It was the continuation of the diet she had been on for four months now. Every time he looked across the office she was there- snacking on something new, green and tasteless.
“I've put on a kilo! I’ve put ON a kilo! After four months of this”, she yelled.
“Jeez, don’t worry too much. I would kill to gain a kilo”, Loic said.
“Yeah, right. I really appreciate your comments”, she retorted and sat back down.
Something was different about Nat today. Things had been changing lately. Something was taking place in her life. It was something that hadn’t really happened before, and it was a long time coming. She was doing that thing- getting her life in order- or something. Her approach had been all wrong, and her self-perception misguided, and now- NOW- things were starting to look up.
Nat was having a lot more fun in a lot more ways. And a lot of fun in one particular way with a certain someone. A certain someone called Michael, an Irish boy she had met some time ago. And this certain someone seemed to be QUITE enjoying Nat’s new methods in the ways of fun.
But I digress.
Something was different about Nat today. Things had indeed been looking up, and to pepper this statement with a healthy IT manager-sized dose of logic, things still definitely were looking up when compared to the dark old days of only months before. But today something was not right with her.
Nat glanced at her phone for the fourth time since printing out a picture of Billie Holliday only 15 minutes earlier.
Still no response.
“How can I be back here again? After everything that’s happened, I’m reduced to looking at my phone every time the light reflects off it, thinking he’s texted. Pathetic”.
Nat was bothered. She had done something bad. She didn’t mean to do it, but the end result was that she had seen Michael turn away and slam the door to his car as he backed out of the driveway, and this bothered her very much.
"He just wants me to be honest. Pooh pooh. I've spent my whole life not being honest about my feelings, least of all to the people I care about, and NOW I have to know every emotion I feel about something the second it happens. Well it's not that easy! Maybe he should try some fucking understanding". Nat was very committed to her sotto voce muttering, having been classically trained as an alto.
She pulled out a celery stick, and as the bitterness stained her tongue, she tried to be honest to herself as a sort of exercise. To do so, she minimised the Wikipedia page opened to the entry on Hieronymus Bosch and opened Notepad.
“Hmmmmm. OK”. And she began to type.
1- I hurt Michael
2- I didn't mean to hurt him, but that probably doesn't matter
3- I want him to call me back
4- I want him to call me back so I can explain
5- I want him to call me back so I can tell him I love him
6- I want to tell him I'm a silly bitch who sometimes does awful things and that that's not likely to change
7- I want him to know why I said what I said
8- I want him to smile at me again
9- I want him between my legs again
10- I will never be perfect and I want to love me for who I am- stupid Nat with a chubby arse
“That last one doesn’t really seem to fit”, she thought out loud, puzzled.
“Meh”.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
My Name is Blue Van Meer: Diary Entry 2009 85 by Aylma Pessl
You may recall that my only previous romantic liaisons had been with the burly, meat-headed, turn-coat Milton. Our brief, yet passionate (at least on my side, he was more like the un-interested prom date (see poor, simple and happy Zach) kiss was my longest foray into the oral cavity. I remember it well, my tongue slipping and sliding around like a dying snake, muscles contorting violently as it’s life faded away. Left and then up; and I could taste his filling. In hindsight, it was the hallmark of the amateur, of the first timer.
And it was wonderful.
I wanted my first kiss with Rudy to be better. Less sliping and slidin, more controlled, slipping and sliding.
Rudy was in my South American “politics” class (Insurgency and Iconic Photography: L’amerique du sud [Sorry Dad, I never bothered to ask why the class title was in French]). We were not exactly chatting lately, but we acknowledged each other. The knowing look, “I know you and you know me and I wish you would speak to me because I don’t think I have the courage to make the first move” (see Chapter 13 in Building Long Lasting Relationships by Tez MacNamara, 2004). But it was time for some action. It was time to think, to be inspired. It was time for my Vince Lomabardi moment.
I decided to go for the “I’m in a hurry, intelligent women wearing spectacles who left her pen at home” technique. Flawless.
I saw my prey coming down the corridor. He was dressed a little differently than his normal vogue. Today he wore an un-tucked(!!) black, short sleaved shirt and neat pants combination. I was hovering behind a door when I saw him duck into class. I locked in and moved after him.
Floating a short distance beyond him, I almost had to shove a rather pink looking Clare Ridgedale out of the way as I sat next to him. We greeted each other. I felt a little breathless but managed to suppress it to engage in this tantalizing back and forth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mesmorizing, I know.
I began searching for my “missing” pen (see Mating Rituals of the Extinct Pareabolis Dictus – A bird for All occasions by Dr. Stephan Finine, 1923. Pay particular attention to the Chapter 2, 6 and the last section of Chapter 9). I unzipped this and slapped that, and made the most racket I could muster. He paid attention; I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, just when things started to get rather “lairy” (see I Predict a Riot, Kaiser Chiefs), he offered his pen to me.
“Thanks.”
Another witty, intelligent offering from Blue Van Meer.
We sat in silence for the remainder of the class. Our hour ended, and off we both headed, towards the only exit. He hesitated for a moment, and turned to face me. Before he could utter a sound, I thanked him for his pen.
‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him that it was just about the worse Biro I had ever had the pleasure of using, and that I would probably have to swing past the Department of Extinct Languages in order to translate the scratches in my note-book. I wanted to say that there was no place for a green Biro in college. I wanted to tell him that he was a little too thin. I wanted to tell him he was cute. So cute.
But I handed it over and mentioned that next time, he could borrow my pen.
‘Sorry…?’
My cheeks flushed red at this point - they are red right now, scrawling furiously this tale of the time Rudy asked me out – I tried to think of something amazingly funny and witty to cover the rather odd offering.
‘Ah, I was referring to a letter that Bryon wrote to Mary Shelley before she wasted the entire world’s time writing that horrid book of her’s, Frankenstein. He was responding to her difficulty in putting an idea down on paper and he suggested she look to the classics and take something from them.’
‘Blue, I am a little confused by what the point you are evidently trying to make...’ – Okay, he didn’t actually say this, but if he had I would probably have jumped him there and then.
‘Well, Bryon suggested she borrow from the classics and that she could “borrow” a “quill” from him.’
Rudy listened patiently to my elaborate fabrication. And politely.
‘I see… Blue, would you like to get a coffee or something?’
I cancelled my appointment at the Department of Extinct Languages.
And it was wonderful.
I wanted my first kiss with Rudy to be better. Less sliping and slidin, more controlled, slipping and sliding.
Rudy was in my South American “politics” class (Insurgency and Iconic Photography: L’amerique du sud [Sorry Dad, I never bothered to ask why the class title was in French]). We were not exactly chatting lately, but we acknowledged each other. The knowing look, “I know you and you know me and I wish you would speak to me because I don’t think I have the courage to make the first move” (see Chapter 13 in Building Long Lasting Relationships by Tez MacNamara, 2004). But it was time for some action. It was time to think, to be inspired. It was time for my Vince Lomabardi moment.
I decided to go for the “I’m in a hurry, intelligent women wearing spectacles who left her pen at home” technique. Flawless.
I saw my prey coming down the corridor. He was dressed a little differently than his normal vogue. Today he wore an un-tucked(!!) black, short sleaved shirt and neat pants combination. I was hovering behind a door when I saw him duck into class. I locked in and moved after him.
Floating a short distance beyond him, I almost had to shove a rather pink looking Clare Ridgedale out of the way as I sat next to him. We greeted each other. I felt a little breathless but managed to suppress it to engage in this tantalizing back and forth.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
Mesmorizing, I know.
I began searching for my “missing” pen (see Mating Rituals of the Extinct Pareabolis Dictus – A bird for All occasions by Dr. Stephan Finine, 1923. Pay particular attention to the Chapter 2, 6 and the last section of Chapter 9). I unzipped this and slapped that, and made the most racket I could muster. He paid attention; I could feel his eyes on me. Finally, just when things started to get rather “lairy” (see I Predict a Riot, Kaiser Chiefs), he offered his pen to me.
“Thanks.”
Another witty, intelligent offering from Blue Van Meer.
We sat in silence for the remainder of the class. Our hour ended, and off we both headed, towards the only exit. He hesitated for a moment, and turned to face me. Before he could utter a sound, I thanked him for his pen.
‘No problem,’ he said with a smile. I wanted to tell him that it was just about the worse Biro I had ever had the pleasure of using, and that I would probably have to swing past the Department of Extinct Languages in order to translate the scratches in my note-book. I wanted to say that there was no place for a green Biro in college. I wanted to tell him that he was a little too thin. I wanted to tell him he was cute. So cute.
But I handed it over and mentioned that next time, he could borrow my pen.
‘Sorry…?’
My cheeks flushed red at this point - they are red right now, scrawling furiously this tale of the time Rudy asked me out – I tried to think of something amazingly funny and witty to cover the rather odd offering.
‘Ah, I was referring to a letter that Bryon wrote to Mary Shelley before she wasted the entire world’s time writing that horrid book of her’s, Frankenstein. He was responding to her difficulty in putting an idea down on paper and he suggested she look to the classics and take something from them.’
‘Blue, I am a little confused by what the point you are evidently trying to make...’ – Okay, he didn’t actually say this, but if he had I would probably have jumped him there and then.
‘Well, Bryon suggested she borrow from the classics and that she could “borrow” a “quill” from him.’
Rudy listened patiently to my elaborate fabrication. And politely.
‘I see… Blue, would you like to get a coffee or something?’
I cancelled my appointment at the Department of Extinct Languages.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
A fall from that height will only break your ankles… by Sebastien de Robillard
A fall from that height will only break your ankles…
Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.
He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.
The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.
The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?
His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.
He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.
He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.
His phone vibrated again. A call this time.
“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”
And then he jumped.
Josh was on the brink of something bad. Something horrible. The night had not worked out as well as he wished, and he was looking for comfort. And not necessarily in the wrong places. In fact, the night had turned out rather well, but that didn’t seem to matter.
He had put together the evening a few months earlier, organising the bands to play. The budget for advertising was larger than usual, and he and a friend had splashed posters near and around The Fernace a few weeks prior to the event. Josh was hoping a few hundred might turn up, but would settle an even hundred.
The night had proceeded along splendidly. The rain had cleared, and the hundred or so turned up, and everyone was in good spirits. The bands played loud and were energetic, but Josh just stood still. Everyone was in good spirits. Everyone but Josh of course. Standing near the bar, he checked his watch again. He seemed to be checking it constantly he thought. Why? I have no where to go. He looked again. 9:23 PM it read. He moved away from the bar and walked round the back, to the restricted area. Up the stairs he marched towards the roof. He unlocked the door, and closed it behind him.
The night was chilly, and Josh appreciated this. He enjoyed the slight sting on his bare arms. It looked like it was going to rain. He lit a cigarette and cupped his beer tighter. Josh did not understand why he felt like he felt. Why the melancholy was consuming his body and time so much lately?
His pocket vibrated. A text from his girlfriend. Sarah was on her way, and should be there in approximately 5 minutes, it read. She wrote out ‘approximately’. Josh shook his head.
He had fluffed through the afternoon, yelling and cussing as was his regular habit. He had been excited about the show he said. He couldn’t wait for tonight he said. He can remember lying. Liar after liar after liar.
He stood on the edge of the roof. It was only one story high. It wouldn’t kill him. It would be painful, and more annoying than anything else, but it would not kill him.
His phone vibrated again. A call this time.
“Hey Josh.”
“Hey Sarah.”
“What’s wrong babe?”
“Nothing Sarah.”
“Where are you?”
“On the roof.”
“Well come down for a smoke.”
“Be there in a sec.”
And then he jumped.
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