Nanowrimo
11/05/2011 02:45 p.m.
I'm on the move!
Very very far behind but I'm scuttling through this word document that I will probably begin to hate. I'm describing a scene with a troll, a bridge, and my main character's dream version of himself.
I'm about 1/8 of the way through my quota for the day.
My playlist entitled 'Eat Me Up (Self Songs)' is singing.
Okay.
Back to work.
I am currently Calm
I am listening to Crystal Castles

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Edie Paul
10/25/2011 12:20 a.m.
The old starlet woke to the bright noon sun pushing her wrinkled lids open. She never had early morning obligations and lived alone. None knew her sleep schedule; no one realized it was a habit from her youth. She had been beautiful enough to rise only when the sun would act as her spotlight.
She sat up with the straps of her sheer nightgown slipping from her frail shoulders. Stringy dyed hair fell around the pale yawning face. A hacking, wet cough cut the air in the room. Her day had started.
The smell of coffee that never quite left was strong again as she left the house. Characteristic red lipstick adorned her face. The waxy substance was applied a bit beyond the boundary of her lips giving them a constant pout.
Edith Paul was something of a legend. Star of dozens of hit films, forty years later she still kept a P.O. box for fan mail. She checked it every other week. Most of it was men as old as she saying she was still appreciated. She counted on those letters. She could taste the strong, round handwriting of men like she could taste the air when a table was about to leave a generous tip. It sustained her.
Sometimes the shiny metal box that held notes from her past was empty. Her co-workers at Nicholson’s Bar and Grill knew it by the set of her mouth and the lack of flirtation in her waitressing. On a day when Edie didn’t confess she once went down on the president was a day that you didn’t ask about her latest admirer. Even her regulars, the people who were drunk by 8pm, knew that.
But that wasn’t the case today. On her way to work, she’d opened her box with the key she always had with her and fished out a total of five letters. She was as chipper as a model that just reached her goal weight through an eating disorder. No one noticed the old lady reading letters in her Toyota corolla in Nicholson’s parking lot, though someone should have felt her delight.
George from Ontario had written an erotic tale with Edie as the heroine. It wasn’t the best she’d ever gotten but he’d found some original ways to describe the curve of her neck. She knew he was thinking of the body she once had. Sarah from Arizona, an old movie buff, just wanted to send her appreciation. Gabe was in love. Annie idolized her . . . blah blah blah. With a special kind of joy she put the letters in her purse. She’d read them completely later and send a response in careful feminine handwriting. For now though, she wanted to arrogantly savor her spoonful of fame.
She went to work humming to herself. Everyone felt her good mood. Tips were bigger. Drunks were drunker. Food tasted better. Anywhere she went she was the atmosphere. No one recognized her, but somehow she still commanded attention. Sometimes an older gentleman would ask to take her home. She took the flattering proposal with good grace but always said no. Her body was absolutely hers now.
After her shift, when her legs ached and everyone eating looked like selfish pigs, she said warm goodbyes to the other waitresses and went home.
Her evening ritual included practicing piano with long fingers, answering letters if she got them, and some prime time T.V. When she felt tired she drew a bath. Aches and pains flowered in her old body.
The water was warm and sudsy when she stepped nimbly into the foam. Her hair was clipped back with damp little ringlets falling onto her neck. Her soft contented sigh christened the moment as serenity. She relaxed into the water. Grey mildew made it look as if it came from a pond with a white fluffy algae bloom. Her skinny arms acted as vines dipping leisurely into it.
She took a deep breath of the humid air, and, ceremonially, began to sing with a voice that hadn’t changed in 40 years. It was beautiful, echoing off the tile in the small room. No one heard the young molasses voice coming from the old starlet.

I am currently Detached
I am listening to Kanye

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10.2.11-Directory Entry
10/03/2011 04:22 a.m.
Family story: My mom bought me a bra. 34B, my size. It sat in the kitchen where she put it down until she brought it up to my room to give it to me. when she finally did bring it up she asked me to try it on. "Dad says your boobs aren't that big."
"I hope he didn't actually use that phrasing."
"Actually. I think he did."
I tried it on, and it fit. I immediately dashed downstairs in the bra and only jeans besides.
"Dad! This does fit me! Suck it! You underestimated my boob size!"
He started laughing. "Now wait a minute, let me see."
I turned this way and that. Sort of reveling in the fact that I wasn't afraid to show off my stomach like I used to be.
He was ready to admit defeat. "Well, all right, I guess I was wrong."
I laughed triumphantly and started to go back upstairs.
"Plus you're usually wearing baggy clothes."
I stopped at the landing and turned around, my hand on the banister. "Be lucky you're daughter isn't a slut."
I heard him chuckling as I went back to my room to discuss the fit of the bra in depth with my mother.

I am currently Safe
I am listening to Odessa by Caribou

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thisisjusttooffsetthatdepressingentry
07/26/2011 03:22 a.m.
My actual journal is named The Turtle On My Back. It's brothers are BIG FAT DOCUMENT, The Nighthawks Directory, and Summer Before High School. We're a jolly old family.
I am currently Content
I am listening to Beirut

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