You set my skin on fire
Let me burn brightly for you.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
a half-hearted attempt
I remember now,
How,
I viciously chain smoked
While I wrote,
All about what bothers me.
And how,
here again,
With a full pack, I ready myself for the worst.
No no,
I ready myself for the best.
And the rest is yet to come.
"Be here now." Live in the present regardless of thoughts of past or future tense.
As I tense up,
About trying not to be tense.
Be Here Now
How those words have repeated surfaced in the most interesting times in my life.
Where when I feel at my lowest, and when I feel most alone.
Suddenly a new "you" pops up and requests my all with these three small words.
Be Here Now.
Oh Jesus, how sometimes you volumes, meaning to most, very trivial, but to me the world.
Back to present of the present.
I light one up for inspiration.
As if every inhalation,
Will conjour up,
Some memory for me,
To put down and see,
If it will begin to make sense.
Oh nothing makes sense.
On one hand, I am told to push and keep fair distance.
And on the other I am told to risk it all
With no fear of outcome or consequence.
Live in the now and see how,
See how things go
See how they grow
See how they prosper and where they flounder
Like the little mermaid's flounder?
Oh, he wasn't so bad.
But he's a fish,
And as much as I wish,
It was as simple as those fish,
I'm sure those fish have indentity crises too.
All the best poets can rhyme without care.
Make all their words and meaings fit perfectly
In simple symmetry
But me,
I ramble on
And continue my song with a sequence or rhyme,
Because I rarely have time
For all that nonsense.
I'd rather tell you
What is true,
In an ugly manner
Thank speak flittingly with generic, approved fashion.
I make no statement that fits in magazines
Or in books you read
So effortlessly
So without pretty words or normal symmetry
This is me.
I want you to be able to read
to be able to see
Through and past all those clever rhymes and wit
Into the vastness in my chest where the center of me
Is the all of me
This heart that beats
(blood and peace)
This mouth that speaks
(strong not weak)
These hands that feel
(the skin I peel)
These wounds that heal
(scars proof I'm real)
It beats constantly
It speaks truthfully
They feel endlessly
They heal imperfectly
This is a rhyming frenzy.
I rhyme to vaguely get my point across miles and states
And back again to this same time and place
Where I am
Be here now,
with me.
If I had it my way, I would speak nothing but poetry.
Endless sentences of beauty, peace and emotion...
But this mediocre A, B, A, B, C
is all I've got in me
How,
I viciously chain smoked
While I wrote,
All about what bothers me.
And how,
here again,
With a full pack, I ready myself for the worst.
No no,
I ready myself for the best.
And the rest is yet to come.
"Be here now." Live in the present regardless of thoughts of past or future tense.
As I tense up,
About trying not to be tense.
Be Here Now
How those words have repeated surfaced in the most interesting times in my life.
Where when I feel at my lowest, and when I feel most alone.
Suddenly a new "you" pops up and requests my all with these three small words.
Be Here Now.
Oh Jesus, how sometimes you volumes, meaning to most, very trivial, but to me the world.
Back to present of the present.
I light one up for inspiration.
As if every inhalation,
Will conjour up,
Some memory for me,
To put down and see,
If it will begin to make sense.
Oh nothing makes sense.
On one hand, I am told to push and keep fair distance.
And on the other I am told to risk it all
With no fear of outcome or consequence.
Live in the now and see how,
See how things go
See how they grow
See how they prosper and where they flounder
Like the little mermaid's flounder?
Oh, he wasn't so bad.
But he's a fish,
And as much as I wish,
It was as simple as those fish,
I'm sure those fish have indentity crises too.
All the best poets can rhyme without care.
Make all their words and meaings fit perfectly
In simple symmetry
But me,
I ramble on
And continue my song with a sequence or rhyme,
Because I rarely have time
For all that nonsense.
I'd rather tell you
What is true,
In an ugly manner
Thank speak flittingly with generic, approved fashion.
I make no statement that fits in magazines
Or in books you read
So effortlessly
So without pretty words or normal symmetry
This is me.
I want you to be able to read
to be able to see
Through and past all those clever rhymes and wit
Into the vastness in my chest where the center of me
Is the all of me
This heart that beats
(blood and peace)
This mouth that speaks
(strong not weak)
These hands that feel
(the skin I peel)
These wounds that heal
(scars proof I'm real)
It beats constantly
It speaks truthfully
They feel endlessly
They heal imperfectly
This is a rhyming frenzy.
I rhyme to vaguely get my point across miles and states
And back again to this same time and place
Where I am
Be here now,
with me.
If I had it my way, I would speak nothing but poetry.
Endless sentences of beauty, peace and emotion...
But this mediocre A, B, A, B, C
is all I've got in me
Monday, October 26, 2009
Purely fiction. To be continued
I absolutely love this movie,” I say to break the ice.
With a hesitant smile and a half-hearted chuckle, I see her muscles relax a bit through her jacket, with no effort of my own, was still wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
“I’ve never had this wine before, thanks for bringing the glasses, I’m not much of a classy alcoholic.” Smiling to her, yet again. A laugh being her only response.
I’m not even old enough to be drinking the chestnut, berry hinted liquor, but I let it slide passed my lips anyway. I’m not old enough to be sitting next to her right now. Her age shows on her face. Beautifully though, her unblemished peach skin shows maturity, not lines.
She knows of my age, not of my inexperience, and sadly that’s been depleting for quite some time now.
“I’m glad you called,” she remarks, almost hoping she could continue her sentence but ceases with a breath.
“Yeah, I mean I figured seeing you at the store the other day, maybe… sort of meant something. I believe in that…” I continue to stutter, “that ‘put it in the fates’ deal.”
“You would,” she patronizes with a laugh.
“Oh?”
“I did too, at your age.”
I’m silent.“I’m sorry, that doesn’t start us off on the right foot.” She recants regrettably.
“Yeah, well the movie,” I start back up. “Fantastic storyline… really, very, French. In the best possible way. It hides pretention and boasts really imaginative and vivid possibilities with mundane subjects.”
“You seem to know your stuff.” Semi-impressed, but with a jaded undertone.
“I hate to admit it, but it the fantasy of it brings out the naïve, ceaseless optimist little kid in me.” I explain.
“Oh? No longer a naïve little kid?” She jokes and settles gently back into the permanently borrowed couch that sits lonesome in my living room apartment. “I still am.”
Maybe it was on purpose, but her last phrase comforts me, relaxes me in and warms my face. That could be the wine though. Wine helps.
As the movie begins my eyes become entranced. I notice through my peripheral, hers do as well, but not just on the movie. Her big brown eyes shift cautiously from the slide of my cheeks bones back to the vibrant coloured screen. It all I need to flush my cheeks and stare directly into my glass. I pretend to ignore her gaze.
“Such a tease,” she whispers.
An embarrassed smile dashes across my face my left to an upward slant at the right. I swished around my half full glass. “More wine?” I reply.
“I’ll get it,” responsively as she slowly sways around the corner, slowly as if she feels my eyes move from the back of her shoulders passed her hips. Oh, her hips.
She rounds back the corner with the bottle and a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” Half-knowing the answer, once I tilt my head towards the heavy glass ash tray sitting on the wooden coffee table.
“Not if you mind parting with one,” I finally verbally answer.
“You can have anything you like to part your lips and fill your fingers.” She slowly smirks.
Her provocative words intoxicate me. Innocent until now, I feel a sense of desire shared between my shoulder blades and thighs.
“Why thank you,” pretending her words do nothing, hiding that they sit heavy in my chest.
She looks down. I say nothing as I lean cautiously but closely over to light her cigarette.
Holding it in her mouth, she puffs and finally departs it from her lips in between her left hand.
“A lefty!” I remark. “I am too.”
“Left-handed people are better.” She quiets back.
“At what?”“At… everything,” She smiles.
‘You know,” she quickly changes the subject, “I’m really glad you called.”
“Yeah,” I smile, “you said that.”
“Right, I mean, I just mean, after the party, with the drunken way I asked for your number, the next morning I soberly felt like an ass.” She justifies her repetition.
“Hey, would you have asked for it, had you not had a few too many beers?” I tease.
“Wouldn’t have had the balls.”
“Wouldn’t have had the ovaries.”
“Ohh, your feminist is showing, Emma!” She retorts.
“Oh what! Oh no! Where? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” as I jokingly search around for some invisible hole or undone button on my clothing.
She laughs this impossibly soft but steady and firm laugh. It makes my hands weak enough to loosen the grip on my glass. Which I notice I’d been white-knuckling like the stem was glued to my palm for some time, as if I had put it down my hands would have a mind of their own.
I tip my head back as I let the rest of my glass finish down my throat, but don’t take my eyes of her. She stares intently at the movie, which I realized I hadn’t even been aware of for the past ten minutes.
She turns to notice my empty glass, and without permission replenishes my drink. I thank her again. “For the liquid encouragement,” I add silently in my head.
By this time we are sitting so much closer and less comfortably while an unspoken, ignored tension builds, as both of our petite bodies start to become swallowed by the couch.
The back of her hand rests against my leg almost accidentally. There is a sting that unintentionally moves my thigh up and down as if to readjust to a different spot or position only to end up back in the same place. Against her hand.
She removes her hand to slowly massage her neck underneath the right side of her chin.
“How stupid.” I thought, I shouldn’t have moved, I should have pretended her hand wasn’t there, now I’ve gone and made her uncomfortable.
The second I mentally regret my physical action, I feel hers. Her thumb and the inside of her palm slides down my cheek as I deafeningly hear her say, “You have beautiful skin…”
I turn, shoving my pleasant embarrassment into the back of my head and respond, “So do you” Almost too eagerly. She smiles.
“It’s one of the first things I noticed about you, besides your eyes.” I further.
“Not my tits?” She laughingly interjects, as her eyes refer down to petite breasts covered by a pale blue button-up.
She notices my eyes and mouth widen, but I play along, “I’m only kidding,” I say, “It was definitely your tits.”
A grin streaks across her face in between her strong jawline. A look comes across her eyes, that mixed with her mouth, makes my eyelids flutter and makes inhalation difficult. Maybe it’s the wine… It’s not the wine.
With a hesitant smile and a half-hearted chuckle, I see her muscles relax a bit through her jacket, with no effort of my own, was still wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
“I’ve never had this wine before, thanks for bringing the glasses, I’m not much of a classy alcoholic.” Smiling to her, yet again. A laugh being her only response.
I’m not even old enough to be drinking the chestnut, berry hinted liquor, but I let it slide passed my lips anyway. I’m not old enough to be sitting next to her right now. Her age shows on her face. Beautifully though, her unblemished peach skin shows maturity, not lines.
She knows of my age, not of my inexperience, and sadly that’s been depleting for quite some time now.
“I’m glad you called,” she remarks, almost hoping she could continue her sentence but ceases with a breath.
“Yeah, I mean I figured seeing you at the store the other day, maybe… sort of meant something. I believe in that…” I continue to stutter, “that ‘put it in the fates’ deal.”
“You would,” she patronizes with a laugh.
“Oh?”
“I did too, at your age.”
I’m silent.“I’m sorry, that doesn’t start us off on the right foot.” She recants regrettably.
“Yeah, well the movie,” I start back up. “Fantastic storyline… really, very, French. In the best possible way. It hides pretention and boasts really imaginative and vivid possibilities with mundane subjects.”
“You seem to know your stuff.” Semi-impressed, but with a jaded undertone.
“I hate to admit it, but it the fantasy of it brings out the naïve, ceaseless optimist little kid in me.” I explain.
“Oh? No longer a naïve little kid?” She jokes and settles gently back into the permanently borrowed couch that sits lonesome in my living room apartment. “I still am.”
Maybe it was on purpose, but her last phrase comforts me, relaxes me in and warms my face. That could be the wine though. Wine helps.
As the movie begins my eyes become entranced. I notice through my peripheral, hers do as well, but not just on the movie. Her big brown eyes shift cautiously from the slide of my cheeks bones back to the vibrant coloured screen. It all I need to flush my cheeks and stare directly into my glass. I pretend to ignore her gaze.
“Such a tease,” she whispers.
An embarrassed smile dashes across my face my left to an upward slant at the right. I swished around my half full glass. “More wine?” I reply.
“I’ll get it,” responsively as she slowly sways around the corner, slowly as if she feels my eyes move from the back of her shoulders passed her hips. Oh, her hips.
She rounds back the corner with the bottle and a pack of cigarettes. “Do you mind?” Half-knowing the answer, once I tilt my head towards the heavy glass ash tray sitting on the wooden coffee table.
“Not if you mind parting with one,” I finally verbally answer.
“You can have anything you like to part your lips and fill your fingers.” She slowly smirks.
Her provocative words intoxicate me. Innocent until now, I feel a sense of desire shared between my shoulder blades and thighs.
“Why thank you,” pretending her words do nothing, hiding that they sit heavy in my chest.
She looks down. I say nothing as I lean cautiously but closely over to light her cigarette.
Holding it in her mouth, she puffs and finally departs it from her lips in between her left hand.
“A lefty!” I remark. “I am too.”
“Left-handed people are better.” She quiets back.
“At what?”“At… everything,” She smiles.
‘You know,” she quickly changes the subject, “I’m really glad you called.”
“Yeah,” I smile, “you said that.”
“Right, I mean, I just mean, after the party, with the drunken way I asked for your number, the next morning I soberly felt like an ass.” She justifies her repetition.
“Hey, would you have asked for it, had you not had a few too many beers?” I tease.
“Wouldn’t have had the balls.”
“Wouldn’t have had the ovaries.”
“Ohh, your feminist is showing, Emma!” She retorts.
“Oh what! Oh no! Where? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?” as I jokingly search around for some invisible hole or undone button on my clothing.
She laughs this impossibly soft but steady and firm laugh. It makes my hands weak enough to loosen the grip on my glass. Which I notice I’d been white-knuckling like the stem was glued to my palm for some time, as if I had put it down my hands would have a mind of their own.
I tip my head back as I let the rest of my glass finish down my throat, but don’t take my eyes of her. She stares intently at the movie, which I realized I hadn’t even been aware of for the past ten minutes.
She turns to notice my empty glass, and without permission replenishes my drink. I thank her again. “For the liquid encouragement,” I add silently in my head.
By this time we are sitting so much closer and less comfortably while an unspoken, ignored tension builds, as both of our petite bodies start to become swallowed by the couch.
The back of her hand rests against my leg almost accidentally. There is a sting that unintentionally moves my thigh up and down as if to readjust to a different spot or position only to end up back in the same place. Against her hand.
She removes her hand to slowly massage her neck underneath the right side of her chin.
“How stupid.” I thought, I shouldn’t have moved, I should have pretended her hand wasn’t there, now I’ve gone and made her uncomfortable.
The second I mentally regret my physical action, I feel hers. Her thumb and the inside of her palm slides down my cheek as I deafeningly hear her say, “You have beautiful skin…”
I turn, shoving my pleasant embarrassment into the back of my head and respond, “So do you” Almost too eagerly. She smiles.
“It’s one of the first things I noticed about you, besides your eyes.” I further.
“Not my tits?” She laughingly interjects, as her eyes refer down to petite breasts covered by a pale blue button-up.
She notices my eyes and mouth widen, but I play along, “I’m only kidding,” I say, “It was definitely your tits.”
A grin streaks across her face in between her strong jawline. A look comes across her eyes, that mixed with her mouth, makes my eyelids flutter and makes inhalation difficult. Maybe it’s the wine… It’s not the wine.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
I never thought I'd say this
But I guess there really are times when "it's too late."
I'm always the "It's never too late" kind of girl.
Not this time.
Balls I had to realize it today.
Blerg. Nerds. Monkey.
I'm always the "It's never too late" kind of girl.
Not this time.
Balls I had to realize it today.
Blerg. Nerds. Monkey.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Fences
That sweet tastes like poison.
But you sweet, taste like tar.
tar that scratches the roof of my mouth raw.
My raw mouth that licks up every sweet word out of yours.
Your sweets words I fell for.
I fell all over myself.
Onto chairs, beds, and over fences.
Those fences high and secured with barbed wire.
I'll find a way out.
You slipped me a set of pliers.
An escape you supply, only to make sure I end up right back behind those fences again.
Fences I will learn to stay behind.
I will learn to stay behind, this time;
No matter who's on the other side, this time.
Okay, maybe next time.
But you sweet, taste like tar.
tar that scratches the roof of my mouth raw.
My raw mouth that licks up every sweet word out of yours.
Your sweets words I fell for.
I fell all over myself.
Onto chairs, beds, and over fences.
Those fences high and secured with barbed wire.
I'll find a way out.
You slipped me a set of pliers.
An escape you supply, only to make sure I end up right back behind those fences again.
Fences I will learn to stay behind.
I will learn to stay behind, this time;
No matter who's on the other side, this time.
Okay, maybe next time.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Thursday
I miss a place where strangers shared smiles.
I miss a time where eye contact wasn’t taboo.
I miss when I had free speech and not someone else’s mouth piece regrettably working for me.
I miss people’s words having upfront meaning and not secret code in a dialect I don’t understand.
This city is cruel and beautiful.
I will uncover you and discover your ways; your hidden streets and alley ways, your dead ends and secret places, if it’s the last thing I do.
I refuse to let you get the best of me.
I will conquer the Emerald City.
I miss a time where eye contact wasn’t taboo.
I miss when I had free speech and not someone else’s mouth piece regrettably working for me.
I miss people’s words having upfront meaning and not secret code in a dialect I don’t understand.
This city is cruel and beautiful.
I will uncover you and discover your ways; your hidden streets and alley ways, your dead ends and secret places, if it’s the last thing I do.
I refuse to let you get the best of me.
I will conquer the Emerald City.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Wednesday
The only time I feel comfortable is with a fix between my fingers in my left, an empty palm of the right, no hand to fit, no glass to grasp, no arm around my shoulder.
Just me, armed with what little words I have left that breed internal understanding only.
Normally, about this time, this time where life has become such a fantastic mess, like a 1000 piece puzzle half way done that was strewn up in the air by your fist coming down so hard on the surface.
I feel like that half way done puzzle, all those little broken up pieces.
I feel like that fist with swift determined force.
I feel like that table who was only there for support but took the blow anyway.
Circumstances have put me in each place.
Well, my uncontrollable heart was more the culprit.
Can't you see it?
A bleeding ominous organ with furrowed brows and menacing smile as it hovers over whilst twisting and cutting and tying all the strings of the puppets all together and all apart.
This organ is greedy but over-flowing with love and space if you need to take refuge.
It will leave the light on for you, but shampoo and soap will cost extra.
And be prepared that while you'll always have a room, it might not be in the same place you once remembered. A mobile hotel.
It shifts, and moves, and retreats back into sketchier parts of town, and when threatened will up and run away.
You can't blame it really, I mean most usually leave the rooms a mess, tv on, bed unmade, all the little plastic cups used and squished. but then, it doesn't say there won't be a pretty, unassuming maid to come clean up after the mess you made, even though you don't leave a tip.
ps. I should just become a nun.
Just me, armed with what little words I have left that breed internal understanding only.
Normally, about this time, this time where life has become such a fantastic mess, like a 1000 piece puzzle half way done that was strewn up in the air by your fist coming down so hard on the surface.
I feel like that half way done puzzle, all those little broken up pieces.
I feel like that fist with swift determined force.
I feel like that table who was only there for support but took the blow anyway.
Circumstances have put me in each place.
Well, my uncontrollable heart was more the culprit.
Can't you see it?
A bleeding ominous organ with furrowed brows and menacing smile as it hovers over whilst twisting and cutting and tying all the strings of the puppets all together and all apart.
This organ is greedy but over-flowing with love and space if you need to take refuge.
It will leave the light on for you, but shampoo and soap will cost extra.
And be prepared that while you'll always have a room, it might not be in the same place you once remembered. A mobile hotel.
It shifts, and moves, and retreats back into sketchier parts of town, and when threatened will up and run away.
You can't blame it really, I mean most usually leave the rooms a mess, tv on, bed unmade, all the little plastic cups used and squished. but then, it doesn't say there won't be a pretty, unassuming maid to come clean up after the mess you made, even though you don't leave a tip.
ps. I should just become a nun.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
To all my lovers
past, present and future.
While I could never regret you, I do regrettfully say, I wish I could have loved you better.
Wish I could have given you more, but all I have are portions of varying size to offer.
Still though, all of you will lay within me, mending together my puzzle piece heart. Each of you have a piece some bigger and some smaller than others, but know you have claimed it.
And through all my mistakes and triumphs, I will never stop trying, never stop loving.
Love will never cease until each and every fraction of me is given out, with care of course, each one of you owns a part for a reason.
I love you, and even though I'm no longer in sight, I will never stop.
While I could never regret you, I do regrettfully say, I wish I could have loved you better.
Wish I could have given you more, but all I have are portions of varying size to offer.
Still though, all of you will lay within me, mending together my puzzle piece heart. Each of you have a piece some bigger and some smaller than others, but know you have claimed it.
And through all my mistakes and triumphs, I will never stop trying, never stop loving.
Love will never cease until each and every fraction of me is given out, with care of course, each one of you owns a part for a reason.
I love you, and even though I'm no longer in sight, I will never stop.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
number 3 Wednesday
I could, quite possibly, submit my Wednesday morning story into a contest for best worst morning on the face of the planet for 18 year old caucasian white women living in Seattle, and probably win.
All I can say is karma's a bitch.
Let's sum this up quickly.
My morning, began at 8:30 this morning with a call to a tow truck company. (back story, my car had been towed the previous afternoon before because of my inability to move the car for more than 3 days, my bad. Karma bites #1 I had unknowingly made an appointment for this morning for the car to be assessed, at the same exact time it was being towed.)
After a quick chat with the friendly disembodied voice over the phone, exchange of information and what I had assumed was the correct address of the impound lot; I threw some clothes on and walked myself a few blocks for some caffeine and a nicotine fix and I was on my way down the mile trek to the supposed lot.
After what seemed like too long of mostly empty streets besides the occasional homeless or punk teen (I got called a gorgeous lady and was harassed for cigarettes), I arrive at some abandoned lot accompanied by my towing company driver looking just as confused as me.
"This is not the right place," She says, rubbing the back of her shaved head.
"This is why I don't trust google," I reply. It's a rough start but it's something to break this ice.
Four calls made and 3 different addresses later, We are on the way, a little anxious but collected as I hear, "you can smoke in here."
A few pleasantries are exchanged but the quick ride is silent.
We arrive at the lot, and besides having 160 dollars yanked out of my pocket that I will never see again, the retrieval couldn't be more pleasant. Until...
"Oh you know you have a flat tire?"
"Yeah, it's getting there"
back and forth she walks to and from the back of my car to the side of her truck. All the while I sit patiently and hope she realizes the door of her truck is scratching from side to side scarring a sweet silver BMW who's front end has seen better days.
Another cigarette and 25 minutes later than I had scheduled with the repair shop we were back on track, and besides the few missed turns thanks to a "trusty" GPS system we arrived to a closed door and garage.
Arriving 40 minutes late with no phone call is only partially my fault, the other I will blame on my luck.
I call the number on the outside no answer. I ask a neighboring business, "yeah, they pop in and out from time to time."
Helpful.
I can't keep the busy tow truck lady from her work forever, so the best I can do is have the car park illegally down a block and wait, for what might be days. I hand her back the keys to maneuver the car as best possible into the space on the decently busy street. With the keys back in my hand and a more than speedy goodbye from the woman I notice one of my keys are bent. Almost a right angle. The key, at least not to the ignition, but to opening the car doors and trunk. Noope now it's not just bent, it's completely broken off.
10 minutes and another cigarette later with no sign of my Mercedes savior I give up and look to my right. Conveniently, a European dealership and mechanic. My luck might just change!
I flag a friendly older gentleman down and I give him the low down and as it passes down (or maybe up) the mechanic hierarchy my baby's top is pulled up and she's given a quick but thorough assessment.
"probably the starter."
"really, I told you that." I don't say aloud.
I remain as courteous as can be for having this burden strip away 3 and half hours of my life and now a grand total of 300 dollars of my rent money.
And my monetary assessment comes to what equals my right arm, or at least more than what the actual car is worth itself. 900 buckaroos.
Well unless I start work on a sketchy corner of Aurora I'm not making that money after rent even with my next paycheck days away, and seeing as the car is to be returned to its "rightful" owners to sit in their driveway and die for a fourth time (do cars have 9 lives too?) I don't feel much guilt or need to help with any cost. So the call is made to my father, a futile attempt as it is about the time, for him, like most adults are at their 9to5's. but an urgent text is quickly responded with a dial back.
"hey dad, 900 dollars."
"They make reality shows about this," he jokes.
"At least they get paid for their bad luck."
And with a little bit of poor little poor girl explaining they graciously accept my case and take my sweet 300,000+ mile 22 year old car off my hands.
At least for the next few days I rest easy.
I guess after typing it out and filling my growling belly with a pb+j, my morning doesn't seem so bad. But seriously, wrong addresses, flat tires, missing mechanics, and broken keys along with being talked out of one of my last cigarettes by a singing homeless man, isn't the most exciting way to spend a morning off.
Now, no whammy's no whammy's! I'm trying to make penance karma, gimme a break.
All I can say is karma's a bitch.
Let's sum this up quickly.
My morning, began at 8:30 this morning with a call to a tow truck company. (back story, my car had been towed the previous afternoon before because of my inability to move the car for more than 3 days, my bad. Karma bites #1 I had unknowingly made an appointment for this morning for the car to be assessed, at the same exact time it was being towed.)
After a quick chat with the friendly disembodied voice over the phone, exchange of information and what I had assumed was the correct address of the impound lot; I threw some clothes on and walked myself a few blocks for some caffeine and a nicotine fix and I was on my way down the mile trek to the supposed lot.
After what seemed like too long of mostly empty streets besides the occasional homeless or punk teen (I got called a gorgeous lady and was harassed for cigarettes), I arrive at some abandoned lot accompanied by my towing company driver looking just as confused as me.
"This is not the right place," She says, rubbing the back of her shaved head.
"This is why I don't trust google," I reply. It's a rough start but it's something to break this ice.
Four calls made and 3 different addresses later, We are on the way, a little anxious but collected as I hear, "you can smoke in here."
A few pleasantries are exchanged but the quick ride is silent.
We arrive at the lot, and besides having 160 dollars yanked out of my pocket that I will never see again, the retrieval couldn't be more pleasant. Until...
"Oh you know you have a flat tire?"
"Yeah, it's getting there"
back and forth she walks to and from the back of my car to the side of her truck. All the while I sit patiently and hope she realizes the door of her truck is scratching from side to side scarring a sweet silver BMW who's front end has seen better days.
Another cigarette and 25 minutes later than I had scheduled with the repair shop we were back on track, and besides the few missed turns thanks to a "trusty" GPS system we arrived to a closed door and garage.
Arriving 40 minutes late with no phone call is only partially my fault, the other I will blame on my luck.
I call the number on the outside no answer. I ask a neighboring business, "yeah, they pop in and out from time to time."
Helpful.
I can't keep the busy tow truck lady from her work forever, so the best I can do is have the car park illegally down a block and wait, for what might be days. I hand her back the keys to maneuver the car as best possible into the space on the decently busy street. With the keys back in my hand and a more than speedy goodbye from the woman I notice one of my keys are bent. Almost a right angle. The key, at least not to the ignition, but to opening the car doors and trunk. Noope now it's not just bent, it's completely broken off.
10 minutes and another cigarette later with no sign of my Mercedes savior I give up and look to my right. Conveniently, a European dealership and mechanic. My luck might just change!
I flag a friendly older gentleman down and I give him the low down and as it passes down (or maybe up) the mechanic hierarchy my baby's top is pulled up and she's given a quick but thorough assessment.
"probably the starter."
"really, I told you that." I don't say aloud.
I remain as courteous as can be for having this burden strip away 3 and half hours of my life and now a grand total of 300 dollars of my rent money.
And my monetary assessment comes to what equals my right arm, or at least more than what the actual car is worth itself. 900 buckaroos.
Well unless I start work on a sketchy corner of Aurora I'm not making that money after rent even with my next paycheck days away, and seeing as the car is to be returned to its "rightful" owners to sit in their driveway and die for a fourth time (do cars have 9 lives too?) I don't feel much guilt or need to help with any cost. So the call is made to my father, a futile attempt as it is about the time, for him, like most adults are at their 9to5's. but an urgent text is quickly responded with a dial back.
"hey dad, 900 dollars."
"They make reality shows about this," he jokes.
"At least they get paid for their bad luck."
And with a little bit of poor little poor girl explaining they graciously accept my case and take my sweet 300,000+ mile 22 year old car off my hands.
At least for the next few days I rest easy.
I guess after typing it out and filling my growling belly with a pb+j, my morning doesn't seem so bad. But seriously, wrong addresses, flat tires, missing mechanics, and broken keys along with being talked out of one of my last cigarettes by a singing homeless man, isn't the most exciting way to spend a morning off.
Now, no whammy's no whammy's! I'm trying to make penance karma, gimme a break.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Number 2 Tuesday
Okay. Same day I know.
I really have to pee.
but I thought I'd share this picture.
It cracks me up everytime!!!
I really have to pee.
but I thought I'd share this picture.
It cracks me up everytime!!!
Number 1 Monday
It is August 25th.
A Tuesday, not a Monday. I'm already starting this blog off on the wrong foot. Maybe I'll start it off with the wrong hand as well, and insult a few people while I'm at.
Got off work about an hour ago, walked my weary ass up the hill. and by hill I do mean the hill. Concrete, but a hill still.
I think this blog will be so that everyone, or no one can know about all of my complaints, I can't guarentee it will be funny, or that it will even be frequent as I get tired of things very quickly, but shit, I read a funny blog about 3 millaseconds ago and about the time it took me to create this account; and I was like, "well damn, I'm kind of funny sometimes, mostly observant, maybe I can try this blog thing out too!"
Here I am. My first post, and hardly anything to say.
Maybe I will start off with complaining about my job. Easy enough. I work at one of the biggest corporations in America. Good old Starbucks.
Now, before you jump down my throat for being a corporate whore, here are some nice things: Job security anywhere in America, muthafuckin sweet benefits, and the ability to give you decaf when you piss me off.
Back to what I came here to do, complain.
Complaint number one. Walking to work at the ungodly hour of 4:30 am whilst it rains. It's Seattle right? It rains in August. I tend to constantly forget what state I'm in until I hear one of my friends yell "Caaaallliiifooorrrniaaa!!" and get a firm punch in the arm (state license plate game). This would never happen in California, well the arm punching does.
Complaint number two. No foam lattes. Hey asshole, sure, I am a monkey who pushes buttons, but shit, I am a monkey who makes some deeelish foam and for you to make me scrape it all off, well most likely it's getting resteamed or you get decaf. It's really that simple, I don't like you.
Complaint number three. Angry customers who believe baristas to be mind readers. I'm sorry I didn't ask you if you didn't want whipped cream on your sugary breve mocha, I only assumed you were a fatass all the way around. I'd also like to apologize for when you wanted an iced drink but didn't actually say anything until after you received the drink "OHHH I forgot to ask for it iced", so sorry, I should have known. I'd also like to apologize for not being multi-lingual and not realizing which thing you point at when you just say a flavor.
Right, I'll leave that for now.
I need to put on a shirt (yeah, I'm writing this topless right now. I still have pants on though, don't worry).
And pray to God that this new car battery works and my ghetto mercedes benz will live again (don't be jealous, it's probably older than you).
Until next time I find something else to complain about in this great city of Seattle.
Signing off.
-Lexy
A Tuesday, not a Monday. I'm already starting this blog off on the wrong foot. Maybe I'll start it off with the wrong hand as well, and insult a few people while I'm at.
Got off work about an hour ago, walked my weary ass up the hill. and by hill I do mean the hill. Concrete, but a hill still.
I think this blog will be so that everyone, or no one can know about all of my complaints, I can't guarentee it will be funny, or that it will even be frequent as I get tired of things very quickly, but shit, I read a funny blog about 3 millaseconds ago and about the time it took me to create this account; and I was like, "well damn, I'm kind of funny sometimes, mostly observant, maybe I can try this blog thing out too!"
Here I am. My first post, and hardly anything to say.
Maybe I will start off with complaining about my job. Easy enough. I work at one of the biggest corporations in America. Good old Starbucks.
Now, before you jump down my throat for being a corporate whore, here are some nice things: Job security anywhere in America, muthafuckin sweet benefits, and the ability to give you decaf when you piss me off.
Back to what I came here to do, complain.
Complaint number one. Walking to work at the ungodly hour of 4:30 am whilst it rains. It's Seattle right? It rains in August. I tend to constantly forget what state I'm in until I hear one of my friends yell "Caaaallliiifooorrrniaaa!!" and get a firm punch in the arm (state license plate game). This would never happen in California, well the arm punching does.
Complaint number two. No foam lattes. Hey asshole, sure, I am a monkey who pushes buttons, but shit, I am a monkey who makes some deeelish foam and for you to make me scrape it all off, well most likely it's getting resteamed or you get decaf. It's really that simple, I don't like you.
Complaint number three. Angry customers who believe baristas to be mind readers. I'm sorry I didn't ask you if you didn't want whipped cream on your sugary breve mocha, I only assumed you were a fatass all the way around. I'd also like to apologize for when you wanted an iced drink but didn't actually say anything until after you received the drink "OHHH I forgot to ask for it iced", so sorry, I should have known. I'd also like to apologize for not being multi-lingual and not realizing which thing you point at when you just say a flavor.
Right, I'll leave that for now.
I need to put on a shirt (yeah, I'm writing this topless right now. I still have pants on though, don't worry).
And pray to God that this new car battery works and my ghetto mercedes benz will live again (don't be jealous, it's probably older than you).
Until next time I find something else to complain about in this great city of Seattle.
Signing off.
-Lexy
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