Hey, it’s never too late to continue a serial that you began to post 8 months ago on a blog that you had forgotten you even kept until you–literally–chanced upon your WordPress account while searching for a recipe on another blog that is completely unrelated to yours, right? It doesn’t matter that you actually wrote the whole long series of posts that you never posted, literally, 2 years ago, right? Sometimes the inspiration to post just seizes you, once in a while–or, more precisely, every few years. What does it matter, this is my blog, after all, and I write the rules here. Following is the second part of a bunch of long-winded monologues meandering through all flavors of dross, from heavy-hearted anxiety attacks to Henry VIII of England. See Part I for some context. Though, “context” may be a bit generous to use for a descriptor, given my idiopathic style of writing: Continue reading
So. Henry has found a rebound girl.
“Henry?” My father scrunched his face in confusion when I first referred to my ex by that name in conversation. Yes, I explained. I’ve begun calling him Henry in commemoration of Henry VIII, because of the way in which his entire character so unmistakably, strikingly recalls that of the illustrious megalomaniac. My father continued to scrunch his face as he considered. Then his face screwed around differently in cynical amusement. “You’re right. They both fall passionately in love with someone, and then they want to kill her.” Indeed, my ex shares everything with the infamous king from his power complex, to his grandiose, yet fragile self concept to his unchecked extravagance to his consecutive appropriation and then disposal of women like worn-out pantyhose with indefatigable efficiency. Even the portraiture is echoed in the present most eerily, in the same wide-legged, imposing stance of a self proclaimed alpha male that you see in the still-relevant portrayal painted back in the 1500s: The profile of a bloodthirsty narcissist evidently looks the same now the same as it did 500 years ago.
I am embarrassed to admit that I began this one more than a year ago. Like most of the few posts that make it to press on my inactive blog, it started out as a journal entry, then somehow became a project of its own carried on by my rapturous research into some trivial self selected topic of fascination–in this case the life and wives of King Henry VIII of England during the Tutor Period. (Alas, the compulsion to do research papers remains ingrained in my pathos despite the fact that I finished my last degree 5 years ago.) The “narrative”–Oh, god, I can’t even call it a blog post, or an essay. It’s more vaguely “a narrative”–became pages and pages, and pages long. So, for the ease of all the potential readers who will never actually visit this blog, I decided to split up the wordy monstrosity into a serial. Continue reading
After about 3 months of avoiding my blog, I finally decided, while avoiding my daily responsibilities, to just hold my breath and return to take a look at the neglected landscape. When I signed in, I found the below pending comment on my dashboard:
I discovered your blog while googling about underachieving, and you have inspired me to go ahead with starting a blog. I didn’t think people actually blogged like regular literature authors and always felt I lacked in edgy hipness, but after reading all of your poetic posts, I feel like I may have fellow anti- conformist bloggers to relate to after all. -Bessie Malt
I originally began writing a reply to your comment, Bessie, in the comment section where you’re supposed to write replies to comments. But as is typical for me, my reply became longer and longer and I kept writing and couldn’t cut off the spigot and had no desire to anyway. So I ultimately drafted a 683-word response and decided to post it as a blog entry in itself. Continue reading
I am desperate again. This time it’s because I’m hungry. Terribly, ravenously hungry. I’ve been hungry for days, there’s no end to it. I can’t do anything except agonize in the clutches of the goddamn hunger. I suppose this might be premenstrual hunger. Who knows. The gnawing makes me so bitter and forlorn that I’m not bulimic anymore and therefore can’t appease the hunger. And that’s not good; it’s been so long since I’ve really, sincerely wished I could throw up.
I’ve been walking my ass off in an attempt both to stifle the hunger and to counter the effects of it, but I just can’t keep up. This afternoon I desperately stormed out of the house in a ravenous frenzied fury, to try to escape the pain and panging and beating of the goddamn hunger against me. I got in my car and drove to the bay, shaking, too hungry and anxious and tormented to really think about or realize the movements and turns I was making while buckling my seat belt, backing out of the driveway, driving across town and stepping out onto the sand. I walked in the sun from the end of the beach over to the ferry, where I couldn’t walk any further because a fortress of rocks was piled up across the sand going out into the water, and everything past and around the fortress was roped off and there were signs posted in all directions that read, OFFICIAL PERSONNEL ONLY. NO TRESPASSING. VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED. Because I’m one of those lackluster, risk-averse people who never have the balls to cross No Trespassing signs, I turned around and plodded back disappointedly, in the sun, this time at the edge of the water so my feet could get wet and I could more easily take the blaring heat. Continue reading
If you think I’ve been absent for so long (again) because I’ve been busy finding and getting a life, you’re sorely mistaken. Actually, it’s rather the opposite: I haven’t been around because I’ve been swallowed down deeper and deeper into the swamp of hibernation and have been lying there dormant and silent. I sank to the floor of the swamp sometime in the dead of winter, during January or February maybe, and remained sleeping there undisturbed and unruffled throughout the rest of the season. Meanwhile, the world has been going about its business and everyone has been living their lives and weathering the winter as always. All of the swamp life around me has been flourishing as well; the mallards and sparrows and screech owls have all been attending to their affairs. And I haven’t given much of a damn. I’ve been lying comfortably on the murky bottom, underneath everything, benevolently cloaked by silt and mud and sundew buds and covered by moss, saturated in the rich decaying biomatter seeping into me. It’s been quiet and very stagnant and very warm here and I haven’t had any desire to change things.
A few weeks ago, however, on a rare occasion that I’ve bothered to leave the house, I noticed that things are changing regardless when I visited a nearby stretch of woodland. Continue reading
- Run away. Road trip. Out West. Do the Zen-And-the-Art-of-Motorcycle-Maintenance thing.
- Go to sleep. For hours and hours. Wearing very, very soft pajamas. I’m talking very soft. And sleeping forever. Like, Sleeping Beauty style.
- Strong cappuccino at a very quiet and dim coffee shop, very strong cappuccino, and very quiet and dim. And cozy.
- Wander around in an endless meadow full of wildflowers (indulge my frivolous fancy, here).
- Wander around a quiet garden or meadow or woodland or hilltop or riverbank on a balmy summer night. Quiet and balmy, and fragrant, is key here.