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Pandora knows me so well

"Based on what you've told us so far,, we're playing this track because t features basic rock song structures, electronica influences, a subtle use of vocal counterpoint, a subtle use of vocal harmony and mild rhythmic syncopation."

Even Pandora.com sees what a mild and understated individual I am. 


OK, you know that thing?

 You know that thing that cats do when they reach out and touch you just because they want to touch you? And how, when you put your hand over their paw they have to move their paw and put it on your hand, no matter how many times you do it?

Yeah. I love that.

I just don't think it's fair

I just don't think it's fair that the person best suited to me in every single way happens to have this habit of dating really dumb girls. 

I hate having issues. A problem is a resolvable occurrence. There is something you can do to change the situation. An issue is immutable. An issue is. An issue can't be resolved, it can only be abided by. 

We beat God Himself with the Camera.

 Why do we take pictures of other people? 

So that we can tuck them away and never look at them ever again. So that we can think "I'll save this for my kids," knowing full well that our photos will end up just like Great-Aunt Ruth's photos: tucked away in the garage. Meaningless.

Why do we take pictures of other people?

To satiate our masochistic attempts to thwart death. So that the people we love will never die. So that the end is never really right around the corner. So that the unexpected isn't quite as imminent. 

I was sitting at a light earlier this week and all I could think was "Jesus. These people are going to die. Every. Single. One of them. No exceptions. Where are they going? Doesn't matter, they're going to die soon." But they have photos, don't they? And they have children with garages.

I remember twirling in the afternoon light as it spilled through our front windows. I watched the dust-motes and thought "this is the last time I will ever be an only child." Then my sister was born.

I remember my grandpa's wrists and hands as they held another cigarette. I remember his yellow pocket knife. I remember making a dollhouse with him.

I remember the first cigarette I smoked. I remember the last cigarette I smoked. It will never happen to me.

My birthday is around the corner. Maybe that is what has me thinking about mortality so much. Or maybe I'm just morbid.

Or maybe I just think it is fun.

Burdensome Treasures

 You know what I think about most in life?

I think about all the little things I do, and all the little things I leave, and how the world would be if I was suddenly gone and only those little things remained. What if I leave a note on the bathroom mirror, and then get into a car accident? 

What if the only thing that is left of me are my initials written in the dust on top of a cabinet? 

I know what if feels like to have those things left behind. I know what it is like to have that vacant, roaring hole in your life, and only a little nothing to fill it with. 

I have some foot cream in my jewelry box. I never use it, never will use it, despite the post-it note attached which reads (in spidery, weak writing) "Margot, Try This." This half-bottle of foot lotion was found in my aunt's bathroom after she died. 

I leave these things intentionally now. I leave notes, and I write my name in dust, because you never know. 

I say "I love you, " every time I leave the people I love. 

Because you just never know. 
 Every once in a while I'll get a little wave of holy shit 2009 is OVER.

Today it wasn't just a little wave, however. We threw away over eighty pounds of expired food. Our shelves are bare, our cupboards are bare- basically all we have left are packages of smoked oysters and molasses. Our garbage can will be hard for the garbage man to lift, and we recycled nothing.

We had shit from '97, man. That's thirteen years old. My sister is only fifteen! People born in 1997 are thinking people. Some of them aren't virgins. Some of them are already thinking about college. Some of them have won awards, some of them have died, some of them are suffering. Some of them are the cool older sibling to some adoring little kid- and most of them don't know it. 

I feel like a dick.

But at the same time I love having that shit OUT OUT OUT.

I want to slough off this old life. 
It is only through anonymity that honesty becomes the path of least resistance. 

A day like any other

I held my breath for the final sixty seconds of 2009. Is that weird? I watched the clock tick down, and held my breath and I could have held it longer, but there wasn’t any need.

Then I proceeded to run headlong at a giant spider. Thank god for a blue moon to light it at the last second. OK, maybe thank astrophysics and gravity. Still. Fucking spiders.

Welcome to the new year. Twenty ten. Welcome to the new decade.

Welcome to the moments, to the nows, that made up the future.


A Simple Scene

It is 1888. Two couples sit together eating lunch in a sunny room. It is spring, there are flowers everywhere. One couple has brought their sons- the governess is ill and staying home (without pay, naturally). The boys are eight and six. The younger, however, is currently napping in another room.

The childless couple is hosting, this is their house. The windows are open, and there is a fantastically sweet breeze. Talk is sparse, particularly from the hosts. Something is obviously on their minds.

Finally, the lady speaks. Her self-conscious timidity gives away what should be a casual statement, “So-and-so is on her way home.” The man of the other couple responds negatively. His typical gentlemanly composure is breached, and he is downright hostile.

“What’s she doing, coming back?”

“She just is.”


The childless man answers, “She is scheduled to make port today.”

“In Cardiff?”

“No. In London.”

The mother of the boys, watching her son pick at his meal, asks who the topic of conversation is, and her standings, and from whence she is coming, to which her husband states that she is “a rakish lady” and not someone deserving of their association.

No one speaks then, and the boy continues to pick at his food, picking it up with his fork, and letting it fall back to his plate with a satisfying splat. Over, and over again. His mother attempts to excuse herself with the inelegant use of body language, before disappearing to the powder room. Finally, his father speaks, “So, I suppose she will be wanting a lift, then? Am I to fetch her?”

“No. She’ll manage herself, you know her.” The childless woman replies.

Then, without warning, the doors erupt open and in bursts a woman in loose white slacks and a loose shirt. Around her waist is a red sash, and tied to it is the curved sword of a sikh.

She crosses the room and, without warning, draws the sword and holds it under the boy’s chin. “You best learn to sharpen you pallet, boy.” She says it roughly, but not unkindly. The boy is shocked, and does not know whether to be frightened or amused.

His father speaks. “You’ve got a sword to my son’s throat.”

“You do have a point, sir” she says, and, quick as a whip, holds it to his chin, instead. Then she crosses over to the still vacant seat of his wife and takes it for herself.

“My wife-” the husband begins, “is not sitting here, I see,” she finishes.

From across the table the swashbuckler’s sister and brother-in-law are attempting to hide obvious smirks. Her former lover, father of two sons, is beside himself. She grins at him as she takes an olive from his plate and eats it.

Then the dream ends. Because in my sleepy-time dreams everything can be staged perfectly and I can be a badass colonist working for the British government in India if I want to be.

Dear Diary

Sometimes I get the incredible urge to wage psychological warfare on defenseless bystanders. Today someone updated his facebook status to read "Luke REDACTED is not giving up" and all I wanted to say was "too bad" possibly followed by "you're twenty, live with your mother, have 'MOM' tattooed on your chest above a roaring lion. I think it is high time you give the fuck up."

But I didn't. Still the urge remains. I want to crush him like a little bug for no real reason at all except that I think that he is pathetic. 

Diary, is this normal and healthy? And also, do you think that there are other people as clever and cruel as me? Because I'd like to meet them (him). 

Well, I'm going to go take a bath. 

Margot Fucking Conway.