Moot Offerings

Bored. SO bored. epically bored.

2009-10-11T05:06:53Z

Ima talk 'bout food now:

What is your salad dressing of choice?
Blu Cheese or something vinaigrette

What is your favorite sit-down restaurant?
Origami

What food could you eat for 2 weeks straight and not get sick of?
Sushi.

What are your pizza toppings of choice?
Green Peppers.

TECHNOLOGY (hey, look at that, you made it passed the food section)
How many TVs are in your house?
Well, three, but we only use one. And we never watch TV, it's just the place through which the bose displays our movies.

What color cell phone do you have?
Grey and silver.

BIOLOGY
Are you right-handed or left-handed?
right, but I play tennis and badminton with my left.

Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
Tooth bits.

What is the last heavy item you lifted?
That fucking chair. That green fucking pieceofshit chair.

Have you ever been knocked unconscious?
Nope.

BULL-CRAP-OLOGY
If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
Depends. am I a loved Martyr dying for my cause?

If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
I'd probably change it from Margaret to Margot.

Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
Um, right now there's not much I wouldn't do for a thousand.

DUMBOLOGY ---- Margot's Note: why Milo didn't through a fit at "BULL-CRAP-OLOGY"
How many pairs of flip flops do you own?
three or four.

Last time you had a run-in with the cops?
Don't fucking ask. Stupid motherfucker gonna get us killed cuz he don' fuckin' do his job right.

Last person you talked to?
The sisterchild.

Last person you hugged?
The sisterchild. Unless my cat counts.

FAVORITOLOGY
Season?
Fall.

Holiday?
Halloween. hands down.

Day of the week?
The days that I don't have to do anything on.

Month?
October.

CURRENTOLOGY
Missing someone?
Nope. I'm a lone wolf, you see. La Solo Lobo. or something.

Mood?
Displaced.

What are you listening to?
Wyoming Public Radio's classical radio station. Right now they're playing some baroque shit. It is pissing me off, but whatever.

Worrying about:
Money. Always money. Anyone who doesn't worry about money deserves to not have money.

RANDOMOLOGY
First place you went to this morning?
The Bathroom.

What's the last movie you saw
The Life of Brian (which, Ironically, is also the first movie I saw. Ever.)

Do you smile often?
When I'm around the people I like.

QUESTIONS .... ology?
Do you always answer your phone?
No. Most times I find myself avoiding it. Like right now. Where is it? I dunno. I don't want to.

It's four in the morning and you get a text message, who is it?
Milo, sending me a picture of himself being happy and holding money.

If you could change your eye color what would it be?
I wouldn't. I really like the color of my eyes.

Do you own a digital camera?
Yes.

Have you ever had a pet fish?
Yes. Some when I was a kid, then some tetras. Then a Betta named Psycho (who seriously and honestly let me pet him. even asked for it), then a Betta named The Chairman (he was red)

Favorite Christmas song?
Silent Night. I like the really religious ones. I mean, Deck the Halls is nice and all, but give me some of those tidings of comfort and joy any day.

What's on your wish list for your birthday?
A house in Washington state

Can you do push ups?
yes, yes I can. Not many, but you didn't ask that, did you? Did you?

Can you do a chin up?
yes, that's right, exactly one.

Does the future make you more nervous or excited?
anxious (in other words, a bit of both)

Do you have any saved texts?
Yes. I think so.

Ever been in a car wreck?
A tiny little accident. That devastated my car.

Do you have an accent?
People tell me I do all the time. They say I sound Scandinavian. WTF does that even mean?

Last song that made you cry?
I tear up whenever I hear Nora Jones.

Plans tonight?
I'm going to read Pride and Prejudice. Again. Single? Check. Multiple cats? Check. Rereading romances? Check. Yes, yes I am in fact an elderly cat lady.

Have you ever felt like you hit rock bottom?
Yeah. Amazingly enough, though, it can always get worse.

Name 3 things you bought in the last week.
An eye exam (FUCKYOU GLAUCOMA PUFF), a milkshake and a coke.

Have you ever been given roses?
yes. by a stranger through a car window.

Current worry?
Do I have money? will I have money? Will I make it? What will I do with my life? What good is being an English Major? Do I still want to join the FBI? Law School? English? WHAT?!

Current hate right now?
Religion.

Met someone who changed your life?
Yes.

How did you bring in the New Year?
I scream "HAPPY NEW YEAR" and then go to bed and cry a little.

What song represents you?
It isn't a song, but the second movement of Ravel's Sonatine.

What were you doing 12 AM last night?
Bathing

What was the first thing you thought of when you woke up?
What the fuck could he possibly want? Stupid cat.

margot23 @ 2009-10-08T01:30:00

2009-10-08T05:31:19Z

I am tired of people trying to manipulate me. Really.

margot23 @ 2009-10-04T10:56:00

2009-10-04T15:19:32Z

There is a small boy laying in a bath tub. He's about three. The water is freezing, and he has run it so that it is just above his ears. His brother comes into the bathroom and sees a bright red flash in the opposite corner of the bathroom, over his brother's feet. This boy is seven or so. He climbs into the tub, and his younger brother sits up. "what are you doing?" asks the older. "listen," says the younger, "you can hear what's been making the sounds."

The house in which they have been living is rather strange. It's full of noises and things. The boys are listening for the cause.

The older puts his ears under the water and hears what his brother has discovered. In the walls, in the house, in the foundation he hears it. It's a whurring, hissing sound. He and his brother lay in the tub and listen. Above them, in the corner, the red lightning flashes again. "every three minutes and twenty seconds" the younger says, without his brother asking.

They lay in the freezing tub listening, and watching and discussing where the sound is coming from.

They are my sons. Well, my sons in my dream last night. It was a very cool dream.

margot23 @ 2009-10-01T12:05:00

2009-10-01T16:09:29Z

You know what today is?

Today is the first day of the best month of the year.

I fucking ADORE october.

Rorschach

2009-09-16T03:27:56Z

There is a girl on my facebook friend's list with a profile picture that reminds me of some porn I once found on a friends computer. Every time I see it the straw she's sucking on becomes a penis.
I've always wanted to tell her this, but I suspect that she would find it offensive.

margot23 @ 2009-09-08T17:20:00

2009-09-08T21:23:48Z

I've already posted this to two outlets. Once I do that I feel like I should post it to all of them (I must maintain equality between my internet profiles). Anyway, I wrote this as an argument against the existence of meaningless sex for an internet forum. Now for your reading pleasure:

Let's start with the basics: who would want meaningless sex in the first place? I mean, seriously, I use the word “meaningless” for some very select things- homework, for instance. And I’d apply “meaningless” to both homework and sex in the same way. Of course I read the required reading (see: “I didn’t get tested, and I don’t plan on it”), Yeah, sure I proof read it (see: “protection? Whatever, I can pull out”), I took this class for its meaningful and insightful message, not because it was the only class left in my major and I’m trying to graduate here (see: “yeah, you were the only thing in the bar with the genitals I like and it’s dollar beer night, so let’s do this thing!”). If that sounds douche-y, well, it is. But lots of people take the word “meaningless” to its most literal and graphic extent. Want proof? Just go to textsfromlastnight.com or tuckermax.com.

One would hope that any interaction between two humans would be open, honest, and conscientious of the other party’s needs, stipulations, and concerns. “Meaningless” is none of that.

But wait, you say, the word “meaningless” has yet to be used here. You are right, so, semantics and (guilt-ridden) homework metaphors aside we approach the topics of “sex for the sake of sex” and “sex is sex.”

Estrogen and Testosterone are terrifying things. So much of our lives are based on these little chemicals, how much of them our bodies produce, and where it’s all going! While estrogen is busy making me pissy every month for a week, testosterone is busy in boy brains beefing up the sexy-time cortex. During the gender-assignment process of a mammalian fetus (the 8th week in humans) a big ole surge of testosterone is delivered to the fetal brain (if the magic eight ball has promised “boy”) (side: did you know that the default sex for birds is male instead of female?) [http://www.nature.com/nature/journal.../427390a.html] (this article says that there may be more to it, as well). The testosterone surge basically kills off some of the cells in the communication centers of the brain and boosts the aggressive centers. In fact, too much testosterone in the womb can cause the child to have a smaller vocabulary and an inability to make eye contact (see: men are four times more likely than women to be autistic) [http://www.newscientist.com/article/...l-skills.html].

For the most part (mega-doses of the opposite sex-hormone to fetuses aside), women’s brains are fundamentally different from mens. A man’s brain is 9% bigger (on average) than a female brain, though both have the same number of brain cells (meaning the female brain is more dense), and each are designed to process information differently. Women are biologically more adept than men at picking up on subtle facial expressions, emotions, and are generally far more empathetic.

All thanks to sex hormones, we are unequivocally different. We think differently, process information differently, and handle emotional experiences differently. So generally when women have interpersonal experiences they assign to them emotional responses. Sex included.
Sex is highly emotional anyway: excitement, joy, maybe even a little fear. Yes, they’re low spectrum, primal emotions, but they’re there. Sex without excitement, is, well, is something you should get your doctor to look at, actually... Meaning is inherent to the act. That on top of the incredibly personal experience of sex (what with the strange sounds and faces and closeness...) makes for a potentially incredibly meaningful experience, at least on the part of the woman.

That is, of course, totally natural. Loveless sex may be, but it is never “just sex.”

There are other aspects as well that should not be disregarded. Take, for instance, its inherent predatory nature. Not only are we in constant competition for sexual partners (observe the similarities between the “wing man” and the first-time buck battling with everyone else in the herd for some nookie), but we are in constant competition during sex. Sex is, by it’s very nature, an invasion on the part of one partner. There will always be a shtuper and a shtupee. Someone always has to be on top, as it were. Someone always has to be in charge. Inequity is fundamental to the act. (I mean, seriously, the penis isn’t that hard to find- very much unlike the clitoris, which seems to elude everyone, their dog and whatever they’re trying to poke it with...)

But seriously, mantises lose their heads, dolphins rape each other, flatworms and snails have to stab each other, giraffes get hounded and pestered, macaques wait until their enemies are orgasming to attack each other and some species have to give chase before they copulate. And, as if to prove my point for me, humans get off on the predatory aspect of sex as well (just wade through all the S&M sites I had to in order to research this bit...) It’s not bad or wrong, but fear and sexual arousal are handled by the same part of the brain and are impressively closely related. [http://www.neatorama.com/2007/04/30/...ating-habits/], [fergodsake just google what you don't find there].

Finally, we are social creatures. We discuss what we do, we do who we do, and then we discuss what we do with who we do. And observe the proliferation of stigmatism associated with “casual sex.” Thanks to religion (mostly), and sexism and socializing there is a fundamental image of what “casual sex” is and what it means. Suddenly the aforementioned predatory inequities are compounded. Men become “players”, their antics condoned and applauded (for the most part), and women become “sluts”, “whores” (which in itself can become a plethora of derogatory slurs though the tactful use of modifiers like “crack”), and “skanks”. We may not all kiss and tell- but we also simply cannot navigate through society without encountering this double standard. Sex cannot simply be sex because we, as a collective society undermine that very fact.

The only way that sex can ever be simply sex is in a society like that of the Bonobo apes. Sex is open, without stigma and used for absolutely everything. If we lived in a society like theirs our friend Donkey wouldn’t have to study conflict resolution- he’d just have sex to solve problems. They don’t favor sexual partners, or form attachments- the only relationships that seem to be taboo are mother-son relationships. It is a constant orgy and a society in which sex is so meaningful it has the luxury of becoming meaningless.

TA's, classes and the good life

2009-08-18T01:57:13Z

as we all know, I'm taking twenty one credit hours in the fall, which is both daunting and exciting.

But today I was emailed about a couple of open T.A. positions, and I'm pretty excited about it. One is a world religion class, and one is a communications class. I'd be willing to work both- especially if they pay. I've applied for both (actually, all three, the WR class has two openings), and am gearing up for a very crowded schedule this fall.

This fall I'm going to ascribe to the theory that a busy mind is a happy one.

Wish me luck

margot23 @ 2009-07-25T23:29:00

2009-07-26T03:31:34Z

Dear Body Hair,
I do not like you: you make me look mannish. Please stop fighting the inevitable all natural bee's wax. You just make it hard for everyone. You make it hard for Mr. Skin, and Mrs. Armpit nerve and Mrs. Bikini line.
Sincerely,
Margot

Seriously Now, This is FUCKING Ridiculous.

2009-07-25T00:55:17Z

I don't know what it is, but I'm goin' through some shit fuck emotional crisis that is gettin' real old real quick. I can't get Amy and Grandpa (and my dead bird, Moe) out of my fucking head. They're always there. I even dream about them. I can't shake it. Have you ever dreamed that your family was missing a holiday? That Christmas or Halloween was going by unobserved, sans decorations or festivities? You know how you feel when you wake up from a dream like that? I feel like that all the fucking time.

I'm depressed because my life is falling apart. Crazy Aunt Jenny is moving down here soon, and, as usual, she's going to be sucking on the dried up money-teat that is my family. I hate her more than words can say. I hate her selfishness and I hate her neediness and I hate her alcoholism and idiocy. I hate that she's not above beating the crap out of me, and I hate that I'm afraid of her.

Of what she can (and will) do to this family.

And I feel guilty. I feel terrible for just walking out on people, but I just do. Some part of me says that, after the alloted time, I need to start ignoring phone calls, avoiding texts, being absent.

And I'm anxious. I'm anxious and fucking terrified.

Because no matter how many short skirts I wear, no matter how much mascara and lip-plumper I slather on myself, no matter how hard I try (or don't try), I can't seem to find someone who likes me. Sure, I can attract them. That, I have become confident, isn't a problem for me (how egocentric and conceited, I know).

But as soon as I open my mouth. As soon as I quit being a pretty face and a small waistline, well, that's when I lose them.

And I'm constantly on the verge of fucking tears.

It's not like I want to fit in, I just want other people to not fit in.

I don't fucking want to compromise myself. I don't want to be anything but me, but at the same time I'm so fucking sick of the endless string of five minute conversations that end with excuses and me being left alone in coffee shops and bookstores and anywhere else. I'm sick of not being texted or called back. I'm sick of wondering what, exactly, my problem is.

What is it that's doing this?

It was easier (way easier) when I didn't feel pretty. It was way easier when I thought that other people were just as aware of (and creeped out by) my teeth as I am. It was easier when I thought that my indian nose had something to with it. It was fucking easier when I believed that big tits were essential. It was easier when I felt undesirable.

But it's not any of those things.

It's me. It's the Margot inside the bustless body that scares them off. It's those damned ideals and those damned jokes and that damned train of thought.

It's all the things about me that make me love myself.

holy crap

2009-07-09T03:22:56Z

I'm bored as shit.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPpYwciPUT0

Observation

2009-07-08T00:24:11Z

My mother is OK with pretty much any guy I want to date. Except for when there's a real chance that I could actually date him.

Well fuck me raw with a goddamned mace.

2009-07-04T06:39:49Z

So, I’ve always been Cool Margot to my little sister’s friends. They have always seemed to come to me with their problems, and I have always listened to their woes and given them sound advice (though, sometimes endowing a younger generation with balls that I never had).

But I’m sorry, first boyfriend of my little sister who is only fifteen years old, I’m sorry. I cannot, simply cannot stand to hear about your first sexual experience or any sexual experiences following.

That’s just unholy.

OK, sorry for so much posting today.

2009-07-04T01:53:53Z

But I just couldn't tolerate spreading this like wild-fucking-fire. with hyphens. It's that fantastic.

www.guardian.co.uk/world/2009/jul/02/wrestlers-found-dead-mexico

Third of July. Yes, yes.

2009-07-04T01:13:35Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HS7GPxJxlxQ

Also, I'm eating cabbage soup. I'm Russian in every way but the being Russian way.

Droog Dreams

2009-07-03T21:27:13Z

Sometimes I have really terrible dreams. Dreams so vivid that they feel like I'm awake. And sometimes they are so bizarrely and effectively simultaneously outlandish and real that I begin to wonder what the FUCK is wrong with me? anyway, here is one such dream for your consumption, if you so desire. Very little embellishment, and very little is added for the sake of the plot.

We’re sitting in front of a gas station on US 41. It’s in the part of town that I grew up in, and in addition to the decay I am used to seeing, I note that it has recently become infinitely worse. She’s pumping gas into the old tank of a car, and I’m sitting in the passenger seat smoking a red cigarette and glaring at the attendant who is glaring at me. But my sinuses are so fucked up. I fling open the door, which bounces on its hinges, crush out my cigarette and get out to do jumping jacks. anything to just dislodge this shit.
It’s a cool evening, and I can see my breath when I work out. It’s exhausting me. I’m running laps and I still can’t breathe. Even so, when the man walks out of the gas station with a bag of chips in hand, I stop. “Josie, Josie, look!” I say. “What the fuck, Margot, I’m looking for my money.”
“Josie, no, it’s Brad Pitt. It’s Brad fucking Pitt.” I know it can’t be true, this man is what Brad Pitt was in his mid-twenties. But at the same time, it is him. At first he doesn’t see me, leaning into the jalopie of my friend Josie. He walks from the convenience store, chips in hand, soft leather, camel-colored jacket hanging open despite how chilly it is. He’s wearing a grey, worn shirt and a pair of blue jeans. His boots are old, but oddly perfect. I find it bizarre that I’d never found him attractive before. I guess you just have to see him in real life, I think.
Mr. Pitt rifles through his own shitty car for a while, before standing back up and coming over to me. I can barely breath, mostly due to sinus congestion, but also because I’m excited. “Here,” he says, “this is the only thing that’ll work for that,” he says as he indicates my nose. In my hand he deposits three pills. They look like they’re filled with ground grain- not some sinus-saving drug. I pop one of the pills into my mouth without even caring. If it clears my sinuses, it’s worth it.
It works almost instantly. I feel like a million bucks. “Tha-” I begin, but am stopped short by a massive sound coming from the road. He’s been shot. I don’t know what to do. Somehow the shooter missed me, me standing between the target and the gun, and somehow Brad is still standing. “GET DOWN,” I scream when I realize that everyone out but he has ducked. He doesn’t. Instead he turns on his heals and makes a break for a side-street. I know he’ll never make it, the car from which he has been shot, so obvious by the sound of it’s mufflerless roar, is about to cut him off.
I run up and push him down. I don’t know how I expect to protect him, but I do. Josie understands what’s happening. She’s harder than me. Less brave, but harder. She, her own monster of an old car, comes roaring up to stop between Pitt and I and the inroad they’re about to enter through. They stop their car perpendicular to ours, and step out. Three grown men, one with a bat and one with a gun. Three grown murderers against two seventeen-year-old girls and a dying man.
I know now that the Pitt-man won’t survive. He has lost too much blood, and is beginning to convulse on the pavement. The only thing going through my head is that I can’t let them have him. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know that I have to do something. Still, the man with the bat somehow gets behind me, and I hear what he’s doing. Josie, still in the car, is fumbling through my stuff, and it takes an eternity to find what she’s looking for. But she does, she finds the little red knife of mine, my name carved into the handle, and she throws herself at the unarmed man.
I reach blindly behind me, and into the window of Josie’s car. I grab a length of 2x4 from her back seat. I have no idea why she has it, and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, but I swing. I force myself to ignore what I hear around me. I force myself to ignore Josie in the background of my vision, stabbing wildly at the unarmed man. All I focus on is the board and the man with the gun.
Josie and I survive, and the man with the bat drives off. We don’t dare check the his bloody comrades on the ground. Pitt is dead. Dead and pulpy. Josie and I just stare at each other. A cop car drives by on 41. And another. No one stops in this part of town any more, even if dead men are lying on the street.
Someone, however, does stop. It’s a carload of Josie’s old friends. They get out, examine the bodies, and one proclaims that they had been “shit on this town for almost a year.” Through the use of the past-tense I know that they were no more. I gag. The horror in what has happened is sinking in. I wander around the back of Josie’s car, stepping over Pitt’s body, and hide on the other side of the vehicle. Josie’s friends are with her, whooping and cheering and comforting all together. The driver of their car takes off to go spread the word. I am alone on one side of the car, sitting on the odd, low step that runs the length of the thing, and shaking. The world is too much in focus. It’s too sharp.
One of Josie’s friends comes over. He is tall and quiet and calm. I feel guilty for finding him (and his pretty grey eyes) attractive, but he lights my cigarette for me, and tells me that he’s twenty-one and that his name is Bill. Bill is tall and willowy, and he sits beside me on the step and puts his arm around me and I feel safe. He puts his chin on the top of my head and watches the road. This worries me, but I try to forget it. Instead I close my eyes and try to remember to breathe.
But Josie’s friends on the other side of the car are loud and boisterous and still in impossibly high spirits. Josie’s is rising with them. She’s remembering what it’s like to be a “real ruffian.” Someone produces a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and everyone drinks. It makes its way over to my side of the car, and even Bill and I drink. Then we rejoin our companions. They eye Bill and I a little suspiciously, but it is not malicious. They seem to think that we’ve already developed a “thing” for each other. Personally, I don’t know how I feel about him- I haven’t really been thinking about him. But I figure his friends know him, and know his ways, and so I smile up at him. But he’s not looking at me. He’s still watching the road.
Everyone else is in good spirits, and everyone is drinking more, and it’s becoming a party now. A party in the middle of a parking lot, surrounded by three dead men. It seems to take forever for someone to suggest that we leave, and Bill is obviously relieved. I wonder why he himself didn’t say anything.
I begin to climb into Josie’s car, but one of her friends stops me. “What the fuck?” I demand. “That,” he points to a seat in the car, “is not how Josie’s car is meant to be used.” I’m confused. He gives Josie a disapproving look from over the top of the car, and she gives a reverent look at the body of the gunman. The issue has been settled.
“This,” he says, “is how we ride in Josie’s car,” he steps up onto the foot rail, so oddly placed on Josie’s little car, and reaches into the window to grab the Jesus Handle. This both excites and scares me. I look to Bill, who has taken his place at Josie’s door. He jerks his chin, and indication that I should join that side of the car. I do, and take my place between Bill and a scrawny, greasy boy a year or two older than myself. I reach in and wrap one hand through the two open windows, and the other goes for the Jesus handle. Bill’s hand is already there. He gives my hand a little squeeze without looking at me, and places his hand next to mine.
Josie peals out and takes a corner too fast and I realize that she has had a lot to drink. A lot more than I thought. She’s roaring up 41 at nearly eighty miles an hour. We’re blasting through red lights, and through the window I can see the speedometer climb. I feel Bill’s hand on mine again. I look up at him, and he throws his head back (almost unbalancing him), and lets out a howl that is lost to the roaring wind. He grins at me, and despite the cold and insanity of the action, I feel more confident. I extend my arms and tilt my head back until not only can I feel the cars behind me, moving at their languid pace, I can see them (so slow they’re nearly stationary). And I can hear their horns again over the roar of the wind.
Bill is laughing with me, everyone is laughing. Josie’s music is turned way up. She’s listening to something that I haven’t heard in years, and only then from other car’s stereos. It’s not my kind of music.
But I’m not my kind of girl right now.
In less than five minutes we’re nearly in the city proper. Suddenly I realize that I don’t know why we’re going here. Still no cops have messed with us, and I marvel at the fact that I really am a Ruffian.
Josie slows in the city proper, and I remember that she grew up here. Josie was once a projects girl, long before she lived near me. Even through her drunkenness she’s being mindful of children. The wind isn’t roaring any more, and the men and I begin to talk and laugh over the roof of the car. Josie lights me a red cigarette and passes it through the open window. I hold on with one hand and smoke with the other, leaving Bill’s hand alone on the Jesus handle.
“Where are we going?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. “Bill’s Mom’s house. She has a lot of dogs.” For some inexplicable reason I feel Bill tense beside me. I glance from the man who’d spoken, the one who had been so disapproving of me earlier, to Bill. One was grinning evilly, the other glowering. Bill, I realized, was terrifying.
But we were pulling into a neighborhood. On the right, about four houses down, was the biggest house on the block. The dwarf-king amongst his dwarf minions. There are three dogs near the stop sign at the end of the street. We stop on the street in front of the dwarf-king house, and I can hear the sounds of a multitude of dogs inside, and can see their evidence in the fenced yard.
We step down, and my legs are weak and I stumble. I try to hide it, but noticed a couple of the others doing the same. Not Bill. Josie climbs out of the car, her solid frame showing no signs of drunkenness, but I can smell it on her breath. As we wander up the narrow walk to the front door of the house in which Bill grew up, Josie presses something into my hand. It’s my knife, name ( M. Conway) carved into the handle. I don’t know why she has given it to me, but I’m nervous.
Bill goes in first to announce our arrival. I can hear him speaking to his mother, his voice is low and melodic, hers shrill and annoyed. I glance out across the neighborhood and see the next door neighbor watching us. He smiles tightly at me, and I incline a cigarette-wielding hand at him.
Bill returns and we are granted access into the house. I put my red cigarette out in a bud light can on the front stoop. I am the last to enter, besides Bill, who is following me closely. There are about ten dogs in the tiny house. I try to do the math, and arrive at the conclusion that there are eighty clicking toenails on the linoleum. His mother seems like a perpetually flustered woman, with thinning orange hair. From another room I can hear Bill’s stepdad watching a football game.
I really have to pee, but I can’t seem to get a word in edgewise. A little girl appears at the edge of the kitchen. I smile, and extend my hand, and introduce myself. At first she is shy and hesitant, but from the corner of the room Bill smiles at her and all is right in the world. She introduces herself as Becky, Bills little sister, and as Josie recounts the events of the night and plans what to do next Becky takes me to the bathroom upstairs. It’s across the hall from her little bedroom, and while I pee I can hear Bear In The Big Blue House playing.
I look at myself in the mirror. My short hair is windswept and my mascara is running down my face. I wonder if I had been crying at the gas station after all, or if wind-induced tears were to blame. I grab some of the rough toilet paper and smear it off.
I return downstairs and can smell the smoke of Becky’s stepfather’s cigars, so I light my own cigarette. Bill’s mother is outraged, and I feel tiny. She shoos me out of the house, all the while screaming that “my man can do as he pleases, hussies like you have to ask.” I go out to the front stoop to finish my red cigarette. The skin between my index and middle finger is stained red from the dye in the paper.
The neighbor comes over to chat. He has a backpack over one shoulder, and is very pleasant. We talk as I smoke, and talk after I smoke, and I’m relieved to have just a little human contact. He walks me back in the front door, and then stops. “Goodbye,” he says, his voice low, and he places the backpack inside with me. He shuts the front door before I have a chance to say anything, and when I go to open it, it’s stuck.
“Guys?” I shout through the house, and Bill’s mother is furious again. She comes out screaming at me for disrupting things. “Hey, the door’s stuck.” I say and glance at the bag. This is not good, I can tell. Bill goes to the door, and I stoop to look inside the bag. There is a sealed black tub, and when I move it I can hear a liquid slosh inside. There is also, connected by two wires, what looks like a pressure gage.
Someone in the group recognizes it for what it is- a timed, pressurized molotov cocktail. It would destroy the tiny house. It would destroy Becky upstairs, watching Bear In The Big Blue House.
I’m not thinking, I grab the bag and fly to the back of the house and out into the fenced back yard. There are houses everywhere but to the left, back up where we came. I run around to the front of the house, and slip in dog shit. How long do I have? How long have I got? I keep screaming it over and over to myself.
I get to the front yard and tear the pressure gage (what I assume is also the detonator) and fling it down towards the malicious neighbors house. I see, out of the corner of my eye, the car of the man with the baseball bat. I fling the gas-laden tub in the other direction, and when it makes contact with the pavement it erupts into flame.
But now I see the boy, about seven. I didn’t notice him or his black bicycle before. I run at him, he is in the fire, and knock him down, and I lay on top of him in a barrow ditch until I’m sure the fire is no longer a danger. The skin on my left arm is burned and raw, but the boy is safe.
The boy is safe.
His mother comes out, she has seen everything. She slaps me across the face and grabs her son and his bike and, screaming all the while, drags him inside. I accept the slap for what it was. I would have done the same. Still, some part of me wants to admonish the mother for letting her boy stay out so late. My cheek stings. Josie, Bill and everyone but the stepfather are standing outside the house now. I point weakly from across the street as the red and black car belonging to the man with the bat pulls out of the neighbors drive. The greasy kid, and a burly guy take off after him on foot, and the disapproving man grabs Josie’s keys from her and follows.
I stagger back towards my friends, and they meet me and help me back into the kitchen. Somehow they’ve unstuck the magic front door. Bill’s mother treats me, and my injured arm with new respect. She brings me an ash tray and opens the kitchen window. All she has to doctor it is aloe vera salve, and it stings. But I let her do it- it makes her feel productive.
Now everyone is talking about the next move again, and I join in. I see Becky from the kitchen doorway and smile at her. Her eyes are wide with terror, and I know my arm must look terrible. Bill is standing behind me, one hand on my good right shoulder. I don’t feel comforted any more. He is no longer friendly and reassuring, he is possessive, and I don’t know why. I look to Josie, and she is staring hard at me. She still is not completely sober, but her message is clear.
It’s not long before the three men return. Everyone goes out to greet them. Everyone but Bill and I. He remains, hand on my shoulder. I’m nervous, but try not to show it. And his hand, on my shoulder, manipulating and moving my muscles about, his hand makes me even more nervous. I stand and face him, and begin to doubt myself. His face is pleasant, and he’s looking at my arm with concern.
I barely notice when he kisses me. But suddenly his hand is at the waist of my pants, working hard to undo the button. I push him back, a little disgusted with myself and more disgusted with him. He comes again and I slap him. He punches me in the jaw and I fall back onto the counter, but now M. Conway is in my hand, and now it’s under his chin. He swings again, and I slash across his face. He swings again, and I stab wildly at his kidney.
He crumples at my feet, and from the doorway I see that Becky has been there the entire time. She runs to him, and he slaps her away. In my hand M. Conway’s red handle matches its red blade. I run out to Josie, and without question she leaps into her car. I leap in beside her, and we take off. Now I can hear Bill bellowing from the house, and I can hear Becky sobbing.
“Take me home, Joe” I say. She doesn’t ask questions, and I don’t really talk. Instead, she informs me that the man with the bat had not been found. We discuss how we’re going to get out of town. The ride home is without incident, and in the early morning hours there is no longer traffic on US 41.
She cuts the engine as we pull into my drive, and her lights are off. We’re both exhausted as we sneak around the side of my house, and onto the pool deck. The cat is out there, yowling but happy enough to see us, and the sliding glass door is open for him to pass through. The livingroom light is on, and though I know it will anger my mother to know that I was smoking inside, I light my last red cigarette and flop onto the couch. It is only then, comfortable in my own home that I realize
The back door is never open...

SEX VLOG

2009-06-30T16:20:10Z

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2MAzzJ0WYXk

margot23 @ 2009-06-28T23:29:00

2009-06-29T03:29:41Z

Vlog tomorrow. it's coming, my dears. be ready.

It's about sex and feminism.

Topple, baby, plummet.

2009-06-28T03:15:12Z

I just got a text from a very good friend with a picture of a raging blue fire and the caption “what are you doing with YOUR life?”

Well, right now I’m considering all aspects of self-induced immolation.

Not really, but I am not well in the head today. I have something on my mind.

...

I don't see what right that boy has to waltz back into my life and send me ass-hatting down an emotional mountain. again.

And I don't see what right that boy has to invade the privacy of my mind, distracting my at odd junctures and odd times.

I blame pheromones,

but I know I'm lying to myself.

What's this I see here? oh, me?

2009-06-24T01:00:25Z

So, guys, I figured that I had too long neglected my built in camera (relegating it to the menial tasks of occasionally updating my dailybooth and helping me create oh-so-hysterical photo booth pictures) and have made a vlog. Sort of. I just needed something to do. Parts of it are really cute, most of it is boring, all of it is for you, my dear, sweet herd (gaggle, murder, shrewdness) of people (really, there are too few of you to be called anything other, like a "population").

Making friends.

2009-06-23T20:23:31Z

Some total stranger today on myspace tried to enlist me into doing him favors, and giving him my number. When I refused he said that while I was "radiantly beautiful", I had "no personality", which, of course "was to be expected of atheist girls".

Does this happen to everybody, or is it just me?

Irony, it's like a sledge hammer, but harder.

2009-06-22T05:02:39Z

So, I was just introduced to the man of my dreams. We seriously have EVERYTHING in common. Have you ever met a man who'll recommend The Triplets of Belleville, loves Echo and The Bunnymen, Amanda Palmer, Thinks Amelie is overrated but still very, very good (but not as good as Delicatessen), is an atheist and is moving to Seattle? Also, said boy has the uncanny ability to understand EVERY SINGLE REFERENCE I MAKE! (I said "the cake was a lie" and he said 'PORTAL REFERENCE!!!!!". It was totally random)

You're totally wondering what the catch is, right? Yeah, well, it's a biggie.

He's my sixteen year old gay third cousin.

Perfect for me in every single way except for that.

SADFACE, damnit, SADFACE SADFACE SADFACE!

I mean, Brian Eno fergodsake, he listens to Brian Eno. And loves Neil Gaiman. And Terry Gilliam.

F
M
L

margot23 @ 2009-06-20T22:47:00

2009-06-21T02:49:13Z

my neighbors were laughing at my hair while I was mowing the lawn and they were getting into their car. So I mowed a giant M into their front lawn when they left. here's a pretty shitty picture of my handiwork:

here's what I did after my yardwork:

I bet there are ponies there, too.

2009-06-21T02:40:52Z

Today I bought a ninety dollar tooth whitening system.

Today I exfoliated my skin.

Today I mowed the lawn.

Today I became a folk hero.

Today I took a swim.

Today I ignored a boy.

And today I dreamed of a mythical place where sex isn’t expected to be the catalyst to a relationship.

margot23 @ 2009-06-20T18:49:00

2009-06-20T22:50:28Z

I wish it was socially acceptable to post topless pictures of myself here, cause I look damn sexy in this skirt alone. Seriously.

I'd fuck me.

hard.

margot23 @ 2009-06-20T01:57:00

2009-06-20T05:57:39Z

Fun with the dictionary (M-W.com):

Mosey:
1 : to hurry away
2 : to move in a leisurely or aimless manner : saunter

um....ok? where’d that first one come form? Whatever, we’ll go with it.

Hurry:
1 a: to carry or cause to go with hast

Leisurely:
without haste

Apparently I’ve been doing the word “mosey” a great injustice all these years by totally neglecting the primary definition.