i’m in a slightly bad mood today.
It’s so funny, you know, we’re both trying to be so proper,
And once we let our guards down,
We finally speak the same language,
But it’s not the words or the intonation,
It’s the feeling behind it,
That finally made it through the muck.
Why is it only the people who get support are the ones who ask for it?
Why don’t we support the quiet people.
They need it just as much, they’re just quieter.
Somehow it doesn’t seem fair.
My mom told me once, when she bought me dinner,
Fairness is really important to you isn’t it?
I didn’t know how to respond.
The Starbucks tax.
I should be able to deduct this.
It’s line item – the I need a place to work that isn’t here-
So I buy a coffee I don’t really want.
Sit in uncomfortable chairs, freeze any time the door opens and quietly sob.
My mom calls it the worker ant.
She can only work when she’s around other people who are getting stuff done.
When she was in law school she’d drive an extra hour to go work in the library because she’d be productive.
Huh. Why is it so frustrating that I’m the same why?
It shouldn’t be, but it is.
A short note to Miss Pasta
It’s been a year, I thought I’d check in.
I got myself a job with hard-won skills after working for free for a few months.
Thanks for believing in me, but more importantly, telling me you believed in me,
That was nice.
I think it helped a bit.
I know I did it myself. But still, I’d like to give credit where credit is due.
I like to think I succeeded in part because you were nice to me.
Even if your job said you had to.
Also I probably should have told you about my panic attacks.
About the boy I knew in high school who died of cancer.
You were a basketball star. You were tall, and handsome, and from a good family.
You were our first player drafted by a div 1 school.
From our tiny high school. You would dunk for fun.
You married a friend of mine, she wasn’t a good friend, but we got along.
She is best friends with your sister.
I didn’t really know you.
You would probably recognize me as a girl you went to high school with, but beyond that, nothing.
But you were an asshole to my friends, even if you weren’t 18 yet.
And you only got press because you were on the dream-run-team that made it to the march-madness finals one year. Golden.
And your wife was pretty, and you were pretty. Hometown goodness.
She started documenting when you got sick. It was terrible.
You died last week.
And all these people were up in arms.
I couldn’t find it to care.
Why are we supposed to care more about this guy? Because he could play sports.
Because he was big, and cool, and something of a lost star.
Why are you any different from all those other people’s family members who die of cancer?
Why are you asking me to care for you?
Because I went to high school with you?
Because you made noise in the news, because they said you were somebody?
But, wait, you say, it’s not my fault I got this press. Fine.
I still don’t think it’s right.
I’ve gotten yelled at for this.
with nasty looks.
Call me jealous, I very well might be.
But it doesn’t change the fact that the only reason you’re on the tv is because you could shoot ball. What about all those other families with babies in Riley? Why don’t they get money and coverage? Flat face. Flat reaction.
Sure I knew you guys in high school, sure it’s a shame, sure this city is really, in fact, incredibly small. And we like to come together to rally around something.
But couldn’t it have been something besides a sick basketball star?
This is a basketball state, no matter what the big football team tells you.
It doesn’t seem fair.
But I guess getting cancer and dying isn’t fair either.
You only get so much luck.
Put a human face on PR disasters that helps.
Even if it’s snitching.
Post it on Twitter.
This is the intern who didn’t relay the correct node and took down the telephone lines for three hours on a Monday morning.
He didn’t mean to.
I’m freezing cold in effing Starbucks.
Oh my god, my legs are so cold.
This conference call is going to suck. Why did ever leave my apartment?
It’s snowing. Quit opening the damn door.
Oh Jesus Christ, someone close the godforsaken portal to hell.
How is everyone else not shaking? It’s so damn cold.
That’s it. I’m putting my coat back on.
This has all been pointless.
Never before have I wanted a restaurant to be less busy. Stop coming in. Abandon your coffee. it’s two in the afternoon, you don’t really need it. Go away. Let me write in peace. Warm.
I’ve started irrationally hating every over-combed prick who comes in here.
And also insulting them for no good reason.
Someone stop me please.
I love watching impatient older ladies get stuck walking behind two young women.
The old lady isn’t sure what to do or how to pass them.
They’re talking right next to the door.
It’s hilarious. She’s stuck with her blonde poof hair and serious business, non-fleece or knitted scarf.
Waddling around, racecar hovering side-to-side, trying to find a way past.
Do people just randomly talk to cops?
This is so weird.
Oh my god this cop has the goofiest laugh.
And his laptop looks like it holds the business secrets of the world.
Or at least wouldn’t crack when he drops it chasing very serious suspects in suburbia.
I need to stop people watching.
p.s. i want an award for actually following my schedule for one week. see? new content monday – wednesday.
oh this is just great.
I don’t think I’ll ever have the courage to say out loud what I say to myself.
I wouldn’t ever trust another person enough
To tell them what I tell myself.
And not have them mock me.
But to say out loud what I only think would seem a violation,
And also very insulting.
What do you mean I have to explain to you why I like the glittery dinosaur ornament,
How long have I known you now?
And you tell me I’m cute, with a little shrug and twinkle
That you’ve only had since you were taller than me.
You’re still in that phase of thinking weird is unacceptable.
I’ll be here when you’re over it.
Things made for clumsy people have to be sturdy
And well designed,
Things made inexpensively,
For poor people
Break just sitting there.
This is why I am not fashionable
I won’t wear something uncomfortable unless it leads to breadsticks.
Dear Pasta Lady,
I’m at another life post.
I’m having to change jobs, after paying my own insurance,
And writing calculated half-penny checks.
But I wish I could call you and give you a check up.
I want to hear you be proud, and mean it,
Even though I know you already are.
I want to hear it,
Like I want to hear the story of my birth,
Straight from my Mom,
Even though I have it memorized.
I am so scared of becoming an alcoholic
But also of being scared of alcohol
And I’m scared of not being like my mother
But I’m frightened of being dependent,
And losing control
This one is for you.
I know you’re reading this.
You’ve ruined my harmonica introduction of my favorite weepy song.
This is terrible.
I put Christmas lights around my window in the hope it will keep the cold out.
I’m wearing a sweater over a sweater. I’m still cold.
I’m like David when he was dying and he couldn’t get enough virgins to keep him warm.
Cold in my soul.
True in more than one way, my old-friends would say.
Hello old pattern, friend,
I haven’t seen you in a while, but maybe I never left.
Me and you, and my best friend, we’ve all started this all over again,
And it’ll end the same, all again.
But I don’t mind, I didn’t mind the first time, really.
At least something’s moving.
Sometimes that’s all it takes you know,
One person, to make me laugh when I wasn’t expecting it,
And my belly laughs, and I laugh.
Suddenly I don’t mind being alone, as long as I can laugh without being embarrassed,
I wish I had a tradition for the winter solstice.
I’d like to make one,
But I’m inconstant enough.
I’d like to dance with garland under the moon,
Or sing a song out a third-story window,
Or have something to mark the passing of time.