything worse.