Pulp and Circumstance

11/17/99
"There's nothing to do so you just stay in bed, (oh poor thing)

Why live in the world when you can live in your head? So you finally left school, now what are you going to do?
So you're so grown up, yeah you're oh so mature.
Going out late for Monday, chuck up in the street on Sunday.
You don't want to live till Monday and have to do it all over again. "

-pulp PULP PULP PULP, quoted gratuitously, all over this page.

Kicked out. Chased out. alone in parks

cities not my own

Baja
babies
thumbs
breeding
hitchhiking
love (stories and poems)
a warm body next to mine
I dream of you. I do.

"only in your underwear"
only in your underwear

"He's standing far too near and how the hell did you get here?
Semi-naked in somebody else's room... "

Small of stature she makes no sense here at all. I close my eyes.

God strike me down if I ever

children? You've got to be kidding. Why do guys who love children really creep me out? Most women find that alluring, or so I hear. I just want to run. Oh my God. I don't want to breed. Please don't ever let me get The Urge to Breed. Guys who go all mushy and soft around kids. Ugh. It makes me very uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. Terrified, is a more accurate description actually. I don't know why that is. It 's not as if they then turn to me and say, "Chaara, let us procreate, you and me." Maybe I just feel it in the air anyway. "Come on and screw." "Make baby with me woman." Save me! "I really love it when you tell me to stop. Oh it's turning me on."
"oh look at you, you, you're looking so confused, what did you lose?" I watch the way guys will go out and socialize a lot more when they have girlfriends. I think it's amusing. And I think everyone is quite blissfully susceptable to Intense Happiness in Love. "Oh look at me. I am loveable. Come see!" And is there really anything wrong with that? If it makes you happy... "I'm crawling under my own skin." I am waiting for this picture to come to life again.
I don't like my dentist's secretary. A real bitch. The bitchiness of any secretary. What school wuz I at, where the librarian's were infamously bitchy? Probably Moody Senior. Likely. They were not just bitchy, no. They were fucking assholes.

You know, many times in school I made concious decisions to be kind to the teachers with asshole reputations among their students. And every time I did that the teachers crushed my spirit fully, wholely, completely, and with no qualms whatsoever. Every fucking time. Lesson learned in that: Teachers with reputations for being assholes earned those reputations fully, and deserve to be treated as horribly as possible in vain attempt at retribution. Don't waste your time trying to find good qualities in them. There may be some, but they are nothing next to the traits that make them monstrous.

And these teachers were usually art teachers. Fucking ironic. Bastards.

Remember that hag sea bitch art teacher in Moody Junior? She didn't have a whole lot going for her. She wuz allergic to deodorant and perfume, so she always stank horribly. (And moz sings, "a nation turns it's back and gags"... ) She went away for a while because her husband had cancer. She came back after he died. I hadn't yet met her, only heard about her (bad things about her). And that didn't deter me from trying very hard to be nice to her when I wuz put in her class. I mean, her husband had just died, that would be so horrible, to lose your love? I felt sad for her. She didn't give a shit about me. Man, I still want to have her killed. She is Queen of the Cunts. Wait, that's such a stately title. She wuz just a fat haggish baggy evil smelly old bag. With no empathy or kindness in her at all. And the most closed mind I have ever had the terror of encountering. I have since learned that most art teachers fit this description.

Needless to say, there wuz some grandios scene of public humilation, instigated by her, between she and I. In front of a gaggle of gathered friends and not-so friends. A very heavy, harsh bashingbeatingbruising of my creative spirit (in regards to my poetry, which, at the time wuz a little too tripped-up and abstract for her tight-ass Matilda-principle tastes) which sent me into some 'oh my god i suck' crying rage in the spider-webby basement of the school after a "Well Chaara, no one understands you" attempt to comfort me by some vaguely well-meaning acquaintance.
(I have also since learned that most art teachers love such episodes, and are drawn to them. It is the only way they feel they can assert themselves creatively in the face of their failed art careers.)

So she lost my sympathy right fucking there.
And I wished I had never been so kind to her in the first place. What a waste.

Ohhh, I do not feel well.

Anyways, the conclusion to the Evil Art Teacher That Should Have Been Fired, or just killed, Years Ago story is such; A week later I won first place in that school's poetry contest. And the English teacher who judged it gave me some fabulous glowing praise and told me to never stop writing. I laughed at her.

And I always forget that part of the story. It comes to me only after I vividly revisit the 'ouch ouch ouch, you bitch!' memory of Mrs.Hag's cutting down of my writings.

Simpsons quote, Lisa to Marge:
"Though I know first hand how fragile young talent is, I'd love to hear the particulars of how your gift wuz squashed."
"... I can't believe you gave up painting because of one small minded art teacher."

Christ, I hate that my thought process is doing nothing but dragging me over the jagged bloody gravel of old, old, long-since-passed events in my life. I can't lie in my bed at night, trying to sleep, without every lousy experience and situation of my life playing over and over again. Relentlessly. Aggressively. REPEATEDLY. I can't shake it. I shoot up in bed screaming. I turn on the light and try to write it all away. I think it's gone so I turn out the light and try to sleep, it keeps coming back. The past decade of my life playing again and again each and every fucking night. Melatonin, without which it takes me about three hours to fall asleep, doesn't fend off this blood-hound of hideous memories. I'm lying in bed begging the gods to throw Valium to me. Tranquilizers. Something fucking harsh. Shut my mind up. I am so tired from receiving these unwelcome signals unendingly. I want so badly to move on.

I'm tired of the constant slog of coherent thought. This is coherent thought? It is making me want to swallow things, to shut it off. Who says coherent thinking is good? I am not having fun with it. Valium! Thorazine! Acid! Drano! blablabla And I can already hear the approval in that.

"Chaara, here, Thorazine. Sit down, shut up, be numb. Exploring bad. Submission good." I'm not that far gone, I don't think. But there is no way I would confide in, say, my mother, about the mental-illness spawning boredom that is making me this stagnant solitary sleepless fuzzy-minded mumbling lunatic. "Chaara, you're bored because you don't pay me rent. Give me money and all your ills will be gone (you insolent infantile parasite)." My doctor wouldn't give me Valium anyway. Too close to death. Prescribe me a fast car. That is all I need. "You've got a fast car... I want a ticket to anywhwere.. Maybe we could make a deal. Maybe together we can-" get the hell out of here. "Anyplace is better." I am never happier, or clearer, than when I am on the road. "Chaara, as your doctor, I am telling you, you don't have long to live. The only cure for your particular (and peculiar) ailment, is a long roadtrip to somewhere warm. If this can't be arranged I may as well just check you into a psych ward now. It would be a lot less messy." And everytime I hear Joel RL Phelps' "Downer Trio", (emerald city, at el paso, guns of brixton... ) I can think of nothing but being in a stranger's car, flying down an unfamiliar highway with the warm wind in my hair. "I think I'm ready to go... "

Hey, you know, this is a little extreme. I should be writing on a more shallow level.

Now, some late night touch ups. Just watched my North of 60 tape of the day.
Some dialog I found fitting, between Sarah, the doctor, and TeeVee, the punk:

S- Why do you think you're having trouble sleeping?
T- I'm not having trouble sleeping I'm just restless.
S- Well then you don't need sleeping pills.
T- I don't need 'em I just figured they'd help me get to sleep.
S- Let's figure out what the problem is first, okay?
T- I don't have a problem.
S- You don't need pills TeeVee.
T- I need the pills cuz I can't sleep.
S- What's bothering you?
T- You! Cuz you won't give me any pills!

Spike and Patrick broke up and I don't know why. I'm all bummed out now.
I thought it would last forever! He wrote good songs... What happened?

My 'boss' told me today, "You deserve a medal." And since she is the mother of the kids I take care of, I told her she deserves a trophy. Children are amazing. They make me feel so old, for not finding fun what they find fun. It wears me out. Watching them running around screaming, jumping on furniture, throwing things. I get so weary. I don't get up and yell discipline at them anymore. It's futile. I stay sitting where I am, reading, and I say "Please" and "Don't" and "Now" and "Please" again, and I keep reading. It works just as well (not at all) as the more tiring approach of getting up and getting dramatic. "kids are so hard to raise good". I mean well. And they're just being kids. We get along most of the time. But the novelty has worn off. I'm not at all the beloved older sister figure anymore. I'm there so often, I am furniture. Talking, reading, chore-supervising furniture. No big deal. Just a job.

"Oh, this world may lack style, I know. But each bud must blossom and grow.
Young girl, one day you will be old. But the thing is, I love you now.

This is the last song I will ever sing."

-(moz)