You know as a writer you're desperate when you start quoting prostitutes. Not the gritty, toothless variety you find near the airport; but the fairy-tail hookers depicted in misguided 90's-era chick flicks like Pretty Woman.
Kit DeLuca: "You just can't turn tricks forever. You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"
Angel: "Well, I always wanted to be in the Ice Capades."
I'm not sure why the lines popped in my head this morning -- I haven't seen the movie in years -- but there they were like catchy lyrics playing in my brain all day -- "You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"
I went with it, because I'm not on speaking terms with Inspiration, and I've already said I'm desperate.
I have lots of goals or impossible wishes that I file under "goals" for lack of a better lable. They hit me throughout the day, and I share them without considering if they're appropriate or not -- or crazy or not -- and my coworkers look at me in alarm -- "You want to do what?"
I want to pick a bar fight with Muhammad Ali
My ass has never been properly kicked. There was a big, nasty girl at day camp. She threw an eight-ball at my face and made my eye bleed, but she swore she didn't mean it.
I've been threatened several times.
Lindsay R. from high school wanted to kick my ass, because my voice was annoying.
I've been slapped, tackled, slammed against walls and stepped on. Someone dropped a tuba on my head in 10th grade, but that was an accident.
A snotty bar bitch sicked her glam squad on me, because I wrote a song about her and told everyone she had herpes -- she was doing it with a boy my friend liked, and she was mean. We never exchanged blows, because I'm small, and someone's always there to protect me whether or not I deserve protection or want it.
It would be awesome, for a runt like me, who's neither landed nor received a proper punch, to say "Muhammad Ali kicked my ass at a sports bar."
I want to be a body snatcher
I was thinking the other day I need to occupy a different body for a while -- take a vacation from myself. Instead of a month-long walkabout in France or Italy or wherever people go for month-long walkabouts I’d inhabit people like resorts and poke around their lives a bit.
I’d start with Scarlett Johansson, because Marilyn Monroe is dead -- and if she wasn’t she’d be too old for my purposes.
I’m uncomfortable in my skin, and I mean that literally. I’m good with the inner me -- my brain and my spirit and the rest of the crap that makes me a person. It’s the physical me I’m at odds with. Swimsuits and form-fitting clothes make me stabby. I can’t sit comfortably in a chair unless every square-inch of me -- below the neck -- is covered. I use objects of convenience -- purses, coats, pillows -- to hide behind, or I’ll cross my arms for lack of suitable shield.
If I occupied Johansson for 24 hours I’d do everything naked -- gymnastics, grocery shop, fetch the mail, take a jog. I’d go bowling with Lewis Black and invite Mickey Rourke’s Whiplash to spend the night -- appalling I know, but Ryan Reynolds didn’t cut it; I like things interesting, scandalous.
I want to be a man for one year
It's no secret -- I care what I look like more than I should. Mornings are some kind of hell -- getting dressed ; drying my hair; putting on makeup ... INSANITY. But I have to be presentable for those moments throughout the day that I'm faced with my reflection in an office window or a bathroom mirror. I have to be OK with the person staring back at me
Hair and eyeliner -- those are my tells. If my hair's soaking wet in a messy bun atop my head, you can bet I didn't sleep well. If I'm not wearing makeup, I'm sick and/or pissed -- I might have a tan, but that's rare.
I want to be a man -- addadicktome.
For one thing, I'd avoid my period without the hassles of pregnancy, birth-control injections, surgery or menopause. The plumbing is simpler too. I could pee wherever I wanted -- no more waiting in line for a toilet.
Men have it easy. They just don't know it, because none of them are creative enough to conceive of being women unless they want to be women forever.
I want a temporary sex change -- a break from bras and tampons and menstrual migraines and Lady's Gillette and makeup.
I want to be a weirdo
Success at last.
Kit DeLuca: "You just can't turn tricks forever. You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"
Angel: "Well, I always wanted to be in the Ice Capades."
I'm not sure why the lines popped in my head this morning -- I haven't seen the movie in years -- but there they were like catchy lyrics playing in my brain all day -- "You gotta have a goal. Do you have a goal?"
I went with it, because I'm not on speaking terms with Inspiration, and I've already said I'm desperate.
I have lots of goals or impossible wishes that I file under "goals" for lack of a better lable. They hit me throughout the day, and I share them without considering if they're appropriate or not -- or crazy or not -- and my coworkers look at me in alarm -- "You want to do what?"
I want to pick a bar fight with Muhammad Ali
My ass has never been properly kicked. There was a big, nasty girl at day camp. She threw an eight-ball at my face and made my eye bleed, but she swore she didn't mean it.
I've been threatened several times.
Lindsay R. from high school wanted to kick my ass, because my voice was annoying.
I've been slapped, tackled, slammed against walls and stepped on. Someone dropped a tuba on my head in 10th grade, but that was an accident.
A snotty bar bitch sicked her glam squad on me, because I wrote a song about her and told everyone she had herpes -- she was doing it with a boy my friend liked, and she was mean. We never exchanged blows, because I'm small, and someone's always there to protect me whether or not I deserve protection or want it.
It would be awesome, for a runt like me, who's neither landed nor received a proper punch, to say "Muhammad Ali kicked my ass at a sports bar."
I want to be a body snatcher
I’d start with Scarlett Johansson, because Marilyn Monroe is dead -- and if she wasn’t she’d be too old for my purposes.
I’m uncomfortable in my skin, and I mean that literally. I’m good with the inner me -- my brain and my spirit and the rest of the crap that makes me a person. It’s the physical me I’m at odds with. Swimsuits and form-fitting clothes make me stabby. I can’t sit comfortably in a chair unless every square-inch of me -- below the neck -- is covered. I use objects of convenience -- purses, coats, pillows -- to hide behind, or I’ll cross my arms for lack of suitable shield.
If I occupied Johansson for 24 hours I’d do everything naked -- gymnastics, grocery shop, fetch the mail, take a jog. I’d go bowling with Lewis Black and invite Mickey Rourke’s Whiplash to spend the night -- appalling I know, but Ryan Reynolds didn’t cut it; I like things interesting, scandalous.
I want to be a man for one year
It's no secret -- I care what I look like more than I should. Mornings are some kind of hell -- getting dressed ; drying my hair; putting on makeup ... INSANITY. But I have to be presentable for those moments throughout the day that I'm faced with my reflection in an office window or a bathroom mirror. I have to be OK with the person staring back at me
Hair and eyeliner -- those are my tells. If my hair's soaking wet in a messy bun atop my head, you can bet I didn't sleep well. If I'm not wearing makeup, I'm sick and/or pissed -- I might have a tan, but that's rare.
I want to be a man -- addadicktome.
For one thing, I'd avoid my period without the hassles of pregnancy, birth-control injections, surgery or menopause. The plumbing is simpler too. I could pee wherever I wanted -- no more waiting in line for a toilet.
Men have it easy. They just don't know it, because none of them are creative enough to conceive of being women unless they want to be women forever.
I want a temporary sex change -- a break from bras and tampons and menstrual migraines and Lady's Gillette and makeup.
I want to be a weirdo
Success at last.
No worries!!
ReplyDelete