| What, oh this? This is my foot! In my mouth! HAHAHAH. |
[26 Oct 2008|06:07pm] |
Messages from home.
Voicemail, 10-26-08: Hi Maryrose, it's your mother. Do you remember me? I'm short, I have big hair, I'm pretty....I'm your mother. Remember? I love you, call me soon!
Text Message, 10-22-08: Gurl, im like a fat kid missing cake bc i miss uIM, 10-26-08: MoErin221: w/e its almost just amusing for me and kaitlin at this point
MoErin221: bc shes really self centered and a giant anus
God love ya, past. Man PSE IS FINISHED KINDA I GET MY LIFE BACK. I get to see these people I'm rather fond of relatively soon! YES.
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| Jean Finnegan Biden's son does not visit nuns empty handed. |
[13 Oct 2008|03:47pm] |
Dear Lie-Berry Patrons,
No. I do not know the exact title, author, call number, and location of every item in the library. There are over 200,000 books, magazines, and other reference materials on catalogue. If I could remember all of that information off hand you can bet I wouldn't be pulling $7.50 an hour at a freaking school library. Those sort of cognitive skills are reserved for world-savers. Or at the very least, Vegas sideshows.
I will gladly help you locate a book, provided you meet me halfway. Help me help you. Thank you.
Sincerely,
The Circulation Lady
In other news, Joe Biden's memoir is about a hundred and forty seven kinds of wonderful. He loves nuns. And football. And knowledge. And family. And he consistently compliments himself by quoting other people who compliment him. Oh my God. I love this man so freaking much.
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| Yeah, but what city is he singing about? It's not called Secaucus, Secaucus! |
[12 Oct 2008|02:13am] |
You guys. I bought Joe Biden's autobiography. His AUTOBIOGRAPHY, you guys.
I AM SO FUCKING EXCITED.
I was gonna wait and order it cheap off Amazon, but then I thought: "No. Joe Biden, for you, I pay fifteen dollars." And I convinced myself I can use it for a studio assignment. So, we're pretty much covered, there.
I read the first page in the store. You guys, the kids at his school used to call him Dash. Not cause he was fast (which he was) but because he stuttered. Dash, as in morse code. I LOVE THIS MAN IF HE'S NOT OUR NEW VEEP I'LL KILL MYSELF. Or at the very least move to Scotland. I got family in Glasgow. I'm good.
My granddad only watches FoxNews. He'd never heard of the Sarah Palin makes-women-pay-for-rape-kits thing. He thought I made it up. Despite this, he continues to be the Smartest Man in the World.
The trees are orange and I can see my breath. Downtown is filled with scarecrows. My friends are just as sweet and witty and immature and beautiful as they have always been. We sat in Chili's and giggled about boobs as fajita-steam stank up our hair.
Weekends home are great.
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| Did you just ask me about my period? |
[23 Sep 2008|02:36am] |
It was stupid. It was stupid and dumb and unintelligent and I don't know why I did it. I don't know what I was trying to prove. He's not going to answer and even if he does it will just be sweet and inoffensive and defusing. We'll have a giggle and never talk about it again. I don't know why I do this to myself.
/End late night panic attack.
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| I wanna hold her hand, smell her hair...but I don't wanna be her stupid boyfriend, psh. |
[20 Sep 2008|11:24pm] |
There is one train and one hundred and twenty three minutes between Poughkeepsie and Manhatten. I want to wear a black dress in Grand Central Station, to check my lipstick in the ticket window. I want one hundred and twenty three minutes against my mouth. I want to see what Poughkeepsie tastes like.
I may have done something very stupid.
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| Follow me, mama. If you want to live. |
[11 Sep 2008|07:28pm] |
Today at club day, I encountered a pimply looking fella wearing a Dethklok tee shirt. Thrilled to find another fan that is not Cat, I flounced away from the happy Theta Phi Alpha table and poked him in the arm.
Me: I love your shirt.
Pimples McGee: Oh. Uh. Thanks?
Me: Have you seen the season finale?!
Pimples McGee: You mean this season?
Me: Yeah!
Pimples McGee: Oh, ah, no. I'm more of a DVD buying person.
Me: (extremely disappointed and annoyed) Oh. Well, it's on adultswim.com. You should watch it. It's really good.
Pimples McGee: Oh, sure.
Me: It's a special half hour episode. Yeah. Bye.
I mean, really, if you are going to advertise yourself as a fan, could you please, you know, watch the show? I wasn't even going over to fan all over the place; I had potential women to recruit! (And clubs to sign up for I joined like thrity clubs oh God enthusiam.) I just wanted to have a hello with another fan. And he wasn't even a real fan! Gosh.
I bought a box of Lucky Charms solely for the mini-Joker prize inside. When I finish this box I'll buy another and get Batman. And then they'll fight. Awesome.
I need to buy beef.
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| Dear McGyver, enclosed is a paper clip, a rubber band, and a drinking straw. Please save my dog. |
[27 Aug 2008|08:59pm] |
Dan Lordin, the tracklete two years my senior who I secretly had a crush on, just delivered my mom a pizza. He said hello. I looked nice. Life fulfilled.
Of course, I was holding The Pup back because cute runner of the days of my youth rang the doorbell. And pup thinks doorbell-ringing is an affront to the family honor.
Uh. Nothing to update on. At all. Everyone had left me, left me for dead! Not really, Al is still here. We saw Dark Knight last night (because it was a crime against nature that she had not seen it yet) and tonight we venture to the cinema again, for Apatowian delight! FriendFellas want to see Pineapple Express. We have not actually seen FriendFellas since GessnerFest 08, roughly a week before The Wooing began. Note: next time I woo, I need to try harder. As in, speaking to the woo-ee more than once every two weeks. Fella might come tonight. Maybe not. We'll see. More on that later.
I shotgunned "Running in the Family" by Michael OodanjaIcan'tspellhisname. Now I want to write a memoir. Chapter One: Imaginary Unicorn Corral and its Effect On The 5th Grade Class. My memoir will be great. A chronicle of lunacy! LUUUNACY.
I don't know. I didn't sleep. I should not be given access to a computer when I have not slept. To the shower!
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| "My girlfriend turned into the moon." |
[21 Jul 2008|01:28am] |
Why am I still on the computer all I want to do is go to bed and yet I'm still sitting here watching that show about fat kids for the fifth time what the hell is wrong with me and oh God I've lost all sense of punctuation and my keyboard is missing the k and o keys and it's really inconvienient typing without those keys since I have to press a lot harder and I am still awake
Breaking news on the wooing front. We now go live to Maryrose in the field, who is still awake. Maryrose?
Thanks, Maryrose. Recent reports have shown a serious progression in the wooing of The Fella. During another excursion to New Jersey's famed Devil's Tree, Fella made a point to sit behind Maryrose and creep her the fuck out with his Salad Fingers imitation. He's really good at it, and he knows she hates it, and he's just the sort of fella to keep on with that sort of act for hours. When Maryrose's shrieks of horror and discomfort were tucked into her knees, Fella reached over the seat and proceeded to rub her shoulders. Never one to just freaking take a good thing from a fella, Maryrose then called him a "fucking dildo licker," (in jest, she reports) and after a pause, Fella put his massive sexy hands around her neck and pantomined strangling her. This lasted for aproximately three seconds, just before best pal Al blasted an unintelligible Reggaeton song for the fortieth time.
Later, as Fella 'n friends were leaving, Fella reached into the passenger seat window to hug Maryrose goodbye. Maryrose could feel his scruff against her jaw. Then, with his forehead on her temple, he whispered directly into her ear, "I want to take you to dinner."
This, of course, was completely ruined by the fact that the sweet sentiment was spoken in the Salad Fingers voice, which, as previously mentioned, freaks the ever living fuck out of her. Maryrose does not know whether or not this is a quote from that God awful website--which is a very high possibility--and she is too much of a coward to check. Either way, she smiled a lot the next day during her long drive up to Binghamton. And it was only partially due to her re-read of Cuckoo's Nest.
The most exciting development came Friday night, when Maryrose was salivating over the prospect of seeing The Dark Knight after nearly a year of anticipation. Finding that none of her friends were available, Maryrose decided to just go alone. There was no way she was waiting for this movie. She. Would. Die. Suddenly, a text from Fella alerted her that he was indeed available and very interested in joining her. Maryrose warned him that it would just be the two of them and he could invite a few of his cronies friends if he desired. He did not. Maryrose purchased the tickets online and paid for Fella's. She then got ready, and looked really freaking cute. Seriously. Marathoning What Not To Wear has done wonders for her. Fella picked her up and promised to pony up the eleven dollars. At the theatre, Maryrose skipped and squealed and leaped and did other embarrassing things because dear God, was she excited for this movie. Fella was pretty sweet, laughing at her and making a few Heath Ledger death jokes in sort of bad taste. He stopped when she asked. It was surprisingly natural, and not nearly as awkward as she expected.
The movie was beyond any adjective Maryrose can come up with in her sleep deprived state, but now is neither the time nor place. Maryrose and Fella drove back, Route 22 whizzing by with a flourish of faded neon lights. Dropkick Murphys blared and he chattered about the show he recently attended. He took the sortof longer route, even after Maryrose pointed out the shorter one.
Upon reaching Maryrose's home, fella retrieved his eleven dollars. Maryrose refused, but her hands could not find the doorhandle. The car was dark and her hands were still quivering a little from the orgasm of cinema she had just seen. Fella, taking advantage, pressed the money to her palm. Maryrose accepted, but as soon as she stepped out of the car, she slammed the money to the sticky vinyl and trotted to her porch. Fella did not follow her.
This not-date brought to you by the letter dear sweet baby Jesus I just want to date this boy.
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| Check out Erin Go Bra-less! |
[05 Jul 2008|01:12am] |
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Things I Have Read (Because I Am So Neat)
- The Collected Short Stories of Amy Hempel (Cause all writing majors need to know how spectacular they are not. Admire all you will never achieve! Hooray!)
- The Seas by Samantha Hunt
- The Invention of Everything Else by Samantha Hunt (Yaaaay teacher. Yaaaay I know this awesome lady who wrote these wonderful things and passes her writer knowledge onto me and now can send her wisdom to the itty-bitty writers of tomorrow CAUSE SHE'S THE NEW DIRECTOR OF THE PROGRAM YEAH.)
- Another Bullshit Night in Suck City by Nick Flynn (re-affirmed my faith in memoirs.)
- The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner (jhgsedghdsgjskhsakjdhaskjdhajkdhawjd BESTEVERITHINKSO.)
- Anagrams by Lorrie Moore (Well. Ms. Moore, as my writer-idol, or wridol if you will, can do no wrong. But nonetheless, eh. Had it's moments...had a LOT of moments, but I think lady shines in the short story form. Things get a little kitchy when she spills past 40 pages. Still, not bad.)
Things I Will Read (Because I Am Great)
The Stranger by Albert Camus (Albie, I didn't give you a chance in high school. I'm better now. I'm man enough to give you another shot.) One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey (re-reading! Cause it's my fav! Even though to be in that world I'd either have to be a ball-breaking bitch or a slut. Whooo life-changing heart of gold slut!) The Beatles by Bob Spitz (wtf I've had this for like two years. Time to be opened!) Whatever Book Is First on the Required List by That Guy (Eh. I have required reading. I don't remember what. There are four. One's by Cormac McCartney. I'll space 'em out.) Absalom! Absalom! by William Faulkner (It's a new story, rich with Faulkner fantasim, but partially narrated by QUENTIN COMPSON. My fella from Sound and the Fury! Yesyesyes, Billy. So glad you overlap characters and places. Please be alive again. We need to be pals.) After that, who knows? Lolita? Jesus's Son? One of the eight hundred Beatle-biographies I own? The possibilities are endless when you are a nerd!
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| I vas born in Dooselldorf and dat is vhy dey call me Rolf! |
[02 Jul 2008|01:59am] |
And the winner of Most Awkward Response of the Night goes to...Me! And the gem that wrangled this pretigious title?
Guy I Went To High School With: Wow, your hair got long!
Me: Yeah. It, uh, grew.
Whoooo way to go me! Good to see that stellar wit kick in when needed!
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| Is that Harriet Tubman's Underground Railroad? It IS! Go, freedom train, go! |
[28 Jun 2008|01:13am] |
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I have begun my wooing. And by wooing, I mean this:
Stay tuned for part two, in which Maryrose and pals find themselves in a very unlikely and crazy location. Spoiler alert! There's a pool there! And it changes colors. Which is really fucking cool. Plots for secret wine parties and making-outs ensue. Not actual making-outs, plots for making-outs. Plots involving wine. And parties.
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| "Look! I'm leech Charlie Chaplin!" |
[23 Jun 2008|12:13am] |
Oh my God, I am so happy Metalocalypse is back in full, bone crushing, spleen shredding force. Thank God for Adult Swim. I would not survive the summer without some sort of weekly television fix.
I may start wooing. It would just be the most complicated, complex, non-wooing wooing in the history of wooing.
So, fella, this is what I would have said the other night had I not been full of beer and nicotine and Mongolian Barbeque.
"You are wonderful. I don't think you hear that enough, so I'll say it again. You are wonderful. I won't rattle off all the things that are wonderful about you because there are a lot, and I know you get embarrassed. (By the way, you are adorable when you blush. You don't need to hide your face in the neck of your shirt.) But listen: you're smart, funny, interesting (which, really, is a bigger deal than most people realize) and, I hate to break it to you, bud, but you're attractive. Really attractive. You're sort of a babe. You're sort of the kind of guy that would immediately get cast in a teen drama about basketball and sex and how tough it is to be white and pretty and unable to make your three-pointer. You're smokin', is what I'm saying.
Look, I know what it's like to feel sortakinda lonely, and to always question what you are doing wrong, and to rip up your self image trying to find that not-answer, that non-existant reason why nothing seems to ever, ever, ever work out the way it's supposed to. And I know you have enough baggage to fill a midsized mini-van. But really? Any girl idiotic enough to break your heart should be punching in the fun sacks.
And I would never break your heart."
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| You triflin', good for nothin' type'a brotha. |
[14 Jun 2008|02:32am] |
I'm doing a reading at Van Gogh's Ear in Union. It's an open mic night. I'll be up for ten minutes. I'm terrified.
Not so much of actually reading. I'm cool with crowds and public speaking. I'm more terrified of finishing a new piece I want to read by Tuesday. And revising a few others. Gotta bring my A-Game.
I'm also terrified that people won't come. People that I know and care about, anyway. That's insecure, sixteen-year-old Maryrose talking. Cause I know they'll come, and say it was sooooooo good, and maybe actually listen. My concern is whether they'll come to see me read, rather than come to be out somewhere that isn't Friendly's. Or Dunkin' Donuts.
Revertigo. It really, really is a real thing.
Which sort of sucks, actually, because twenty year old Maryrose is so awesome. She shouldn't be second guessing herself, or holding back opinions, or checking her stomach in the mirror every chance she gets, or repositioning her arms on the table so they don't look puffy, or constantly overdressing to compensate for not being skinny-skinny or having a boyfriend. Cause seriously? Twenty year old Maryrose is way too awesome for that sixteen year old Maryrose bullshit.
I am freaking sick of all The Boyfriend talk. It gets annoying after, oh, three hours of nothing else.
I'm being propositioned from an unlikely and hilarious place. And by "being propositioned" I mean "someone still hasn't grown a pair and thinks asking Al how I am is a get-into-my-pants free card." No, Alex Nappi. I will not go over your house at midnight to swim in your pool. Hah.
Ten hour shift tomorrow. Eff.
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| "I'm going to write a book. It will be called, "I am a duck. I used to be a quail."" |
[31 May 2008|01:47am] |
We are not going to Colorado for vacation! This is great news!
Although I seem to be the only one who thinks going to Colorado would be as exciting as licking tar. Or going to Ohio. (ZING!) I don't know. My only criteria for family vacation place was "It cannot be landlocked." And what does family say? "NAH, COLORADO HAS RIVERS. IT'S NOT THE SAME. SERIOUSLY." I do not want to spend a week looking at rocks. Hot rocks. Tall rocks. 4000 year old rocks, they are STILL ROCKS. They are clusters of dirt! They are clumps of erosion! They are...I've made myself clear, I do not want to go to Colorado. But we are not going! So bully for me!
I like my jeorb at Coffee Beanery. But they do not work me enough. Gimme 30 hours a week, nice but-have-no-concept-of-personal-boundaries Russian couple! My hands smell like hazelnut and bleu cheese and the plastic of garbage bags. And don't think they're not clean cause, hi, I've washed them at least 45 times. I'm not exaggerating. When the customers ain't a coming, there's little to do besides sanitize the tables and wash your hands. And brew coffee. And drink free coffee. (IHADSIXCUPSTODAYTHATWASAMISTAKE.)
Tomorrow I will smell like pork juice and helium and icing and that weird old man odor that always seems to hover around the Knights of Columbus hall. Yay for getting my catering job back.
There needs to be more things to do around here. And for less coin. Cause cash ain't exactly rolling in. I might get a third job. Lame.
So, I see why Samantha Hunt is such a big shot at Pratt and the world. Cause her books are uh. May. Zing. Oh my God, I'm ashamed she read anything I wrote. How does she tolerate us?
EDIT: I added an excerpt from her novel The Invention of Everything Else because seriously, you guys need proof on how crazy awesome she is. Or maybe you don't. I just freaking love this part. (Freddie is short for Winnifred, pee ess.)
"They crossed town, ducking below the El tracks, racing to pass in front of streetcars that moved in lurching jerks. Freddie and Walter made their way over toward the busy piers of the Hudson, where despite the activity of merchant ships loading and unloading there was peace on the river. Standing by the current with Freddie beside him, Walter imagined he could see a vein of saltwater commingling with the fresh. He found something very romantic in this meeting. He pointed it out to Freddie, who could finally wait no longer and took his hand in hers. Walter stared straight out across the current to the cliffs of New Jersey to slow his heart."
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| She said, "Thanks. I like you too." And he said, "Cool." |
[04 Mar 2008|01:48pm] |
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Dear Boy,
I like you. Please stop making me disolve into an awkward quivering puddle. Someday I would like to have a conversation with you, one that is not about stale rolls or Trapped in the Closet. Oh, God.
Sincerely, since Love is too forward,
Maryrose.
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| Love behooved cunt bunnies. |
[22 Feb 2008|02:20am] |
Studio project was ridiculously fun. (I asked strangers if they would want a piece of chocolate in exchange for a word. I filled a whole notebook.) I wound up with sixty bizzare, mostly unrelated words, and jigsawed one helluva poem outta it. I'm not going to write up the whole thing here, but some gem lines include, "Patience, tiger, Jesus loves you," "Mobilize, shrubbery! Catapult sewer sunflowers!" and of course, the subject. Which is my favorite.
Ahhh Foo Fighters on Tuesday! And it was WONDERFUL. I've talked out all the joy of it and I don't feel like repeating it for the 93219210 time, but some moments of delight included: Dave Grohl playing a song for a crew member's baby. David. DAVID<3. The magical second stage that APPEARED FROM THE CEILING. Dave hitting on Taylor. AGAIN. ("That's Taylor Saint Hawkins, our great drummer! He's such a cool guy, look at him! With his blond hair and his muscles and his...nice...skin...strong hands...I LOVE YOU!" They are married, I swear.) And of course, the triangle solo. Dear God, I love those men.
I probably will come back and fangirl all over an entry about the concert, but for now I can be coherant.
Bah, work. But I need the moneyz, since I called out on Wednesday. Bah. Waking up.
Tonight I heard six or seven gunshots outside the dorm. Then it started to snow. Oh, Brooklyn.
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| You're probably wondering why Johnny's in Hell. Johnny liked little boys. |
[19 Feb 2008|12:18am] |
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Fourms1r: do you have classes today?
The Velvett Hand: 2-7
Fourms1r: oh that's long day:-(
The Velvett Hand: indeed it is :(
Fourms1r: I'm going to the mall
Fourms1r: by myself
The Velvett Hand: well, aren't you lucky?
The Velvett Hand: any reason?
Fourms1r: yes, yes i am
Fourms1r: shoes
The Velvett Hand: oh, mama
My mother's grasp of technology is astounding. That's not sarcasm. (Because the point of sarcasm is to wound! Sorry. I have a Satire quiz tomorrow.) She takes phone-pictures like a wiz, and she texts like a fifteen year old girl. Also:
Pickupsticks12: im so fucking sick of sandra
Pickupsticks12: she blasts country and sings to it
Pickupsticks12: and here i am
Pickupsticks12: tryin to get into the school of law
Pickupsticks12: gad
I missed AIM. Glad the intrawebz is up and running again. And I miss my home-pals. Glad Spring Break is coming up in, oh, three weeks.
I'm getting a little frustrated with the ladies. I sent out an email with MANDATORYYOUNEEDTODOTHISORIWILLSHANKYOU paperwork, and I have gotten one response. One. Out of twenty-five. And it's like, shit. If no one cooperates, then I'm boned. And if I'm boned, I'm gonna get a lot of shit. And that shit is going to be coming from THE VERY THOSE THAT BONED ME. It's a web of Shakesperean irony.
But seriously. I'm gonna have to lower the boom tomorrow. And that is something I do not want to do. Cause I suck at it.
Foo Fighters tomorrow eek! Dave Grohl, in your infinite bearded wisdom, get my mind the fuck off the shit pot that continues to bubble precariously close to me.
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