I sort of got married...over the internet. I got better though!

For a little context, Jake is my pseudofacebookboyfriend. Yes, that is all one word. I'm pretty sure it will be in the dictionary someday. Perhaps not Merriam Webster will take it, but I'll write my own damn dictionary to accomodate it...damnit.

Anyway, we were talking about the usual mindless repetitive tasks of temp work, writing and losing sleep. This is the end result of one of our mad conversations. That's right, I somehow managed to get married over teh internets.

[18:07] Jake: well
[18:07] Jake: it's bedtime once again
[18:07] Me: ok
[18:07] Me: I won't deprive you of sleep.
[18:08] Me: I've got to get to writing this batshit crazy ending anyway...
[18:09] Jake: both are important
[18:09] Me: indeed
[18:09] Me: :tucks you in and gets you a glass of warm milk...but keeps the cookie:
[18:13] Jake: hey
[18:13] Jake: that's my cookie
[18:13] Jake: i theory
[18:14] Jake: i guess that's presumptuous of me
[18:14] Me: ok...fine...:gets you another cookie:
[18:14] Me: :takes a bite out of it before handing it to you:
[18:14] Me: hm...better be careful...you never know which cultures recognize food sharing as a sort of marriage ritual...
[18:15] Jake: sometimes a cookie is a commitment
[18:15] Me: indeed
[18:15] Me: :offers you choice of cookie with bite taken out of it and whole cookie that has nuts in it:
[18:17] Jake: hurm
[18:17] Jake: i have to go with nuts
[18:17] Me: ha! it was a trick
[18:17] Me: there was a bite taken from beneath the cookie
[18:17] Me: ha! now we're married according to someone's arbitrary ritual
[18:18] Me: (all it means is that you can't marry anyone else unless you reimburse me with a cow or something)
[18:18] Me: haha
[18:18] Me: so sweet! I get a free cow!
[18:18] Jake: okay
[18:18] Jake: or a free me
[18:18] Me: that works too
[18:18] Jake: well, a cookie isn't really free
[18:18] Jake: everything has its price
[18:18] Me: it is if you steal them
[18:18] Jake: right
[18:19] Me: (or steal the ingredients from orphans)
[18:19] Jake: haha
[18:19] Jake: you've got it all figured out
[18:19] Me: but not the ending of this book
[18:20] Me: (or how you're going to sleep with these weird ideas in your head of how we're apparently married now)
[18:20] Jake: haha
[18:20] Me: this conversation has to get posted somewhere (I'll put it in my blog or something)
[18:22] Jake: nice
[18:22] Jake: i'll sleep quite comfortably i think
[18:22] Jake: nice and warm
[18:22] Me: especially after the warm milk and inadvertent marriage cookie
[18:22] Me: good for you...I miss being warm
[18:22] Me: you know what, screw it, I'm getting in that bed with you. it's too cold in my apartment for me to finish my novel.
[18:23] Jake: i'm into long underwear now in a big way
[18:23] Me: ah...I like the flannel jammies, but I'm going to have to invest in the longjohns again
[18:24] Jake: i only ever wore them skiing but now i put them on when i get home from work
[18:24] Jake: they're so comfortable
[18:24] Me: ah
[18:24] Me: well, either way, move over. I'm getting in.
[18:25] Jake: gladly
[18:25] Me: just know that while you're all snuggly and asleep, some part of my brain is there with you while the rest of me shivers over my laptop and tries to end this novel once and for all
[18:26] Jake: good luck!
[18:26] Jake: you can do it!
[18:26] Jake: have a good night
[18:26] Me: g'night
[18:26] Me: and tanks
[18:26] Me: *thanks

The Portland Literary Salon or, Why Valerie Is No Longer Allowed Near Absinthe

So Steve asks me via google talk while I'm checking my email if I'm going to the salon tonight (it was Saturday) and I had completely forgotten about it despite Heather (not Helen) telling me about it last week.

I am already getting ahead of myself.

For those of you who don't know and actually do care despite perhaps not keeping tabs on this seemingly defunct blog, I am now living in Portland, OR. I have for the past couple of months lived in relative isolation, scrounging up work here and there, getting a bit of writing done. At a National Novel Writing Month-related event, I met Steve, who introduced me to Heather (along with a bunch of other writer/musician/artist types) at his book release party a couple of weeks ago. Heather told us that she was going to read a piece at this literary salon hosted by Jessica (who I met last night). The idea was supposed to be like the French salons and coteries from back in the day (hence the wine and the absinthe...but I'll get to that later).

When I got there, I had my usual preliminary apprehension at going to a social function where I knew nobody except the person I arrived with and had my usual cigarette outside. There, I met Winona and Cari (at least I think she spelled it that way) who were friends with the hostess, but likewise didn't know many other people at the salon.

Once I got in, it was a good time, lots of good company, lots of wine and baguette bread to go around. The readings were interesting, starting from the noise/spoken word combo O'Grady (at least that's what I think they were called). The guy (one of the Mikes?) had a sweet tattoo of a typewriter keyboard which reminded me of Naked Lunch and read pieces about working in a pen factory (with a receptionist who had a nice ass) and going to a strip club. While he read, his girlfriend (?) did interesting things with sound involving a crushed can and some electronic equipment ... experiments in feedback.

One of Steve's friends (I don't remember his name either, so I'll just assume it's Mike) read too, but not from his book "Help, a Bear is Eating Me!" (or was it "Help, I'm Being Eaten by a Bear?") Unfortunately, I'm drawing a blank as to what it was about, especially considering like most of the other pieces tonight, it was funny or intentionally humorous ... Ok, now I remember, it was a satirical commentary on the whole "natural food" trend "Hi! I milk the cows for Sunnyview farms! ... Hi! I'm the person who fucks the cows at Sunnyview farms! ... We put love in everything you eat!" (or something like that).

Another guy (I think his name might have been Mike too) read a short story about a woman talking to a lizard at the side of the road about her relationship/life problems (deadbeat stoner boyfriend), wanting her life to be like a poem, only for the lizard to say "It sounds to me that you just need to grow the fuck up." When I asked him if it was from personal experience, he explained that for awhile, he agreed with the lizard, but his (ex)girlfriend Jennifer actually randomly went to New York to become a documentarian, and things actually worked out, so he figures that it's better to be idealistic. I agreed, but sometimes people do need to grow the fuck up when it comes to relationships (by now one would think I would have learned that lesson at least), but it is better to be idealistic and go after "crazy" dreams when it comes to careers. There was a funny moment when this Mike and Steve talked about the awkwardness of being either the oldest or the youngest person in the room. As soon as Steve told Mike his age, Mike immediately said, "Thank God!"

Jessica's friend Tara sang, projected well in the crowded room with the wood burning stove. When I spoke with her, she told me that she had been singing since she was three, on stage since she was six. I just started piano at six, let alone be at any sort of performance level. It never ceases to amaze me how many incredible people I meet here in Portland.

One of the artists who had work on the walls was there, Jason, a Puerto Rican metalworker who was in the military for awhile. I think I spent the most time with him talking about, of all things, food and the fact that food now not only does not look like food, but actually isn't. He worked in a meat packing plant/warehouse which supplied food for McDonald's. Apparently even in the freezer, while wrapped in plastic, the food smelled like French fries and hamburgers, a scent synthesized in a lab somewhere. How horrifying. We also talked about what our immigrant parents/grandparents in the old country ate and how they got by without having to go to the gym because they worked and cooked their own food.

I also asked him about the masks he had made, which were quite beautiful. One was based from a photograph of Montezuma's death mask he had seen in his nephew's social studies book, another was the "sister" of another piece (the sister was fire and the brother was water), another one was inspired by the patterning on a motorcycle he had built and painted.

The next morning when Steve and I went to collect my keys (I was a dumbass and didn't make sure my keys were secure in my coat pocket before leaving, thus resulting in me crashing at Steve's), Jessica commented that she would have liked to see more women reading, especially since it seemed a bit unbalanced. So, at the next one in January, I'll try to have something written that I won't be completely ashamed of reading. I wish I had my old blue notebook with the stuff I did from Blue Room, although I had a policy of never reading the same piece twice back then. On another note, the one person we would have known otherwise, Heather (not Helen) wasn't there. I'm trying to remember if she said at some point on Tuesday that she wouldn't make it, but I can't. I think her pieces would have fit in well with the brand of humor prevalent last night.

To think, I was just going to stay in, knit, watch Doctor Who and try to get some NaNo-ing done last night. Crap...speaking of NaNo, I'm falling behind and we're getting to the final stretch.

But yeah...the bit about the absinthe. Jessica got a bottle of "fake" absinthe and demonstrated the process of dripping cold water on a sugar cube rested on a slotted spoon. I made a comment about how I had heard that they sometimes lit the cube on fire before dripping the water. This was to my downfall, as they insisted that I go up (especially since I had my lighter at the ready from having had a smoke earlier) and demonstrate. I tried lighting the cube directly, which only resulted in it being immediately reduced to elemental carbon. Then someone suggested pouring a little absinthe on it. Ok, keep in mind at this shindig, we were all using plastic cups. Usually there are special glasses specifically made for the purpose of drinking absinthe. So, 180-or-so proof alcohol+plastic cup+flame=holy crap! The cube burned nicely, but then the fire only spread to the alcohol in the cup, melting it even as I was trying to blow it out. Then we had to use the pitcher of water to put it out.

Thus I learned a very important lesson: I should never make suggestions concerning fire and alcohol preparation when plastic cups are involved.

The guys up at the podium with me just reassured me that things would be ok. One of them (the beatnik with a hip hop cadence poet whose name escapes me at the moment, something beginning with D) started stroking my back in a way I interpreted (at least in that moment) as being less solicitous than somewhat presumptuous, especially when he joked "well, now your face matches your jacket" (I was wearing a red jacket). So, I immediately freaked out and shouted "Ok, why is everyone touching me?!" He was probably just adding levity to the situation so I wouldn't feel like such an ass, so I can appreciate that. I still felt like an ass though, especially after that outburst.

Ok Valerie, way to make an already awkward situation worse. I immediately headed for the back of the room and got another cup of wine. Things turned out all right in the end and I don't think anyone even remembers their near brush with immolation at my inept hands.

At any rate, I had an excellent time last night. This is pretty much the sort of thing I've always wanted to be involved in, meeting like-minded people and not being too serious all the time. Bleh, I need a shower and to deposit this paycheck. I also need to get more groceries and get more writing done. Look forward to more dispatches ... if I feel like it.

I am a bad daughter

This is just something I wrote, tongue-planted-firmly-in-cheek concerning my relationship with my parents/writing. It's probably been done before, but I still like the idea.

Parents, do not let your children grow up to be writers. No matter how much love, money, or love thinly veiled as money you could throw at them, they will inevitably hate you. This is only because they are "supposed to" hate you. After both you and they are dead, scholars and others who you had never even passed on the street while still alive will speculate numerous abuses and neglectfulness on your part that helped fuel their self-destruction as well as their edge-of-madness brilliance. That is, if your child's work is even worth such notice at all.

You could even be supportive, understanding enough to the point of offering your home "for the time being" during their post-graduation/drop-out doldrums. Of course, this does not fuel rugged dreams of individualism or glamorous self-reliance. Doing the laundry in the basement of one's parents is hardly something to write home about, especially when still living at home. If
you ever want to see or hear from your children in their 20's to 30's, make sure the notion of writing professionally never so much as flashes through their minds at an earlier age.

Even when they're in college, expect listening to mechanized automated answering services over the actual sound of your child's voice. If you have a son, expect him to run around with loose women, drink alone and have a few experimental dalliances which may or may not result in the discovery he is homosexual or bisexual. Even if such dalliances do not occur, be certain that the scholars will speculate on that matter anyway. Do not ever expect to meet any significant others since there are many of the insignificant one-night or three-month sort, but none to take as seriously as his work. If you replace "work" with "drinking, alienating others, and not giving a shit," it makes more sense.

If you have a daughter, expect about the same thing. She will take up smoking as a teenager, but not really be addicted since she only does it socially to be "connected with the other artist-types who have no time to bother with cooking to the point where they solely sustain themselves on coffee or tea and cigarettes with a bit of drinking and pot smoking if they need to "balance" their stimulant diet with occasional sleep(ing around). It goes without saying that she will never bring home "a nice boy" because she knows none. In fact, her relationships, should she choose to become "involved" will be tumultuous and occasionally violent (on her part, resulting in flying half-empty bottles of vodka) and she will learn to hate any man who so much as looks at her. Do not be surprised if she realizes she is a lesbian.

After awhile, the binaries will not apply to your children. Boys in tight jeans and long hair, girls with close crops and large overcoats, they switch clothes as often as they switch beds.

"But what of the writing?" you may ask. After moving across country to get away from you and the monotonous bourgeois ideals of your society, they will have to support themselves somehow so as to raise the shackles of middle-class obligation from their wrists. Rejection letter after rejection letter will arrive. A few acceptances with drastic editorial changes will come rarely, but the "published" work will still feel unfinished and ultimately unsatisfying, especially considering the meager scraps awarded for all the toil which went in it.

Sometimes the writer will be discouraged, allowing his or her creative mind to be stifled so as not to go completely mad in their banal day job. After this full-out dejection, they will drink themselves into a stupor to the point where "maybe in a few months, I could be promoted to assistant manager" will be a comforting thought. Then they will stay out less, stop hanging out with their compatriots who resent them for "selling out" (but still anxiously wait the checks from their parents to clear at the bank so they can go pay off their bar tabs). Even worse yet, they may decide that existence is no longer an option and that razorblades, pills and guns are cheaper than playing out the farce of their life. More often than not though, your children will probably fall into a monotonous routine of work, eating and sleeping.

Perhaps then, they will finally come home for Christmas with a nice man or woman they met from work or on some random mundane chance meeting, buy a house and settle down somewhere outside the city they had hoped would foster their creativity. Even if they still write and somehow eventually sustain themselves with it, they will have become exactly like you. In the end, isn't that the greatest tragedy of all?

Portland Part-time Post #1

Note on the title: a little bit of alliteration never killed anyone, right? Also, Portland's motto is "The City that Works," but unofficially, "The City that Works...part-time" as a reference to the fact that there's such a large music/arts community here that just have "day jobs" to pay rent while they can pursue their passion in whatever field they chose. I just hope I can create something good while I'm here. Otherwise I'll be doing the city a grave injustice.

Gargh, why am I staying up late to make a post when I should be sleeping so I can be fresh and pert and perky for tomorrow's 7 a.m. clock-in?

Perhaps it is the same answer which explains my other self-destructive behaviors: masochism.

So, today was my first day employed as a temp for the Fred Meyer corporation. The crew in accounts payable seem friendly and well-humored, perhaps even as snarky-in-the-good-way as my former co-workers at TIS. One of them even joked that one of my responsibilities (along with refilling the coffee machine) was to pick up Krispy Kremes every morning for everyone.

There was a slight mixup which I only realized once someone started calling me "Evelyn." It turned out that not only, I was in the completely wrong department, I was in the wrong building. The corporate office for several chains of grocery store, naturally, was enormous. It was like floor after floor of identical labyrinths made of cubicles. The only problem was I didn't even have an ID passcard to get through all of the security doors, let alone Ariadne's golden thread (although I did eventually get an Ident card attached to a retractable string).

It turns out that I'm replacing another temp whose contract is being bought out by the company from the agency. For some reason, I'm thinking of "Memoirs of a Geisha," but without the vague sexual things, the sometimes-purple prose and the ridiculously pretty outfits and ornate ceremonies. Maybe because the woman training me was very personable, but also deliberate about it. I don't mean "deliberately nice" in the fake way, but in the way that nice people want you to know that they really do want to be nice. Either that, or I secretly have the hope of getting my contract "bought out" at some point despite my itchy-feet syndrome (my proclivity towards wandering).

An email from an acquaintance/former co-worker mentioning his own personal journey in finding himself (although over a greater distance and longer period of time with more drastic and dramatic turning points) only confirmed my knowing that I'm probably not going to stay in Portland too long no matter how much I adore it here. As Honk once said to me, "You've still got a lot of wandering to do."

At any rate, the work was like a twilight-zone version of what I used to do with Session A, but was now called Session F. Instead of ISBNs, I had to work with Employee IDs and SSNs. Instead of sorting and cateloguing books, I filed away people under convenient numbers. I'm basically being paid $10.50 an hour to reduce human beings into numbers for the sake of convenience.

Still, at least the people I work with are amicable. My trainer (I was almost tempted to refer to her as Mameha and myself as Chiyo/Sayuri to continue the "Memoirs of a Geisha" comparison, but thought better of it) seemed genuinely interested in even the most boring details of my former life in the Midwest, sometimes wide-eyed and saying "wow, really?" at my details of flat land, corn and soybean fields, the time they shut down the university for two days due to the crazy amount of snow last February.

I guess I'm the same way about the fact that it is possible for me to walk uphill and then downhill on the same street, the fact I can see Mt. Tabor as I walk to Safeway and that it rains here much more than it snows. Then again, perhaps I should have known I wasn't quite in Kansas (or rather, Illinois) anymore when my trainer said "Really? You're from Illinoise?" Then again, my former roommate did get ragged on for saying "Oregone" at her internship.

I was even more amazed that people here actually take their 15 minute breaks unlike at the bookstore. I just felt unproductive and kept staring at the clock in between half-heartedly reading the newspaper/recipe magazines and chewing on my peanut butter sandwich in the break room. Downstairs is a cafeteria where I should avoid taking lunch (even though the guys who work there are generous, one of them ended up giving me enough meatloaf servings for two meals...although I would have rather had a surplus of steamed broccoli, which was slightly soggy, but still good and way above the canned green beans they had offered as an alternative vegetable) despite my rather bad habit of not cooking and eating out resurfacing...I guess some things don't change.

I probably should have mentioned earlier that I ended up getting off the bus at the wrong stop and walking around in the rain, getting lost before I was even able to get lost in the corporate headquarters and assigned to the wrong department. I don't know why it didn't occur to me considering how upset I was by it while it was actually happening. Oh well, maybe I am growing up a bit after all if I don't let little things like that bother me for long.

Speaking of the rain and the gray and cold, the weather I came here for is finally here. I thought it was funny that one of my new co-workers once said to my trainer that she was disappointed that her vacation was always sunny but with no rain. Maybe I will fit in here after all.

Still, I feel the occasional melancholy once I realize how alone I really am. Then again, staying inside out of the rain while listening to Elliott Smith probably doesn't help. Or, when I actually do go outside, having "Alameda" (which also happens to be a street in Portland) stuck in my head probably doesn't help either. The funny thing is, I live on Hawthorne and walk up and down it quite often, so having a song about another stretch of Portland road playing in my mind is sort of like cheating.

Gaah...it's almost 1 a.m. and I'm still not that sleepy. I'll probably crash hard tomorrow. Maybe instead of staying in and watching sappy romantic movies while eating fresh baked bread from the Safeway (because I can't always afford the artisan breads at the "good" bakeries on my street, that and I have a penchant for irony) and pre-made soup (I told you, I don't cook...it's better that way otherwise if I get food poisoning, no one will really notice until it's too late), I should take up knitting, or better yet, running.

Ok, now I'm just delirious...time for sleep.

Melancholy that can only be brought on by watching French films and listening to Kind of Like Spitting

Note: This is (for the most part) fiction. I am actually very happy with my recent arrangement in Portland. Yet for some reason, I still come up with the most horribly emo poetry possible. I think I'll just chalk it up to the overcast weather lately (although I love overcast weather...never really did well under direct sunlight). Worse yet, I'm not even sure who I'm talking about in this.

Forgetting you
is about as easy
as drying my hands
with the towel I took
from the dryer too soon.

Bits of fuzz
still cling
on my moist hands,
speckling them
like the lint on my used futon,
but I can't recall
the last words you said
before I left.

All I can remember is this feeling.

Sometimes I think I moved
two time zones away
just to try making up
for the first two hours I spent with you.
Even if I can't get back all of the time wasted
on you, I can at least try to cancel out the first two
that led to so much trouble in the first place.

Maybe I'm just kidding myself
thinking that moving thousands of miles away
will help me grow up a few years,
that magically, a few gray hairs will sprout,
I'll grow a bit taller, "find a real job"
or worse yet, "find a real boyfriend."

My friends still talk about you
like you're just a blow-up doll,
a silicone vibrator I randomly
ordered online.

Well, I'm just not ready
to grow up yet.

I am, however,
ready to walk
into an actual sex shop,
look the clerk in the eye
and ask for suggestions.

I figure this is at least a first step
towards meaningful human interaction.

It is (more or less) complete...

Remember how back in June I was working on a script for ScriptFrenzy? I technically "won," by passing the 20,000 word mark. Yet I wasn't quite satisfied. What can I say? I'm a complete masochist.

Anyhoo, I finally completed "The Night Nurse," or got all of the important plot points I wanted in there at least. Hell, scripts get torn all to hell if they ever get made anyway. I shouldn't expect anyone to treat this one any differently. Then again, I highly doubt anyone would ever want to make this awful, yet epic, script into a movie.

Naturally, uploading to google docs ultimately screwed up some of my original formatting, but of course I'm too damn lazy to really fix any of it. It ain't pretty, but it's as close as done as it's going to be for awhile.

If anyone feels so inclined, here it is: "The Night Nurse: Working Title"

So close, and yet so far.

The past night and day seem to have been a torrent of emotion for me. It's weird, but I really thought I would have grown out of my petty stage. I recently found out that yet another one of my casual arrangements has settled down with a significant other. I don't have feelings for him or anything, but it just made me wonder what's so horribly wrong with me that I can't seem to meet anyone I'd want to stick around for not only the night/next morning, but long enough for meetings afterward - basically someone nice, decent, what have you.

When I asked my co-worker Kerri, she just told me, maybe the girl he's with isn't so nice and had to settle for him (since he's what I describe to people as "picture a 'nice Jewish boy,' now picture the exact opposite"). Like me, it seems like everyone she knows is pairing off too. Being the seventh wheel at prom in high school was just simply annoying. Now it's just kind of pathetic.

Don't get me wrong, I love being single/alone in general. Having a bed to myself where I can stretch, toss and turn (sometimes even drool and fart on occasion) without having to worry about someone next to me is awesome. I like not having to work my schedule around someone else or dealing with petty arguments which end up destroying what was once a good friendship over time. Besides, I'm in a situation a lot like Jake's where I really need to take care of a lot more important things (finding an apartment/job and eventually saving and/or destroying the world) before I can even think about something as trifling as picking a life/3-month partner.

Kerri also said to me that there's a bit of an intimidation factor when it comes to me as well, what with the graduating with a four year degree in just three years and knowing what I want out of life when everyone else is as good as moving back into their parent's basements for awhile. Granted, I never really thought any of that was impressive. I'm also still very uncertain about what I want from life for the long haul, but right now, I just think I'd be happier in Portland.

I remember the application adviser at the Western Culinary Institute telling me that I was "brave" for making the move all the way out there. At the same time, I remember Ben warning me against "running away from myself."

I want to believe that the fact that I'm making a change my life, for good or ill, will make me happy. Tonight though, I started to have doubts, but then I came to the conclusion that things will be cool.

Where it started: I love my co-workers. We banter, poke fun at each other, but in the end, we all commiserate about our situation. I mean, we work at a college textbook store. Sometimes we go out for the occasional beers and pool. Tonight some of us went to see "Knocked Up" (which I would recommend as being oddly good) and went book-shopping. I mean, how often do people who know each other from work (especially at a bookstore) just go to a bookstore and browse...especially since we spent a good amount of time in a bookstore previously.

I always feel a bit bad about getting rides from people for some reason. In high school, it wasn't bad because I believed in underclassmen/upperclassmen karma: basically, as a freshman, you catch rides with upperclassmen friends with cars and when you get your car and license, you give your underclassmen friends rides to football games/movies/parties/etc. Now that I probably won't be able to afford a car or will most likely live in a place where it won't be conducive to own a car, the karma cycle sort of stops, gets backed up on my end.

Of course, this isn't fair. I'm always surprised at how awesomely nice my co-workers are. I mean, they're just genuinely nice people, and I'm just really not used to that sort of thing. At the same time, building this sort of "family" and relying on them sort of reminds me of the tension in my own family and why I'm leaving in the first place. Still, with how close I've gotten with these new friends, I actually think I'll be sad to go. I even said that tonight. Out loud.

Which brings me back to the first bit about the dating/being single conundrum. I figure I'll always be ok being single as long as I have good friends like Liz and Jenna, my co-workers. But without them around next year, things will be a bit more difficult. I mean, how do you meet people after college? I felt isolated this year, and I was still technically on campus.

I guess it just does take time. I've worked at the bookstore for a year and now I'm at the point where I can talk about anything with them (and I mean everything, for example: complaining about above-mentioned jackass for being a complete conceited prat and waving about his relationship in my face).

I don't know. I'm just rambling on this silly blog when I should be packing and getting ready to leave for Sunday. I'm in a peculiarly light mood now despite the rather bleak spell I had this morning where I just had to run off and be alone for awhile (which no one really notices since a lot of what I do for my job is a one-person job most of the time anyway).

Besides, what's not to be happy about? I'm going to Portland next week. There's a blues festival, all manner of amazing restaurants, gardens to stroll in, shops to blow my hard-earned bookstore money on (especially Powell's...is it weird that I'm going to go to a giant bookstore on my holiday when I work in a bookstore?). Oh yeah, I guess I'll squeeze in looking for a job and an apartment somewhere in there.

It ain't quite over yet...

So yeah, I made it to a 20,000 word screenplay in 30 days (actually a bit less). Unfortunately, it isn't quite finished yet. So, I'll see if I can use the time I have left to actually complete it (or at least have the plot hashed out on paper/hard drive). Compared to NaNoWriMo where I was scrambling to fulfill the proper word count, ScriptFrenzy! was one where I tried to cram too much in too little space. Admittedly though, I did occasionally slip into my fiction mode of writing where there is quite a lot of filler describing people, places and things as opposed to providing any advancement for the plot.

Nonetheless, there is a whole lot of plot to be had. Hypothetically, it could be two movies, but I think form and structure-wise, it would be a lot better as just one. I promise I'll post it like I did for NaNoWriMo...and I promise that it is a much more fun read than "312 East Main Street." I mean there are assassins, schoolgirls (if I get to the bit about the international assassin training school), torture scenes of people who really deserve it, mother/daughter dramatic turmoil about the expectations one has about the way the other leads her life, explosions, and at least one sex scene/montage.

Just a quick taste/the first bit I wrote for ScriptFrenzy...

FADE IN:

INT. LEARNING ANNEX-DAY

Close-up of immaculately white orthopedic shoes hurriedly walking down dim, dirty corridor.

NARRATOR (v.o)

It all started when I failed my NCLEX-RN exam.

Shoes scuff into tarnished metal paneling on door and back up, a hand reaches down and tries to rub out scuff on shoe before giving up. The door opens and the shoes enter the room. Door closes with squeaky hinges and loud slam.

NARRATOR (v.o.)

No, scratch that. It all started when I went in the wrong room and took the wrong exam.

Pan of nearly-empty room sparsely occupied with people who are obviously not nursing candidates followed by mid-shot of NARRATOR’S back from the shoulders down. Here it is revealed that even though her shoes were white, everything else she’s wearing is dark blue.

NARRATOR (v.o)

You’d think I would’ve figured out that it wasn’t the right test, but hell, I didn’t have breakfast that morning, so my mind was on other things … like French toast and cinnamon rolls.

Close-up of exam question reading: “What are the best points on the body to cut in order to maximize blood loss in the least amount of time available for the appearance of a suicide?”

NARRATOR (v.o.)

Another hint would have been questions like this. The NCLEX-RN only had multiple-choice questions the first time I took it. Then again, I had heard that they were trying something new with the format and using short answer, essay questions, maybe a few calculations for medication dosages. I didn’t think that they’d change the wording around that much.

Camera follows motion of pencil writing in answer: “A puncture wound or incision along the radial veins or jugular vein and carotid artery would cause a type III or IV hemorrhage, resulting in tachycardia and a drop in blood pressure. Most suicides have multiple, or hesitation, cuts.”

NARRATOR (v.o.)

It’s sort of scary how easy it is to apply knowledge usually used to save lives in order to take them. Either that, or perhaps I really wasn’t fated to be a nurse after all. I’ll get to that bit about fate later, though.

CUT TO INT. NARRATOR'S APARTMENT-DAY

Close-up of NARRATOR’S hands carefully opening envelope with scalpel.

NARRATOR (v.o.)

Almost as soon as I got the results back from my exam, I received my first “assignment.” (pause) What? That’s my lucky scalpel. I figured it couldn’t hurt, considering I failed the NCLEX-RN exam the first time.

CUT TO HOSPITAL-DAY

DOCTOR

Good afternoon.

NARRATOR tips imaginary hat to DOCTOR before turning into a patient’s room.

NARRATOR(v.o.)

The setup was simple enough. I took care of a particular coma patient’s neighbor for a few weeks and then administered a “special” injection into the IV drip of the fellow next door.

Close-up of NARRATOR’S hands holding hypodermic needle injecting fluid into IV drip.

NARRATOR (v.o.)

It’s funny what just the right amount of potassium will do to a person.

PATIENT shakes while electrocardiogram BEEPS rapidly followed by steady flatlining tone.

NARRATOR (v.o.)

In the immediate sense, it just looks like a heart attack. But by the time the autopsy results come back, I’m long gone.

INT. HOSPITAL DISPOSAL ROOM

Door opens and slams shut as NARRATOR hurriedly walks by in jeans and hooded sweatshirt, throwing nurse’s uniform, gloves and needle into red bin labeled “biohazardous material” in black letters.

EXT. HOSPITAL ALLEY-DAY

Back door opens and slams shut as NARRATOR continues walking down darkened alley, hunched with sweatshirt hood obscuring most of her face.

Narrator (v.o.)

Fortunately for me, the turnover at that particular hospital was so high that none of the doctors, or anyone else for that matter, would ever remember my name.

CUT TO FLASHBACK

DOCTOR

Good Afternoon.

Quickly cut multiple shots of various Filipina faces smiling warmly, slowly walking past and entering the PATIENT’S room.

NARRATOR (V.O.)

You’ll notice that he/she didn’t even bother saying my name. Doctors tend to be like that. Sometimes I wonder if they even remember their patients’ names. That was partially why I never went to med school. I wanted to be able to take care of people, not just “treat ailments.” The other reason was my parents, but I’ll get into that later. Either way, it always seemed that way for Filipina nurses, like we were invisible. We always just looked the same to them.

CUT BACK TO EXT. ALLEY-DAY

NARRATOR takes hood off upon entering sunlit street from dark alley revealing that yes, she is an almost non-descript, average-looking Filipina.

Further Diversions

So yeah, in case the masochism of NaNoWriMo just wasn't enough for me, I'm doing ScriptFrenzy too. I wonder if they call it that because halfway through, it feels like a school of piranha are feeding upon your brain in a violent orgiastic...frenzy.

Once again, I have the deadline of a month to actually complete a first draft of a project. This time, it's a 20,000 word script as opposed to a 50,000 word novel.

If you consider for a second that I've never really written a script (outside my dalliance with the film noir spoof I did for IFV a couple of years back along with my original conception of Variations on a Theme being a screenplay), things are going to get interesting...

This just in: Nice People Still Exist!

At the behest of my new acquaintance-of-multiple-sexualities Scott, I will take his (along with that of my former writing instructors) advice of just getting home and writing, no matter how drunk/tired/not-into-it I am.

Today, while making my usual run to the Altgeld Post Office, I found a random customer envelope in the outgoing mail slot. It was only after I left the store with it that I realized that it did not have proper postage on it. Just a couple of days ago, a stamp cost 39 cents. Now, it is 41 cents, as per the usual two cent increase caused by increasing gas prices (although postage will probably never go down according to gas prices).

Yeah, you're right. This is pretty boring.

But anyway, I dropped off the things I had with proper postage (as per the upgrade on my computer shipping assistant software) and returned to the store to scrounge 2 cents out of the bottom of my purse for a two cent stamp.

By the time I got back, there was a line (as per usual). I don't mind since either way, I'm on the clock and getting paid, whether it is for being productive back at the store, packing things or shelving things, or just standing in line daydreaming about all the other things I'd rather be doing than working at the bookstore.

The person in front of me noticed my envelope and asked me if I needed a new two cent stamp, to which I replied that I did. She gave me the stamp, but when I offered her the two cents she much deserved (and not in the usual annoyingly opinionated way I usually give my two cents either...mind the pun), she politely declined and gave me one of the best lines I've ever heard:

"Besides, I'd probably just spend it on candy and hookers."

The brilliance of it is in its simplicity. It fulfills two of our most human desires: to eat (even if it's something of little nutritional value) and to procreate (or just go through the amusing acrobatic motions of it, which is much more fun than the end result of procreation...especially if you have to pay for the brat's college education).

I wish I caught the woman's name so I could credit her in my first published novel or something (along with Anida Esguerra, Kristina Wong, and Kelly Tsai: three women who taught me to be both fierce and funny...and you can quote me on that too), because I definitely plan on using that line in something.

But yeah, as it turns out, I did not need the extra two cents afterward...However, if I did not return to the store to get it, I would not have come across the kind and witty soul at all.

Oh, I'd almost call this a karass of Vonnegutian proportions! Or perhaps it's a mere granfalloon. Either way, I felt that this brief connection deserved an entry (even more so than the random stranger I met while smoking out in front of the alma mater when I changed my mind about going out last week, only to end up running into him again after my roommate got me to go out again that same night....although he does deserve at least a brief mention. Thanks, Dan.).

On another note, I randomly went out to hang out with Ben (who got so drunk that I actually worried about him...I don't even worry about myself most of the time, so I think that might say something) and his friends tonight after receiving a text message from Ben simply reading "Murph's?." Granted, I should be looking for an apartment/job for next year, but I figured I have tomorrow off and can do that then (along with finally cleaning my damn room). I ran into Ped from my writing with video class (who I still list in my top five coolest people I know) and met a bunch of other Illini Media people, one of whom suggested I just start writing again and filter out the good ideas that way instead of just waiting for that one good idea.

So maybe I'm not doomed to become a failed creative writing major after all.

Nonetheless, half of my mind is already in Portland.

Writing Exercise: Number 216

This is a sort of facetious, yet halfway earnest take on the usual comment cards in restaurants. I mildly regret that the place my work had its "annual" text department outing did not have them.

Server Number: 216.

Menu Selection/Food Quality: Satisfied

Comments: I am glad you have vegetarian offerings, especially considering how bad I usually feel for our one vegetarian co-worker who always seems relegated to his own private half of a pizza whenever we order in while at work. However, I was a bit alarmed at how much of your menu contained things with heavy cream sauces. Granted, I ordered one of those items (and it was quite delicious), but I believe that there are other ways to make food a bit more decadent without filling our hearts and blood vessels with butter. However, I tried a bit of a friend's citrus-glazed salmon and noticed that this restaurant is taking a step in the right direction.

Courtesy: Very Satisfied

Comments: I really wish I had a name to go with your face instead of some nondescript number etched on a plastic tag pinned on a pristine white button-down shirt. It was your smile in particular which caught my attention. The fact you smiled at all was in itself a marvel to me, seeing as how my own brief forays in the food service industry rendered me into an expressionless automaton well after my first week. However, you did not bear the usual overexerted smile which was the usual result of a long stint of waiting tables, knowing that you have to do whatever it takes to make tips, the emotional bending over backwards obvious on the facade of cheerfulness with a cracking veneer of bright smiles. No, your smile was genuine, a slightly-worn, tired upturn of the lips baring no teeth, unthreatening and attempting to whisk by as efficiently and as unobtrusively as possible.

Quality of Service: Very Satisfied

Comments: Yet even though my companions were absorbed in their various conversations, I still kept an eye out for you and acknowledged your presence in between my noncommittal interjections to them. However, I probably went as unnoticed as you intended to be in my awkward attempts at politeness, thanking you each time you walked by with bread, water or our orders. With all the revelry about and with you always keeping our glasses full, you reminded me of Ganymede, cupbearer to the gods. I am not implying that we were by any means members of some elite pantheon, but rather you reminded me of that particular symbol of youth and beauty. I found that the dimmed ambient and candle light complimented the slight shadow along the side of your cheekbones and the darkness of your hair. If you caught me staring at you on occasion, I'm certain you shrugged it off as yet another customer peculiarity.

Additional Comments or Suggestions: You probably get this often and are probably annoyed by such things (especially if you have a wonderful significant other, which I imagine you would), so I don't blame you if I never hear from you, but my phone number is 555-1364. I was the awkward girl in the pink shirt with short hair who tried to hide her eyes beneath her cap as she walked past you on her way out.

Holy crap! I love The Decemberists!

Granted, I went to the concert at Foellinger Auditorium almost a week ago, but I generally like to let a good show sink in for a bit before I reflect on it.

Before the show, I had dinner with Ben and two of his friends (sadly, I recall neither of their names) at the Thai place in Urbana (the one near my old dorm, not the one near my current apartment). I don't really recall what we talked about, but it was undoubtably the stuff of collegiate sitcoms.

We arrived in time to catch the opening act My Brightest Diamond. I have to admit that I was a bit put off by their name, but it turned out to be a case of "don't judge a book by its cover." Shara's voice (the lead singer) had a sort of eerie ambient sound to it which definitely carried the band's rather minimalist setup (bass, drum, guitar and vocals, three people altogether), sort of a mix between jazz chanteuse and gothic "beauty" (which would usually be paired with a low, growling "beast" male vocalist). I ended up downloading their album. As much as I enjoyed it, I actually preferred their live set, especially their energetic cover of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love."

In between sets, we ran to the undergrad library Espresso Royale location for caffeination, only to have forgotten about Foellinger's "No Food/Drink" policy. Drinking a Charged Chai (basically a chai latte with a shot of espresso) quickly is not a good idea. I stayed energetic for the concert, but was unable to sleep later that night. Still, the slight burn in the chest and the heart palpitations were definitely worth getting back in time.

For the most part, The Decemberists stuck to stuff from their new(er) album "The Crane Wife." They also played some things from "Castaways and Cutouts" ("July, July!") and "Picaresque" ("16 Military Wives" "The Mariner's Revenge Song") maybe one song from "Her Majesty The Decemberists" ("The Chimbley Sweep"). Songs which I didn't have much appreciation for when first hearing on the album became addictions for me this week after hearing them live. For example, I never really paid attention to "Yankee Bayonet" (described by Colin as but now I find myself singing along with it at work while doing my usual shipping things. I read somewhere online, either in a review or a blog, that the writer was reminded of the movie/book "Cold Mountain" when they heard that song. I sort of disagree since I think that song accomplishes more in little more than four minutes what the movie does in two hours. I had multiple moments of thinking "holy crap, this is an amazing band," and not just because my hipster friends think so either.

Like the Ben Folds concert I went to with Honk a couple of years before, the audience was encouraged to participate in the songs "16 Military Wives" and the encore "Mariner's Revenge Song." At first, I was a bit concerned since I've never really been one for memorizing lyrics and singing along, but it was surprisingly easy, even in the rarely-repetitive "Mariner's Revenge Song." Then again, all that was asked of us in that one was to "scream, and not just scream, lament" in the bit where the whale swallows everyone. Nonetheless, I found myself following the narrative rather faithfully. Yes. The song really is that damn catchy for something that violent.

BTW, I love the Wes Anderson-ness of the music video for "16 Military Wives"



The onstage banter was fun as well, considering Colin announced that the recent engagement of their pianist/organist/accordionist (although I'm not sure to whom she is engaged). I was particularly amused by the comment "Don't worry, she said yes." He also commented on the trap door in the stage that in my four years of living here, I have completely failed to notice (even while walking across that same stage for my graduation). I was also amused that he avoided it while dancing around in "The Culling of the Fold" (the song deemed so violent by their producer at Capitol that it was left off the album...what with lyrics like "bring your sweetheart to the river/bash her head upon the stones/it may break your heart to break her bones/but someone's got to lose in the culling of the fold") and then proceded to "borrow" an audience member's cell phone, make a random call and then continue dancing around the stage while singing into the phone.

As I explained to my co-workers, the concert overall was like a fun camp sing-along, but with more violence and insanity.

Since I have weekends off and this weekend, the usual chores of laundry and grocery shopping are put on hold due to Jenna's conference, I took a nice walk through downtown Urbana. Granted, it's smaller and a bit emptier (lots of "for sale/lease" signs in dusty windows), but nice all the same. I fought the temptation to pick up a pastry or baked good at Mirabelle only to splurge on a nice lunch of noodles and tofu at Strawberry Fields. I went into the used bookstore Priceless Books (yes, even on my days off, I can't seem to get away from books) and picked up a few books (The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, Coming of Age in the Milky Way by Timothy Ferris, In the Heart of the Valley of Love by Cynthia Kadohata, and Songbook by Nick Hornby).

As I was sharing my lunch of soba noodles and tofu with a group of sparrows who flitted by my table on the sidewalk, I read a bit of Hornby's Songbook. I figured it would be good for me since I never really thought of myself as a good music reviewer despite doing it for about two years now. He makes some interesting points in his introduction about how sometimes a song can be tied to a particular place and time (like the example of hearing "Thunder Road" in some girl's bedroom in 1975 and then afterward being reminded of the smell of her underarm deodorant every time he heard the song afterward). However, he points out that if you truly love a song, you should love it enough to accompany you throughout your life.

I can't help but wonder if while standing in line at the Espresso Royale at the undergrad (or any other coffeeshop, really), I'll randomly hear "O Valencia" or "July, July" (in my head, not necessarily on the radio there) and remember running back with our caffeinated beverages only to be halted at the front door, forced to chug some very hot drinks in time for The Decemberists to start their set. Or perhaps while walking past Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, I'll still hear Ben softly singing "Leslie Anne Levine" to himself. Maybe it'll be the other way around where I'll listen to "Leslie Anne Levine" and think about walking from the Thai place, past Krannert to the quad with Ben and his friends.

Earlier today, I had "Los Angeles, I'm Yours" in my head as I strolled down Main/Springfield in Urbana (despite my not being in Los Angeles or ever having gone there), perhaps because it was the last song I heard before setting out that morning. The English/Creative Writing major in me would prefer to think of the song as speaking to my ambivalence towards still being in Urbana. Consider lyrics like "oceans gargle vomit on the shore/Los Angeles, I'm yours" and "this sweet and bitter taste has left me wretched, retching on all fours/Los Angeles, I'm yours," and tell me that isn't applicable to how I feel about Chambana. I love catching shows with my friends, drinking/shooting pool with my co-workers, and taking walks when the weather is nice. However, my feelings of isolation and stagnation only seem to grow the longer I stay here. After May and June, my two closest friends will be gone. I haven't finished any projects at all this year even though I said I was "taking a year off" to work on my writing. I'm still no closer to Portland than I'd like to be. However, I've heard back from the Portland Mercury about either interning or doing freelance work for them. I figure I could just move out there, get a "in the meantime" job while going to shows and doing entertainment writing.

Speaking of entertainment writing and the Portland Mercury (and The Decemberists), there was this amusing blog post from a staff member's harrowing experience with one-upmanship in trying to get in good with the band as a member of the press. I was particularly amused by the fake cover and the "Buy Your Own God Damn Drinks!" tag. I think I could be happy doing some random crap day-job as long as I still covered shows and had bizarre band/bar stories at night. Hell, I'd be willing to buy the band a round of drinks as long as I got to chill with them after the show.

One last Decemberists-related note, I've also developed a curious addiction to the song "The Legionnaire's Lament." It's not really that I can relate to being shipped off to foreign shores for foreign wars. The song is bright and bouncy and as catchy as anything else they've come out with, not to mention the imagery is melancholy, yet romantic (what with all the rain and rambling around town in the past combined with wasting away in the desert in the present). I just sort of have this general feeling of homesickness, not for Springfield of course, especially since I never considered Springfield to be home. No matter how long or how far I've been away from Springfield, I've never felt homesickness. Even as a second-generation Filipina, I'm not really homesick for the mountains or coast where my parents grew up since I only went there once at a really young age. Maybe I'm homesick for someplace I've never even been yet.

Well, as usual, I'm rambling like there's no tomorrow, and I have a pile of new (used) books to read. So, as it were. Between Kurt Vonnegut dying and the massacre at Virginia Tech (and the potential backlash against the Korean/Korean American/Asian-American community which may come to a head), it's been a pretty awful week. At least it started well, said the optimist.

Taking a few nods from Nerve Magazine...

Ok, for no other reasons outside of boredom (and possibly horniness), I've come up with a (very) short list of guys to cast in my rather stereotypical "inappropriate student/instructor relations" fantasy. (Can anyone tell that I miss being a student?)

1) Neil Gaiman. He's a damn good writer, has the nerdy chic of doing the comic book/graphic novel thing, and not to mention the hot accent and the penchant for wearing black leather jackets.
2) Clive Owen. Granted, he's an actor and not a Literature/Writing instructor, but I would gladly sit through hours of lecture just to hear that rough, five o'clock shadow voice of his (especially if he got around to the erotic bits of Spenser and Shakespeare). I wouldn't mind coming in during office hours either, if you know what I mean.

Honorable mention: Jake. It wouldn't count since we're about the same age, education and experience level. Nonetheless, I'd play hooky from class with him any day of the week.


Alas, to bed I shall go, and dream of sloppy and hurried classroom makeouts.

Writing Exercise Prompt: Shoes

Complaining with each wet squeak against mud-speckled linoleum tile, my shoes trudge through the line at the Altgeld Post Office. For whatever reason, no matter what season it is, there is always a line. The two ladies behind the counter are always patient and polite in inverse proportion to some of the people standing in line who complain about how "nothing in this university runs properly."

"We could be running or hiking one of the trails at Hoyt Arboretum right now. You probably just missed the magnolias blooming."

This has been their constant complaint with little variation other than "strolling in the Pearl District," "wandering through the rose garden," or other various pedestrian-related activities in the various locations of Portland, Oregon. Perhaps they have a thing for trees and rainy weather or big cities of steel and concrete due to the green trim on grey. Sometimes they chuff along the pavement and grumble at me while walking to or from work down Green Street. Other times, they catch me a bit closer to home.

"Don't get me wrong, it can be pretty here, but I honestly think I could do better."

I think I agree. This particular pair of shoes has grown fond of the uneven brick walks and roads which meander into the main artery of Green Street from my neighborhood in Urbana. They particularly relish the tickle of pine needles in the pythagorean path beneath the trees and between the perpendicular sidewalks. However, I understand how taking the same routes to the same places every day can take its toll.

"You know, I could have gone to a high school cross country runner in Kentucky, but I just had to end up with you, didn't I?"

At first, I thought that my shoes' lament stemmed from the fact that I didn't really use them as intended, for just plain running, not necessarily in Portland, but on some track, trail, or pavement. I could understand how staying still for so long could take its toll, but eventually, I got the idea that there was much more to it than that. They should know me better by now when I say "I should go running," what I really mean is "I should go running, but I probably won't."

"Let's get out of here. What have you got to lose anyway?"

I think I will go to Portland, OR. After all, how can I resist the direction my shoes seem to be pointing in, especially since they've been the most comfortable pair I've had to wear for work.

I actually wrote this awhile back when I first had the idea for it in November, but figured I ought to post it since I haven't made much headway in it. Jane Francisco is a character I came up with in middle school. I know she's a bit of a Mary Sue, so shoot me. It worked for Laurell K. Hamilton.

Prologue

8:45 a.m. Eastern Time.

After a cup of coffee with two creams, two sugars and a Boston cream donut at the nearest Mom and Pop’s, Detective Jane Francisco decided that it was time to face the day. Like most of her days, this would require her looking in the face of death, running down blind alleyways and making it back to a Mom and Pop’s for the 7 o’clock special. Tonight it was Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes with a side of peas. It had all the makings of a home-cooked family meal, even if Jane had never eaten such a thing outside of a Mom and Pop’s.

It was a grey day down by the docks, typical of an Atlantic coastal November, or most of the year for that matter. Everything was grey except for the sticky mess of dark crimson that once was a living person staining the docks. Detective Eddie Peters wasn’t sure what turned his stomach more, watching Jane dumping all that sugar into her coffee followed by devouring the donut in the time it took to rub a stray speck out of his eye or the cold mash of humanity lying in a puddle of blood at his feet. He was glad he had poured a little whiskey from his flask into his coffee that morning. Jane could keep her sugar.

“What a mess.” Eddie pulled the lapel of his trenchcoat across his nose. He hadn’t washed it in weeks so the smell wasn’t that much of an improvement to the smell of rotten fish and rotten human on the docks.

“Heh. I always wondered why you wear those.” Sergeant Marcus O’Reilly smirked, pointing a thick finger at Eddie’s coat. “I just thought you had seen one too many of those old movies on TV.”

“That would be it too, but I do like the practicality of a large coat.” Detective Jane Francisco snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and bent over the corpse. “It’s much easier than carrying a purse around.”

“Right Francisco, because you’d carry your gun right next to your lipstick,” the look Detective Francisco shot O’Reilly was enough for him to barely end the “k” at the end of his sentence.

Jane fished around in the pockets of the John Doe’s windbreaker before checking the back pockets. She pulled out a wallet and glanced at the blood-soaked ID, “John Yossarian.” It was obviously a fake, but at least the guy had a sense of humor, at least concerning the fact he seemed to know that he was meant to die. But why? What could have been so important that he was willing to die for it?

“This wasn’t a robbery.” Jane put the bloody wallet into a plastic evidence bag.

“Then what was it?” O’Reilly coughed and looked away as soon as Detective Francisco turned over the body. Christ, the guy didn’t even have a face left.

“I’m not quite sure.” Jane pried a small plastic bag filled with yellow powder out of the corpse’s cold, stiff fingers.

“Drugs?” Eddie managed to cough out.

“No.” Jane opened the bag and sniffed it slightly before removing a glove and sticking her pinky finger in the powder and tasting it.

O’Reilly nearly threw up on his regulation-black shoes.

“If it isn’t drugs, then what is it?” Eddie stared at the smudge of blood on Jane’s hand from when it brushed against the crimson-stained plastic.

“Turmeric.” An odd smile crossed her face as she stared at the yellow stain left on her little finger.

Balls, it's been awhile.

Ok, I know it's been months since my last update, but it's not like anyone really cares anyway. However, I do feel guilty that people have commented on some of my postings in my absence and feel compelled to update.

1.) I completed NaNoWriMo (all the way back in November). It's by no means a masterpiece, but at least 312 East Main Street can be off my mind until I'm scrambling to find something to turn in for portfolios. Also, thanks to Jake's suggestion that I do NaNoWriMo, I realized that if I can write a novel in a month, I can complete a grad school application. So, I've applied to the University of Oregon at Eugene. I still haven't heard back from them, but my odds aren't great at getting since a) I'm "just a kid" (typically, people in MFA programs usually have a decade on me) and b) I haven't been practicing much at it.

2.) I still have managed to not get fired from my job at TIS Bookstore. However, I am mildly disgruntled at the fact that I have to handle clothing and other merchandise with the former Chief "mascot" printed on it. Trust me, you do not want to get me started on the guilt and self-loathing I feel at having a share in the profit of the cultural commodification of a group of people who have been nothing but exploited since the foundations of this country. Although, that does sum it up rather nicely. On the up side, I've been commissioned to write a technical manual about the whole shipping process. If this sounds boring to anyone, please remember that any "assignment" is an excuse for me to write and attempt to make things more interesting. I think I'm going to write it in a form similar to a "choose your own adventure" fantasy short.

3.) My copy editing internship at The CulturalConnect has picked up (and how!). I tend to make a few flubs here and there, but it keeps me enough on my toes to try to pick up new skills like html and more religious adherence to the AP Style Manual so I don't get asked politely to leave.

4.) I seem to have completely given up on poetry. However, lately I've found myself monologuing on my long, cold, albeit pleasant walks home from work. Perhaps I should invest in a tape recorder or at least try to write down what I've been saying, although I seem to have forgotten today's little ramble.

5.) I (really) miss open mic nights even if I haven't written that much. I live on a college campus around passionate individuals, but I haven't really kept in touch with them (sorry older bro :frowny face: ).

6.) Paul. Why? That's all I'm willing to say.

7.) Mike/Honk. Subject of so many lame angsty myspace entries, but has proven himself to be one of the best friends I've made in college, especially since I'm technically "out" now.

8.) Jake. Still much more talented than me. I am surprisingly not competitive or bitter about this fact. I can't complain since he's one of the few people able to talk me off the ledge lately.

That's about all I can muster for now.