girl in blue


He is a very big man. Huge. And he's angry.

We're sitting in my Echo, and I'm driving fast, unconsciously trying to speed away from him, even though he's in the same car. (I do funky shit like that. Once, Deborah was whispering something in my car, and I tried to make her louder by turning up the volume on my stereo.)

He has a large red and black can of Sobe No Fear. It is empty. As he's talking, he gets angrier. The angrier he gets, the more his large fists clench the empty drink. His words are punctuated by staccato shrieks of abused metal. By the time I drop him off, the round can will have become square.

"That Jennifer," he hisses, "she's a snake. High maintenance, don't get me wrong. Women that age don't be turning up their noses like that. Makes me want to hit her in the face."

He pauses.

"Sorry, sorry. You know what I mean? I never hit women, but I'm just saying. She's a snake."

I make a non-committal sound while unconsciously moving from 77 to 80 mph. I'm not afraid of Al, but he annoys the fuck out of me. Normally, I wouldn't put up with his shit.

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girl in blue

No, seriously

Dear my 54 friends,

I am giving you the opportunity to drop my sorry, non-updating ass with no hard feelings, no strings attached. Seriously, if you don't read my (REALLY OCCASIONAL) shit, and you feel like you want to tighten up the old f-list, do it. I am soooo okay with that. With extra ooooo's even.

I am at the (BI-ANUAL) point in my life where I feel like re-grouping and writing a bunch of shit. If you would like in on this bunch of shit of which I speak, you are more than welcome. However, you know the drill. Most likely, I will update like a freaking fiend for about two weeks and then drop off the face of the earth for a long while. If you are okay with this, I applaud you! I promise to be an active LJer starting tomorrow, replete with comments and awesome posts. But how long will this last? One, in the words of the infamous Mr. Owl, may never know.

So. Drop me if you wanna! I'm about to make a friends cut, and this would totally help! Otherwise, expect grand, if perhaps temporary, things f-list. Grand things indeed.

I'm going to edit my list for people I no longer read or who don't update, (MUCH LIKE ME) but if you wouldn't like to be cut, please let me know.

girl in blue

I wish I wrote this

The way she talks, you’d think she was bulletproof.
The way she walks in the rain, you’d think she was waterproof.
All her plans are foolproof, and her blood is 80 proof.
She’s so cool she thinks she’s safetight from everything;
I mean, her kind of cool isn’t even a theory,
it’s a mathematical proof.
And there’s just one thing she never counted on.

…And I know I’m supposed to say “me” or “love”
But believe me, she’s totally loveproof
And she won’t let me within a hundred yards of her.
No, the only element she isn’t counting on
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girl in blue

(no subject)

I am done with Humboldt.

Unfortunately, I am too fucking tired to write anything profound at this time.

However, I now have a shiny B.A. in English Literature. I do a little dance for it.

Surely, there are thousands of employers waiting to catch a glimpse of said degree so that they can pelt me with money.

Oh, wait. I already have a job, thaaaat's right.

Hah, I'm going back to 2002.

So long Humboldt. I will not miss your bums, but I will miss the trees. And other things.

Great, now I'm sad.
girl in blue

More creepy kids. And shit.

When I was in junior high, I developed a mild obsession with “scary things”—an obsession that I fueled with readily available young adult fiction and film. Apparently, when a white, middle class grade-schooler between the ages of 10-14 first begins to consult the local library or video store, they look for abnormal stuff.

We like ghosts, especially ghost children with old but solvable mysteries.

We prefer said ghost children to quietly wait for and then show themselves to the perfect, if somewhat overshadowed by unfair circumstance such as a divorce in the family or an unrequited budding crush on a popular boy or girl, teenage sleuth aching to put right what once went wrong.

Betty Wren Wright made a killing in this particular market in the early 80s with her “Dollhouse Murders” series. In the same era, Christopher Pike also offered up some juicy ghost-child mysteries that begged to be solved. But this diversion with “ghost children” (who, though indelibly creepy, are usually on the side of good) is not limited to innocent spectral beings.

As pre-teens, we’re into all kinds of weird: monsters and madmen. Twisted things. Magic, witches. Demented nursery rhymes and aliens.

The thing with young adult fiction is that it can never cross the line. We’re not comfortable with that yet. Though seemingly horrible and awful, all of our young adult horror has to wrap up with some sort of closure. We need that happy ending. The ghosts are always good. The madmen and monsters are misunderstood. The villains, usually human, are caught and punished. The evil magic is vanquished, the good magic is restored, and the aliens are unmasked. Everything here plays as if it was all some strange and beguiling episode of Scooby Doo.

In a coup of mass marketed genius, R.L. Stein produced a stunning number of pint sized genre novels under the “Fear Street” and “Goosebumps” titles. Each numbered title—and there are hundreds of them at this point—is slick with a corporate logo, snazily titled, and numbered, making them cool enough—like gimmick gummi snacks and flavored juice boxes—to belong to a market for budding consumers. Furthermore, this system achieves the ultimate status—it makes each product a commodity, as collectible as baseball cards, “I’ll trade you #8 Monster’s Blood for #13 Evil Cheerleaders Part I!”

Yet, as commercial as these products are, their literary value, at least in my opinion, sadly lacks. Though there are hundreds of titles, countless protagonists and teeming antagonists, each novel is virtually the same—the same set-up, conflict and resolution each time. They are miniature television shows, variations upon the same theme. Though this in itself is not a bad thing, it is most certainly boring. More importantly, each novel is as timid as a commercial.

There’s no scary, here; only cheap thrills and inconclusive highs.

Ultimately dissatisfied with young adult genre novels, I moved on to the real thing.
girl in blue

Second verse same as the first

Maybe it’s a personal bias, but for me, there is nothing more terrifying as creepy children.

I remember watching “Pet Sematary” at a middle school slumber party—words could not convey the utter terror in which I lived for weeks.

The creepy child in question, a blond moppet named Gage, toddles around innocently until he is hit by a previously foreshadowed (and therefore ominous) semi-truck that roars down the dirt roads of his rural town. In anguish, Gage’s father pulls at his own hair, gnashes his teeth, and then promptly scoops up the goop that used to be his son and buries it in the nearest former-Indian-burial-ground-cum-haunted-cemetery. Er. I mean, sematary.

Understandably, the boy comes back altered.

Even though the cherubic grin and other extremities are once again in tact, the boy is now demonic.

Running at his family with a butcher knife, Gage still emits that childish giggle—the giggle that signifies whole-hearted American innocence. That light-hearted giggle we still remember from our favorite childhood games. Something about this particular laugh—the wrongness of it, how it twisted something so innocent into something so corrupt and perverse—haunted, and has continued to haunt me.

Give me your Frankenstein monsters with their Halloween head bolts.

Show me your Dracula, complete with bad Eastern European accent and widow’s peak.

I can deal with your axe murderers and their nipple belts, though barely.

But leave the goddamn demon children at home.