so when the birds fly south i'll reach up and hold their tails
i was awoken the first time by gunshots. two of them. aggrivated, i stuffed my face deep below my pillow and managed somehow to fall back asleep.
not but an hour later, the phone rang. twice. nearly blacking out on the steps running to pick it up, you can imagine my pissy, hoarse, post-sleep voice as i said hello. and the only thing the other voice said was, "chelsea get in the little white truck and come pick me up at bryant's store." "...ok.." it was my stepdad.
fumbling to put on a pair of fantastically dirty jeans and a tshirt from goodwill that hasn't been washed yet since its purchase, i put some coffee on while i brushed my teeth and slumped busily around the house. shoes without socks. just as i was trudging through the door the phone rang again, and it was the same drab caller. "the driveway past bryant's. i'll be on the side of the road." his mysterious way of keeping me completely fucking confused was not amusing, and so i drove slowly.
of course, when i peaked the hill at bryant's, i saw the motherfucker.
WITH MY CAR.
i just fucking got this car YESTERDAY. i haven't even driven it yet because i don't know how to drive a stick shift yet and because it didn't pass inspection due to one faulty tire. ONE. apparently this dick drove it away into the slums this morning and put four new tires on it for my "birthday present." and apparently on the way back home the clutch broke, and thus the sitting duck and his toothpick addiction. the clutch broke? it fucking BROKE?! then how did my mother and i get it from harrisburg to big island? and why was he out driving it anyway? it's MY CAR. MINE. yet he still demands that he be the one to teach me how to drive it.
so we drag the poor blueberry to the strip of gravel in front of bryant's, and he is suddenly adimate about going to overstreet's garage in bedford to calculate the cost of getting an entirely new clutch. curious? $501.95 AWESOME.
i bet he expects me to pay, too. coincidentally, i have a job interview tomorrow. thanks, pops.
i revoke the fact that i just referred to him as "pops," when clearly, he is not nor ever will be an honest father figure to me. fucking bullshit.
by the time the overstreet mechanic family handed us the nice little paper that translates to "YOU'RE FUCKED" in numbers, it was nearing lunch, and i had not had breakfast. so considerate mr. steve takes me to southern states to show me how to order horse feed in case i ever have to pick some up for him. does that make any sense.
food lion was the last excursion, just for fun. and i twitched like a smoker for a pack of gum, gnawing on it viciously while i drove home.
motivated not just by the completely ridiculous morning adventures but the absolutely horrid condition of my room, i decided to clean it. enter obsessive compulsive disorder and patrick wolf my new woodland friend. hours later, i had done more than just clean. i had labelled and foldered every scrap, every paper, and every keepable schoolwork piece of shit into my filing cabinet, shoeboxed old cds and 37 decks of cards, seperated fat sharpies from skinny sharpies and black pens from pencils from colored pens, stacked magazines in tuberware boxes in order of their pressing, strung beaded necklaces around the fuzzy wuzzy neck of a freaky wind-up teddy bear, and even propped a pink plastic magic wand that i stole from a yard sale in the exact perfect spot on the window above my bed so that the air conditioner blows its shiny plastic strings in colorful dancing fashion allowing them to hover in a dangled mess and thereby releasing the magic wand's true plastic beauty while i sleep.
no longer in such a crappy mood and actually quite pleased with my accomplishments, i was beginning to have a wonderful time listening to my dearly beloved patty wolf play his gothic romantic peter pan music with an english accent...
when mr. joe aka craig from cup a joe called. i have an interview tomorrow! it sounds promising. and soon i can take patty's sounds with me on the halfhour drive to free smoothies, coffee, and muffins. then i'll have money, and then i'll have fun. sad but true.
tomorrow sounds lovely. first i'll be visiting the school to cap off some questions for the newspaper article i'm writing, then to the interview, thennn the best fucking cats in the world and i are to spend the afternoon doing who knows what with water balloons and ice cream. i'm very excited. (by the way cornelius, i have no money - perhaps we could find a dollar theatre? OH and let's pack a picnic, eh?)
these days entries just feel naked without pictures. so. here.
i think tonight i'll try and overdose with my reading in a tree grows in brooklyn. it's a wonderful book, but it's taking forever and i would like to start some jonathan safran foer one of these days.
rice with chinese snow peas was my dinner, and it was glorious.
not but an hour later, the phone rang. twice. nearly blacking out on the steps running to pick it up, you can imagine my pissy, hoarse, post-sleep voice as i said hello. and the only thing the other voice said was, "chelsea get in the little white truck and come pick me up at bryant's store." "...ok.." it was my stepdad.
fumbling to put on a pair of fantastically dirty jeans and a tshirt from goodwill that hasn't been washed yet since its purchase, i put some coffee on while i brushed my teeth and slumped busily around the house. shoes without socks. just as i was trudging through the door the phone rang again, and it was the same drab caller. "the driveway past bryant's. i'll be on the side of the road." his mysterious way of keeping me completely fucking confused was not amusing, and so i drove slowly.
of course, when i peaked the hill at bryant's, i saw the motherfucker.
WITH MY CAR.
i just fucking got this car YESTERDAY. i haven't even driven it yet because i don't know how to drive a stick shift yet and because it didn't pass inspection due to one faulty tire. ONE. apparently this dick drove it away into the slums this morning and put four new tires on it for my "birthday present." and apparently on the way back home the clutch broke, and thus the sitting duck and his toothpick addiction. the clutch broke? it fucking BROKE?! then how did my mother and i get it from harrisburg to big island? and why was he out driving it anyway? it's MY CAR. MINE. yet he still demands that he be the one to teach me how to drive it.
so we drag the poor blueberry to the strip of gravel in front of bryant's, and he is suddenly adimate about going to overstreet's garage in bedford to calculate the cost of getting an entirely new clutch. curious? $501.95 AWESOME.
i bet he expects me to pay, too. coincidentally, i have a job interview tomorrow. thanks, pops.
i revoke the fact that i just referred to him as "pops," when clearly, he is not nor ever will be an honest father figure to me. fucking bullshit.
by the time the overstreet mechanic family handed us the nice little paper that translates to "YOU'RE FUCKED" in numbers, it was nearing lunch, and i had not had breakfast. so considerate mr. steve takes me to southern states to show me how to order horse feed in case i ever have to pick some up for him. does that make any sense.
food lion was the last excursion, just for fun. and i twitched like a smoker for a pack of gum, gnawing on it viciously while i drove home.
motivated not just by the completely ridiculous morning adventures but the absolutely horrid condition of my room, i decided to clean it. enter obsessive compulsive disorder and patrick wolf my new woodland friend. hours later, i had done more than just clean. i had labelled and foldered every scrap, every paper, and every keepable schoolwork piece of shit into my filing cabinet, shoeboxed old cds and 37 decks of cards, seperated fat sharpies from skinny sharpies and black pens from pencils from colored pens, stacked magazines in tuberware boxes in order of their pressing, strung beaded necklaces around the fuzzy wuzzy neck of a freaky wind-up teddy bear, and even propped a pink plastic magic wand that i stole from a yard sale in the exact perfect spot on the window above my bed so that the air conditioner blows its shiny plastic strings in colorful dancing fashion allowing them to hover in a dangled mess and thereby releasing the magic wand's true plastic beauty while i sleep.
no longer in such a crappy mood and actually quite pleased with my accomplishments, i was beginning to have a wonderful time listening to my dearly beloved patty wolf play his gothic romantic peter pan music with an english accent...
when mr. joe aka craig from cup a joe called. i have an interview tomorrow! it sounds promising. and soon i can take patty's sounds with me on the halfhour drive to free smoothies, coffee, and muffins. then i'll have money, and then i'll have fun. sad but true.
tomorrow sounds lovely. first i'll be visiting the school to cap off some questions for the newspaper article i'm writing, then to the interview, thennn the best fucking cats in the world and i are to spend the afternoon doing who knows what with water balloons and ice cream. i'm very excited. (by the way cornelius, i have no money - perhaps we could find a dollar theatre? OH and let's pack a picnic, eh?)
these days entries just feel naked without pictures. so. here.
i think tonight i'll try and overdose with my reading in a tree grows in brooklyn. it's a wonderful book, but it's taking forever and i would like to start some jonathan safran foer one of these days.
rice with chinese snow peas was my dinner, and it was glorious.