Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Every Sunday I wake up to some kind of Asian church service at the Episcopal Parish right next to my dorm. It's the most confusing thing you can possibly imagine. Hordes of asian people ( I think they're Chinese) shuffling into the church, back to their cars, speaking in a language that consists, I've come to believe, completely of vowel sounds. I drag myself out of bed and look out the window at them, past the empty wine bottles and the succulent cactus Rachael got me on my windowsill, and there they are. Bowing and muttering and carrying on. Do the Chinese bow? Maybe they're not Chinese. Or maybe they're just super polite Chinese. I don't know, my only point is that it's really weird and I'd like to find a way to make it stop.

Looking at the empty bottles of alcohol on my windowsill now, I'm realizing that as a drinker, I'm kind of bipolar. I mean, there's Domaine des Blagoeurs 2004 Syrah (whatever the hell that means) and then a $14 liter of Viking Fjord vodka. I should note that Dave bought that, I guess, but there's a pattern, and I can't blame him for the Seagrams 7 next to the Salmon Creek Chardonnay...

Wait, yeah I can.

Actually, Rachael and Dave account for like ninety percent of the booze on that windowsill. The only thing I can really claim as my own is the liter of Wild Turkey (delicious, by the way.)

I've got this bump on the inside of my middle finger that feels like an extra bit of bone, and sometimes it itches like hell. If it just hurt, I wouldn't be worried, but why would it itch? What is my body trying to tell me about that thing by making it itchy? It can't be anything good.

But there's no way I'm getting it checked out. I spent a couple of hours in the Emergency Room at Mt. Auburn yesterday with Rachael (she's fine, she just pulled a muscle in her foot or something) and I've had my fill of those places for a long time. I had to fight the urge, several times, to just say matter-of-factly, "She's late." Whenever someone asked "What seems to be the problem." It would have been hilariously inappropriate.

I don't even have a cohesive story here. I had three dreams last night:

In one, I was at my mother's house, and all of our neighbors had rented their houses out to be used to tape porno films.

In another, I was stationed on a river somewhere in the deep south with some kind of turn of the century military regiment. The porno bit kind of bled into that one... then there was a corpse floating down the river and a scorpion kept stinging the dead toe. I thought of the word "Omen."

In another I shot my brother in the face with a bow & arrow. The arrow was yellow. He didn't seem to get hurt, as I shot him several times, and he kept coming at me (there was some kind of battle involved) but I had the sense that I was hurting him.

There was that.

You know, I've been separating my recyclable bottles from my trash since I've been living here, and I sincerely doubt that the guys who take the trash out have any kind of access to recycling. I'm not going to stop separating though.

Jesus, time to take a shower.

Don't Let A Girl Buy The Body Wash

Last night my girlfriend ended up staying with me in my dorm room because the weather was so bad. I, of course, did not have the following items available:

1) Soap- I ran out a few days ago.
2) Toothpaste- I ran out yesterday.
3) A hairbrush- I haven't owned one in years.

I'm sure that there were more things she would have liked to look "decent," but there were these three key things that needed to be replaced. Even I could admit that.

I'm telling you about this because if you're a man and you live alone and you need to buy body cleaning products, it's imperative that you do it alone. There is no such thing as gender neutral body wash. Bar soap, perhaps, but anyone who's ever lived in a dorm can agree that bar soap is just a terrible idea.

Here's what I have on my hands now:

NEW
Dove
Cream Oil
Body Wash
Ultra Rich
natural oil in
1/4 moisturizing cream
rosewood &
cocoa butter scent

And I'm only on the front of the bottle...

Here's a body wash that moisturizes your skin better than any regular body wash. Dove has embedded skin-loving natural oil in a rich cream- the result is the dreamy-creamy consistency of a cream with the silky-smooth skin feel from an oil.

Intensely moisturizing, but sensationally lathering. Indulging to senses, but nourishing to skin. Rich in oil, but not oily.

What a beautiful contradiction.

I mean, for the love of God. I wish I could find a picture of the bottle because it actually resembles a vagina.

My favorite part of this product: the dreamy-creamy consistency of a cream.

- - - -

Now, Rachael was humoring me a little bit with the first purchase, suggesting that it "smelled" gender neutral (it doesn't) and I just kind of ignored the pink, vaginal bottle.

But let's move on to item number 2:

Aveeno
Baby
PEDIATRICIAN
RECOMMENDED

LAVENDAR & VANILLA
Calming Comfort
Lotion
with Natural Collodial Oatmeal
Dimethicone Skin Protectant
Helps Heal & Protect
Delicate Skin
Moisturizes for 24 Hours
Helps Calm Babies
before Bedtime

I'm not even going to get into what's on the back of this guy.

(NB: I hear that if you shoot Dimethicone , it actually is really relaxing.)

Rachael has, then, effectively moved from women's products to baby products.

I can only find solace in the sleek, masculine form of my INTENSE CREST WHITENING TOOTHPASTE.

We forgot to get the toothbrush, thank God. Just the body wash alone made me want to pull a Buffalo Bill (Silence Of The Lambs) and tuck it in in the shower, and a sparkly hair brush might have sealed the deal.

Did I mention that I carry all of this (along with a bottle of face wash and one of those poofy things) in a purple shower-tote, wrapped in my once white towel that is now a soothing pastel pink because I washed it with a red blanket?

Why does this come to mind:

"I will BEAT the fag out of you, you fairy princess."
-T.D. Sullivan, February, 2000

- - - -

Oh, and a Happy St. Patrick's Day to everyone. If you're ethnically Irish, don't talk about it too much. I mean, I know you think it's cool and everything, you've seen Boondock Saints thirty times, whatever. I'm largely Irish too, you know, so, great, but can we not make a huge deal of it?

Why can't this just be a holiday about hating snakes? I'd rather get drunk and shit talk snakes for a day then listen to someone get drunk and fake an Irish accent in Jamaica Plain.

- - - -

Forget it, Happy Evacuation Day. Everybody hates imperial soldiers, right?

I Am Exhausted

I haven't posted anything significant in awhile because I've been working on this story, plus reading like nine books at once, so I really haven't had time.

Good news is, at 2:02 AM on 2 March, I finished the initial draft of "Save My Soul, Set Me Free," the short story I've been working on.

I think I've got it mapped out pretty well, the characters are developed okay, but at under 3000 words, it definately needs some editing and additions. I have a few scenes in mind that I'm excited to add, once I edit the first draft a little bit and get the pace right. Right now it kind of speeds up and slows down, some parts feel forced, and the flashbacks, the temporality (that's a word, yeah?) in general feels awkward.

All told, I'm looking at 4500 to 5000 words. No more than 5000 though. If I cross that line, I might as well keep going and make it a book.

- - - -

I finished the story and looked out my window at the Longfellow house. It's just starting to snow. No turning back now.

"Art wants to save from death a living image of our passions and our suffering."
-Albert Camus

- - - -

Did you see Pan's Labyrinth yet? It's way more depressing and violent than you think it is. Great movie, but just be aware of the fact that Spanish Fascists kill a peasant in front of his father by beating his face in with a bottle of wine within the first twenty minutes or so, and it just continues on from there. Really graphic at points.

My mother's going to be upset just reading that. Skip this one, Mama, and I'm sorry.

It's a beautifully executed movie, brilliantly acted, brilliantly shot, but even I get tired of all this suffering. Let's all just watch Little Miss Sunshine again and forget that the Spanish Civil War ever happened.

Best Line In The Movie:

"You aren't the first pig I've gutted."
-Mercedes, (just before tearing the captain's face open from the inside of the cheek outward with a kitchen knife)

Funniest Translation Moment:

"My mother is sick with baby."
-Ofelia (almost-too-appropriately named protagonist)

- - - -

Alright, goodnight.

SWEET DREAMS!