Memorial Weekend Drunk Writing Fest

My roommate had the brilliant idea of getting a bunch of creative people together with booze, laptops, notepads, and random writing prompts (if the author didn't already have a project). The following is unfinished but not bad for a timed writing in which alcohol and social chatter were a main distracting factors.
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Having a fear of the color mauve was proving highly unlucky that day. Lucy cautiously wandered the lingerie section of a downtown department store sizing up the rows of gaudy unmentionables and formulating a mental plan of attack. On her lunch breaks Lucy would soothe her nerves by reorganizing racks of clothing or make-up stock counters. Apparently mauve was "in" this summer. It reminded her of a vague sorbet dessert topped with cream and surrounded by a halo of berries.


Mauve. Ugh, it made her shudder. Ruched boy-cut booty shorts in mauve silk with a black and white lace trim. Perhaps that particular display would not be OCD-ified this afternoon. She turned the corner down a long isle and began facing brassiere hangers. One day each of these padded bras will belong to someone, she thought, and her mind wandered to the possibility of geotagging specs of DNA, and why the prospect of touching piles of undies didn't freak her out as long as they were neatly stacked with all the waistbands parallel to the floor.


"Might I help you find something?" A slim manicured store associate interrupted her meticulous zen. The sterile name tag announced his arrival: Ricardo. Ricardo's bow tie was a sleek shade of butternut squash, perfectly complimenting his moisturized olive skin. Lucy was startled but unsurprised. Helpful customer service employees are just vampires for commission, and they were always sucking at her lunch time meditations. "No thank you, just browsing." As Ricardo swished away Lucy admired the golden ratio angles of his body, the balance of his strut, and the faint trail of mathematical algorithms left in his wake.


Right hoodie pocket buzzing. A text from Cousin Lenni: Call me. Like any Cousin Lenni should be, Lenni was kinda sketchy, but calls from him were generally bizarre and always amusing. Lucy exited the store with a small knowing smile. Lucy didn't own a raincoat. The so-called Emerald City didn't see much rain in during its stretch of summer, but the nine plus months of white grey sky and mist piss drizzle wasn't much of a real threat, and raincoats did little to keep out the passive aggressiveness of the city from seeping under the skin. Also, umbrellas are for pussies, not Seattleites, so stepping directly in the wet air suited her just fine.


Piped directly into her skull, Lenni's voice didn't bother with introductions. "Hypothetical: An older woman I know wants to watch a friend and me fuck each other and is willing to pay for the show. How much should I charge?" "Depends. Please elaborate."


Lenni, "Supply/demand analysis. How much people are willing to pay, and how much people would want to get paid."


Lucy, "I'd say 500 to 700 bucks. Each. But any touching from the old lady would be extra."


"Dang. That's a lot more than the current poll average. Have you thought about this before?"


"Not necessarily, but I've been on those fancy information tubes so I maybe the median rate for voyeuristic sex acts found its way into my brain somehow? I totally thought I was low balling it."


"See, this is why I wanted your input. Your perspective is so refreshing. I'll tally the poll results and blog about it later."


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Prompt from cohorts: flamboyant, racy, obsessive-compulsive disorder, mauve

Currently: Still Unemployed

Happy anniversary to me!
Yesterday I received a letter in the mail informing me that, after May 31st, my amazingly low COBRA insurance rate will no longer be available. Thank you Mr. Stimulus Plan, you have done wonderful things for me. The end of affordable medical coverage for the pink slip army marks my 15 month anniversary of unemployment. Yowza, that's a really long time. It's like Obama himself saying to me, "Time to get a job, slacker!"

Times Are Tough These Days seems to be the mantra of the last couple years. Another unemployed friend recently lamented that out of 400 applications for a mediocre admin position, making it to the final 5 candidates didn't even warrant a rejection letter. Harsh, but come to think of it I don't think I've received any rejection letters from any of the 1-2 companies per week with whom I've interviewed. Double harsh.

My original goal was to obtain a job by the end of April, as that's when my bus pass expired. A random deadline, but a failed one nonetheless. Soon it will be time to apply for a second UI extension. Even though I've been unemployed a couple of times before (yay tech industry!) the job market jungle has never been this cut throat. Even though I'm far from a slacker, I sure do feel like one now. Dang.

tired but sleepless
sticky pineapple scented
longing for airplanes

life roller coaster
made out of fun house mirrors
next ride: the tea cups

post midnight ventures
yeild covert errand flurries
silent excitement

How Do I Say This...

Growing up I was often prone to procrastination, only able to do outstanding work in the face of a dangerously close headline. Working in a writing center in college changed that about me, and I'm now able to enjoy and benefit of the writing process.


But dang, it's been dificult for me to actually post anything here. It's been so long since I've done much personal writing; it feels as if I've spent so much time finding, and writing in, the perfect voice for whatever brand, product, or service that I seem to have lost my own writing style. Something for which a favorite literature professor in college, Dr. Sean McDowell, once commented that I should "give praise daily." Perhaps I've neglected the proper genuflections for far too long.

I suppose that's the partly the idea of The Tongue Press. My original vision of the tongue press is of an antique Platen printing press with a large simple line drawing of a tongue being inked as it was wheeled through. Now the 'press' is taking on a different meaning, one of squeezing words out, forcing myself to write honestly.

It's Like Riding a Bike...

I never leaned to ride a bicycle, but had made it my end of summer goal. I have no idea where to start or who to ask for advice, all I know is that I have a trip to the Netherlands in November (2 years in the making) and bike riding is mandatory, as we are staying on a schamcy house boat just out of the city.

I am scared. Despite growing up in a very manicured cookie-cutter middle class suburb my parents did not allow me to go outside to play with the many neighborhood children, not even in the backyard, for fear I would get raped. Not kidding. My siblings and I are first generation Americans, and my parents very paranoid and conservative. No walking to the school bus stop alone. No shaving of legs. No playing outside. And therefore no learning to ride a bicycle.

Looking back at it from adulthood it's not such a big deal, and if it wasn't for the upcoming travel plans I could have lived the rest of my life happily unable to peddle a two wheeled vehicle. Now I realize I'm terrified of falling. I never learned how to play.

fie, insomnia
do athiests pray for sleep?
i implore thee, Sandman...

in the wee hours
even the pen can betray
Freud me to death, please

Valentine's Day Afterthoughts

Perhaps it was the uncharacteristic downpour (verses a customary mizzle) this past weekend, but the recent holiday of love/hate/spite was particularly pervasive. I was surprised how many of my friends and acquaintances (read: Facebook friends) were affected.

• Many folks were avoiding leaving their homes, or avoiding all people in general, as if going to hang at the neighborhood bar would infect the plague.
• Others were scrambling for plans. Omfg please don't leave me alone! I don't want to be Lonely.
• Yet simultaneously an unwillingness to commit to anything solid... just in case.
• The absurdity of watching the over analysis of otherwise platonic social invitations.
• Random outcries of hate! And desire! And more hate!

I ended up with a motley group of friends, single and not, drinking the blanket anxiety away and making whiskey-fueled merriment. As for me, I was happy to be single. This time last year was rough. Constant fighting with my then partner, and I'd been recently laid off. A breakup followed shortly thereafter. Frolicking in the land of free and clear dating has been a welcome change to the many years of long term relationship. What's the big deal? Sure, it'd be nice to fall asleep in a pair of cuddly arms, but I was perfectly happy spending another night in an empty bed, same as any other night. It was kind of comforting really. I kept my mouth shut, knowing I'd be very unpopular otherwise.

Walking home alone that evening a Whitney Houston song popped into my head, one of my first favorite songs around age 5. It seemed to sum up well, everything really. A very happy-go-lucky dance song whose beat urges the listener to bop and smile, but delineating the woes of loneliness, heartbreak, and longing at the same time was exactly the smiling-through-gritted-teeth-slash-tears that filled the air of the pub all night.

I laughed out loud at the thought, secret shimmying down a wet alley and looking around, half hoping someone heard me so I could share the small, giddy revelation. (Music Nerd Sidenote: I Wanna Dance With Somebody is pretty much the 1986 version of I Don't Feel Like Dancing by the Scissor Sisters. Just sayin'.)

So when the night falls/My lonely heart calls...