![[astigmatic much?]](/img/side_strip.jpg)
pith.org content, daily-likemost recently
archive
Thursday December 21, 2000, 03:03
If, at this point, I take a break from airing out my dirty laundry here I am afraid that there will be nothing else for me to write about. Yesterday can be pretty much categorized as one big day of laundry that only ended this afternoon when I got home and showered.
I sat in the coat check room with them, she in a silver dress, skirt working its way up her hose-clad thighs, feet shuffling back and forth across the carpet, he in khakis and a button-down sporting self-proclaimed "Dawsom" hair. She was complaining about her shoes, about how nobody looks at your shoes anyway at these events and how she shouldn't have worn heels.
I looked down at my own sneakered feet and wiggled them.
"I look at people's shoes." I didn't know if this was entirely appropriate, but it didn't seem inappropriate, there wasn't anything else to say, and she had a boyfriend. I shut my mouth and they continued with their conversation, this woman and the gentleman in the room (notably not her boyfriend).
They spoke about airing dirty laundry. She told him that he was too willing to open up, to share his secrets, to tell his stories. That people will form opinions about you from what you tell them before they even get to interact with you. That branding yourself in that manner is not so good. She told him all of this as I stared at her legs. I really didn't have much of a choice in the matter.
Later, she would say "What are you, like 12?"
I had shaved that morning.
She went off in search of soup and I sat down on the counter that ran the length of the small room.
"I think it's because you're a writer," I said, and proceeded to address him as if I knew what he was going through, that I had "been there myself" and could understand why he felt this need, or this comfort, to talk to people, to let them know his story.
He might have bought it. I might have been making sense.
The whole while, though, I was thinking of possible designs for a business card. Was thinking that I should really have cards, for while I can always beam to the nearest nerd and/or executive MBA wanna-be-type, most people I would encounter in this industry would be firmly rooted in paper and I would have to conform to those limitations. Besides, paper makes me smile. The thoughts in my brain and the thoughts coming out of my mouth were as detached as they'd ever been and I had to regain my composure every time a patron entered the room looking to retrieve their garments.
The evening continued as such, punctuated throughout by the woman in the silver dress, the occassional magazine writer who described my fingernail polish as something similar to, but much more eloquent than, "slutty," with whom I could have had a much better conversation had I not been so bogged down in not having one. It would be nice to say here that I was merely blinded by her beauty, opening my mouth to find that it had gone slack. Regrettably, that was not the case and I fear that the lack of conversation was due mainly to my own shortcomings.
There was also a pretty girl. I climbed down from where I was perching up a support column and extended a hand.
"Hi, I don't think we've met before." An appropriate opening in any other situation except the one where the response is "Yes we have. Twice."
Embarrassment rapidly set in and the girl proceeded to slip a shirt over her tie-around top and remove said top, accenting the whole operation with comments about her breasts. If one would like to discuss perceptions to strangers, perhaps the exchange that went something like the following should be called into question. "Unfortunately," she began, "my breasts aren't big enough to hold up this top." "Unfortunately?" "Well, no, not really. I like my breasts."
An appropriate answer, in retrospect, was probably "I do too." But that would have been shallow. But perhaps funny. The next time the opportunity presents itself, I will use that response.
I left the party with a gift bag containing a health food bar and a new mouse pad. On the way home on the train, an hour away and worlds apart, I glanced out the window and noted the phrase "the darkness was puncuated by burts of light from street lamps along the tracks." Or something similar. I have used a piece of that phrase elsewhere however, punctuated seeming to fit much better where I placed it, rather than in regards to the light. Visually though, the light would have made more sense.
I really must stop writing about girls.
[ permanent link ]
[ email love | your love | consumer love ]
------------------
search the past
remember the past
1999
aug 04 05 06 08 09 11 12 15 17 22 26 30
sep 01 03 07 12 20 28
oct 04 14 18 22
nov 02 07 12 19 25 26 27
dec 12 15 18 28 31
2000
jan 02 06 11 12 18 29
feb 03 10 14 17 21 23 28 29
mar 05 06 20 22 25 26
apr 02 05 06 08 09 10 12 13 17 20 21 24 25 28 29
may 03 05 08 11 12 15 17 17b 18 18b 21 23 25 29 30 31
jun 01 01b 03 06 07 08 10 13 14 16 18 21 23 25 30
jul 03 06 09 10 13 16 26
aug 02 03 04 08 10 17 21 25 29
sep 06 07 12 13 18 24
oct 06 11 12 19 30 31
nov 08 11 22 26 30
dec 01 10 14 21 30
2001
jan 01 09 14 16 30
feb 11 15 20 22
mar 06 08 09 21 25 30
apr 01 04 05 09 13 18 23 24 25 28
may 04 09 11 14 16 17 21 25 31
jun 02 08 20 21 28 29
jul 07 13 17 28
aug 14 24 26
sep 09 12 23 24
oct 10 26 28 31
nov 11 17 18 28 30
dec 02 08 15 18 26
2002
jan 03 07 08 18 20 23
feb 04 05 17 19 22
mar 06 10 13 15 17
apr 13 16 19 26
may 03 13 16 21
jun 08 15 21
jul 03 05 10 18 24
aug 03 18
sep 11 20
oct 03 05
nov 10
dec 30
2003
jan 19
feb 04 14 27
mar 10 23 31
apr 11 15
may 26
jun 16 29
aug 17
sep 15
oct 08
nov 30
dec 11 24 28
2004
jan 06 23 30
feb 01 21
mar 04 09
apr 15
may 02 10
jul 03
aug 02 16 30
oct 04 17
nov 28
dec 28
2005
jan 03 24
mar 24
may 28
aug 01 10
sep 03
oct 12 28
dec 25
2006
jan 01 07 16
feb 02 13 28
mar 12 13
apr 17
other things to look at