OH GO FUCK YOURSELF
as i told Kelly, my response to anyone who dares ask the question ’so how’s the story coming?’ is “OH GO FUCK YOURSELF.” i even say it in all caps, just like that. i think maria and seamus, two of my co-workers, are about to have heartattacks.
“i’m starting to be nervous for you,” seamus said.
“so are you just gonna sing?” maria asked.
which is a big fat HELL NO (again said in all caps). i will not sing. i will turn in a pointless, tensionless, hinky tensed piece of mindless drivel before i will take the stage at grumpy’s and start singing along to “I Hate Myself for Loving You.” i will fake a stomach cramp, bend over, and lick my palms (a little childish and stupid, but then so is singing “By the Time I Get to Phoenix” to a bar of hipsters) before i will concede defeat.
i just have to repeat after me “good stories aren’t written they’re rewritten” and “it’s okay to write shitty stories.”
so yeah, GO FUCK YOURSELF. . . actually, first graphs are in the jump. you can read it and then GO FUCK YOURSELF.
Leda bent over to untie and then retie her shoes. She’d never been so happy to have shoelaces in her life. It was April in Wisconsin and while shorts seemed like a good idea yesterday, the weather had changed quickly while she was locked up. She looked over her shoulder at the Courthouse that housed the County Jail, tucked her hands under her arms close to her body and started to walk home. She was going to have some explaining to do.
A horn sounded behind her and she heard the wheels crunch against the sand that had collected on the side of the road, remnants of a long winter. It was Ray.
He rolled down the window and turned his face to her. “Where the hell you been? Everyone’s freaking out.”
“I was in jail,” Leda said.
“You were in jail?” He started to laugh. “That’s so punk rock.”
“It is not punk rock.” Leda started to cry. “It’s horrible.”
“Get in the car, I’ll give you a ride home.”
Leda sat down, shut the door, and curled in on herself, resting her head against the glove compartment.
“Buckle-up Jailbird,” Ray said.
She turned her wet face to him. “Not funny.”
“Someday you will look back on this moment, and realize just how fucking funny this is.”
“I doubt it,” Leda said, and continued crying.
If I say I like it so far, do I have to go fuck myself?
29 Mar 06 at 1:58 pm #well only if you want to. i would never stand between someone and some self love.
29 Mar 06 at 2:10 pm #ms. jodi, you remind me of this wonderful poem. it was written by a very neat lady named maggie estep (www.maggieestep.com):
I’m An Emotional Idiot
By Maggie Estep
I’m an Emotional Idiot
so get away from me.
I mean,
COME HERE.
Wait, no,
that’s too close,
give me some space
it’s a big country,
there’s plenty of room,
don’t sit so close to me.
Hey, where are you?
I haven’t seen you in days.
Whadya, having an affair?
Who is she?
Come on,
aren’t I enough for you?
God,
You’re so cold.
I never know what you’re thinking.
You’re not very affectionate.
I mean,
you’re clinging to me,
DON’T TOUCH ME,
what am I, your fucking cat?
Don’t rub me like that.
Don’t you have anything better to do
than sit there fawning over me?
Don’t you have any interests?
Hobbies?
Sailing Fly fishing
Archeology?
There’s an archeology expedition leaving tomorrow
why don’t you go?
I’ll loan you the money,
my money is your money.
my life is your life
my soul is yours
without you I’m nothing.
Move in with me
we’ll get a studio apartment together, save on rent,
well, wait, I mean, a one bedroom,
so we don’t get in each other’s hair or anything
or, well,
maybe a two bedroom
I’ll have my own bedroom,
it’s nothing personal
I just need to be alone sometimes,
you do understand,
don’t you?
Hey, why are you acting distant?
Where you goin’,
was it something I said?
What
What did I do?
I’m an emotional idiot
29 Mar 06 at 2:20 pm #so get away from me
I mean,
MARRY ME.
dude. i feel so nailed!
29 Mar 06 at 2:23 pm #