The narration that just occured in my head, vII.i

North Face: the official sponsor of Boston College.

-- 12:41 PM

Where I'm calling from

I'm horrible, horrible, and I hate when I do this, because it was the worst part of last year, when I would lose my cool at the most inexplicable times and shout nonsensical things like "I AM NOT ENOUGH" and "THIS IS ALL I DO." I had such an A+ day today, with invitations and tickets and physical activity and progress, and I wanted to call and say, "Guess what an A+ day I had today?" Instead, the second she picked up the phone I soured. I neglected what my original news, reverted to one word answers like she was the one who had called me at a ridiculous time, and hung up. The only thing said worth remembering in the five minutes was this:

"Are you mad at me because I don't have the answers?"

One hundred percent. I'm mad because I always feel like I can't tell people real things anymore. I can't say, Ahhh I'm so excited I can hardly sleep because my article will be out in the morning!! or Last night I lay in bed taking pictures of my feet and realized that no one would ever find that cute or This number right here proves how smart I am, and I look at it everyday like it's some kind of achievement or I think I have a cyst but I'm pretending that I'm pregnant. I don't know whose fault it is that I can't open up anymore. And by I don't know whose fault it is, I mean clearly it is my own fault. I mean the reason I keep unleashing these unfair insinuations of your fault your fault your fault on my mother is that she's the only one I know will cry afterwards. I mean I'm getting desperate enough for some kind of reciprocation of feeling that I'll draw tears if I have to.

I mean that the next time we talk, I am going to pretend like you haven't read this, and you're going to do the same, and we're going to continue with the "fine good great seriously" way of living. And so having established that:

I am sad, and I don't know how to say so.

-- 06:56 PM

I try

I write for The Heights now, which was a very big step for me because, as I've mentioned before, I do not like being criticized. Fortunately, I haven't been, and it's going well. A good thing, too, since I'm in the midst of a crisis and I get between-class emails from my dad that really flip my mood.

You are really good at this article writing. It was interesting, it included a lot of quotes from people, and you used the word "counterintuitive." It doesn't get much better than that! Congratulations!

-- 01:49 PM

At all

It's really interesting the way everyone clams up about it, like every person I've ever been in contact with has come to an agreement that this? Is not something we are going to talk about. Don't encourage her. It's perfectly all right for you to go on at length about your concerns, to tell me every little detail of every little exploit because it's action, it's drama, it's happening. But everyone's greatest fear is stagnancy, a reminder that not all things move forward. It sure is awkward for those two minutes out of the year that I actually pluck up the courage to address an issue that picks away at my brain all day, every day, isn't it? The eyes dart away as though to say, "Stop. It's cruel of you to do this to me. This. Isn't. Fair."

Even Maxine wouldn't let me dwell on it. "Well, it will happen." Now let's talk about your ten-year plan.

Okay. I see myself in a job. In a city. With too much to give and no one appropriate to receive it. Everyone is being taken away. I see myself collecting things, arranging them on shelves. Crying into ceramic things. I see myself collecting more things, and I keep them all to myself, in all of my pockets because no one ever comes over to see them. No one ever asks me where I got them from, where this came from, these things I hold. Sometimes I see myself dead but I don't know how I got there. The explanation is tucked away under a million other things that no one's tried to barter for. I will give you this for that.

THERE ARE THINGS I NEED TO TALK ABOUT WITH YOU. THERE ARE HOURS AND HOURS AND DAYS AND YEARS OF TALKING I NEED TO DO.

-- 06:22 PM

Freelance

I've been trying to get myself into so many things, so many new hobbies I'm just dying to wrap my fists around and press them into my fingerprints, that I have achieved approximately nothing. My hands just seem to dip into the bowl and come out dry. It is the reason I do not read magazines. What would I read? And if I do not read magazines, then what would I write? What could I tell the brides who already possess my most desperate wish, the tweens concerned with things that never concerned me, the interior designers who actually own homes, the parents and their children, the musicians who don't want to hear that I been on a three-year between-musics hiatus, the foodies, the romantics, the politicos, the meatheads, the connoisseurs of anything and everything? I've defied being defined for so long that I can relate to everyone on one level and nobody on another.

-- 08:53 PM

Two times today that someone thought I was gay

"Hmm... these are from the 5 for $25?"

"Yeah, that table."

"Okay, one of them is in the wrong spot.... Yep, it's this one. So, you'll have to pick another." (Looking at Addie) "Do you want her to do it, or...?"

"...No, thanks. I'll get it." (To Addie) "She asked if I wanted you to pick out my underwear."

"I heard that. She thinks I'm your girlfriend."

"Probably because I said really loud that you're my girlfriend. Except she didn't get the sarcasm."

"But how would she know? She's been behind that counter, she hasn't seen me over here at all."

"So she just thinks it's me? She just assumes that I'm here with my girlfriend?! I told you, there's something about me!"

--

"I think I like this watch. Do you like it?"

"I like it. It's like mine. We've got twin watches."

"Oh, cool, it is like yours."

"You should see if they could get that watch's face with this watch's band."

"Yeah. Excuse me? I was wondering, is there some way to take this black band but use that smaller face...?"

(Face of disgust) "No. These are two separate watches."

"Oh. Okay. Well... this one looks good, right?"

"It's nice, I like it."

"Okay, I'll take this one."

(Tossing bag in my direction, with unnecessary disdain) "There you go. Have a nice day, ladies."

"..."

"..."

"...Did she just think we're gay?"

"What does she mean she can't change the band? That's half the point of a watch bench, to put a new band on an old watch. Was she lying? Was that homophobia?"

"God, I need to stop hanging around with you."

-- 10:17 PM

I learned from the best

I'm in the middle of cleaning my room at home for the first time in probably 2 years, and I just found a stack of papers that my mom has apparently collected--report cards, SAT scores, certificates--and amidst the pile was a poem I wrote for her one Mother's Day. I think this was from sophomore year of high school. I completely forgot about it, but I couldn't not post it:

I know that you hate poetry
unless it's that which does rhyme,
and were this not my own idiosyncrasy
I wouldn't waste my time.
This one has no measure,
no beat or iambic pentameter,
because it's late at night and after days of tests
I can barely write a letter.
But I digress, I will make my point:
You're the bomb, you're awesome, you're gellin',
and if I had my own talk show,
you'd be on all the time, like Ellen.
I'm a total mess and my direction's weak
and my self-esteem is low,
and as a mom you're quick to blame yourself,
but I insist it's not so.
You made me funny and smart and quick,
and you taught me all of life's rules,
so for everything that's wrong with me,
well, I blame the schools.
I had no time to buy you things
since homework consumes my hours,
so instead of buying diamond rings,
I'll showcase my magic powers.
Whatever your heart desires,
whatever tasks needs to be done,
call upon me, the greatest wizard of time,
I will be your number one.
To honor your love this Mother's day
I grant you your wishes three.
Of course, I should do this on non-holidays, too,
but I'm a selfish son of a B.
The rhyme is through, you're free to go,
but here are my parting words:
I love you, Mama, you're truly the best,
now let's go beat the crap out of some nerds.

Your daughter,
Molly S. Griffin

-- 01:00 PM

Read me like a

For someone who claims to like reading, who plans to publish books one day, who averaged around four books by every Friday last semester, who works in a bookstore and is surrounded by all the literature anyone could ever ask for, I sure don't read much anymore. Maybe I'm just tired of all the pages everywhere (being an English major is exhausting and expensive: I had to go out and buy a bookcase for my dorm this year because I didn't have enough space for the $750 worth of texts, and I built it all by myself!), but the last thing I read for pleasure was the seventh Harry Potter, and what do you know--I have spent the entire winter break rereading it. It also may be because I am strapped for cash and feel like every book I look at is just a waste of money that I could be spending on a better book. I need guarantees with my literature.

Last year, a few of us at school talked about getting together a book club for this exact reason--we never read on our own during the semester--but some things happened and some things didn't. Now, I'm considering it again. At the very least, I want someone to recommend a book for me NOW so that I may have something interesting to turn to when I'm sick of 18th century garbage (the worst century, imo). At the most, I want a book club, one where we really get together and we really decide on books that we all really read, and maybe we don't actually talk about it and sure, yeah, maybe we just gossip the entire time, but at least I'm not a big English major fraud. At least when people ask me what types of books I enjoy lately, I won't come up with a random genre that actually translates to "Jurassic Park. I am reading Jurassic Park."

-- 01:10 AM

Pre-SAD

Things are going well, although the return to school fast approaches. The weather is tricking me, however, because it feels like it's warming-up-for-good middle-of-spring but is only the beginning of January, and oh the agony of post-Christmas winter. I can't hyphenate enough words to begin describing the toll seasonal affective disorder takes on me, though I'm sure I will produce enough entries in the coming months to give you some vague, barely formulated idea of HOW I HATE THE GREY.

Fortunately, today was very nice, particularly when I got out of work two hours early. There were walkers, joggers, bikers everywhere, and I immediately thought, I must join them. I parked in the driveway, changed into better shoes, and hitched up the dog to take a stroll. The guys who were flying RC airplanes had gone, but all the old men were out with their dogs, just like this old man. I spoke to one with a well-behaved yellow lab for a while, who said after a while, "I should go before the sun sets and the wife sends out the National Guard." He and the dog got back in their car, and I liked my barrette, and the cyclist said hello, and then the world did the following.

...And then my dog pooped in the road.

-- 08:23 PM

I syrians-ly wish I was a cubbywriter for Build-A-Bear

"Cubgratulations! Cele-bear-ate the Patriots & their pawfect season."

-- 12:08 AM

So very unlike four years ago

Garv came into work the other day and said, "You don't update your blog anymore." And it's been something I've been thinking about for a while, because I put all this time and money into the damn thing and I just can't seem to make the content as worthwhile as the appearance anymore. I know I've talked about this before (at length!) but that didn't seem to change anything. The other night I walked in and out of the house about one trillion times, looking for something, and then said,

"I just want to say that this house smells like my sophomore year of high school. There is some candle in here that smells like four years ago."

My brother looked at me as though to elaborate on whether it was a good or bad thing.

"I'm just saying, it smells like four years ago. That is all."

And that's all it ever seems to come to these days. I'm eating the famed black-and-white cookie from Seinfeld right now--why can I not think of any "look to the cookie" jokes? I think I read 50 books this semester--why did I never catalogue them like I planned to? I've been making resolutions in my head for months--why won't I write them down? I've got a paper diary, I've got time alone to write in it--so why don't I? Why won't I write down anything anymore?

I feel like there are reasons, and sometimes I whisper them to myself throughout the day, but I can't put them down. And right now, I'm not going to put them down. I have no clue where my head's at.

-- 12:37 AM

Crackers are a family food.

It's pretty nice what a single day off from work will allow. I woke up at eleven and reconfigured my website. This new layout is cleaner, it's right for winter, and it makes more sense to me. After all, my dad is a pretty big wheel down at the cracker factory. Keep refreshing if it looks a little weird, it will take about a day for the updates to catch up on their own. Also, sorry that you now have to enter a static phrase to post comments, I was just tired of the robots abound. Fastasfox.com will redirect here for one month, and then it will be gone, so update your bookmarks now.

This is probably the most exciting thing happening for me right now, though. Otherwise, I just work all the live long day, become concerned about having to go back to school again soon, and complain to anyone who will listen about the migraines that won't go away. So, that's that. As always, if you find any glitches around here, let me know.

-- 04:22 PM

A few lists about a few things

Usually for Christmas, I write a list in a certain way about the events that transpired. I've been very busy working lately, though, and then other things happened, like the year changing, so it won't happen this time. But here's what's going on around here.

This website needs some cleaning up, because I want to change a few things. Number one, I'm starting Project 2008, in which I take a picture of something everyday. This is blatantly copied from Gia's Project 365 from last year, but I loved it, and I also love stealing. I need it to mesh a bit better, but right now the left sidebar is just a big mess, and the comments are robot-ridden, and I need new colors and new schemes and everything. I will also probably get a new domain name soon.

This place needs updates, 2008 is going to be one hell of a year.

-- 12:06 AM