He was feeling pretty shitty that day. At least until he looked up.
There you were, your radiance eclipsing the gloom of the rainy day. The streets no longer looked so filthy and infested - it was as if some fairy godmother had waved her wand and all the rats transformed into royal coachmen. Your white T-shirt was completely soaked by the rain and clung to the small of your back. Your gleaming blonde ponytail swished behind you in ambiguous gestures (he tried to decipher some sort of hidden language in those movements) as you pedaled on your bike through the rain.
He managed to catch up to you at the crosswalk of the intersection. He was feeling pretty good. Until you looked up.
And he saw that you were a man.
Must have been the ponytail.
................................................
Obviously I'm not male, so I'm not writing this from any prior experience. Just curious about how often this happens.
(Inspired by an article I-forget-what-it's-called from the New Yorker)
April 28, 2007
April 20, 2007
Don't Read Old E-mails This Late at Night
I miss Rose.
I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.
I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.
I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.
I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.
I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.
I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.
I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.
I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.
I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.
I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.
I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.
I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.
I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.
I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.
April 16, 2007
6:54 AM: Adam is a Jerk
Dreams are funny business. Funny as in strange. I don't usually have humorous dreams. I'm usually subconsciously aware that I'm dreaming, but last night was one of those where you're jolted awake and the surprise and disappointment that it was all imagination kicks you in the gut.
Dreams are also very choppy, as in they make perfect sense until you rationalize it through and realize just how stupid it was. So here it goes.
-------------------------------
I don't know much about Adam Brody. Sure, he was a star on the O.C., but I never watched TV. It would be safe to assume that everything I knew about this actor was from reading the article about him featured in this week's Time Magazine. But that didn't explain why Ariel's parents were suddenly very close friends with this guy. For some absurd reason, this eyecandy actor needed a place to stay in Norcal, and my parents had offered him my brother's room to stay in.
My brother remains absent throughout the rest of this story.
Ariel, Allison, and I were loitering around the airport parking lot, chatting about nothing in particular. Ariel had the complete rocker-chick vibe going, dolled up in vintage t-shirts and multiple studs and rings pierced through her ears. Allison and I, however, remained unchanged.
The car clicked twice, signaling that my father had unlocked the doors. As we climbed in, Ariel described Adam Brody's situation. As we buckled up in the back seat of my family's minivan, I was telling them about how according to the article, Adam Brody felt pigeon-holed by his role as Seth Cohen, when Mr. Adam Brody himself stepped into the car and told me to stop talking about him.
I had never really seen this guy before, save photographs poking here and there in various magazines. The actor I found myself face to face with was tall and lithe with dark hair. He probably would have been handsome if he had not been glaring at me so viciously. He then said to me, "You really should stretch and exercise more if you don't want to be so fat."
Though I was steamed by this comment, I was still stunned by the fact that this piece of paprazzi meat was sitting in my (techinically, my family's) minivan. He took a seat in the middle passenger seat directly in front of me and sat there quietly, looking extremely tired and frustrated.
Later along the road, we took a right turn that jolted the car, causing my leg to jerk upwards and kick the back of his chair. Then he turned around and his eyes shot daggers at me, but I had been listening to "On the Other Side of the Crash" by Thursday on my iPod and ignored him.
Ariel's parents were already waiting for us in our driveway, and they greeted this rude and unfriendly Hollywood star. Peeved by his attitude, I climbed up the stairs and headed towards my room. Looking in, I realized that my room was a humongous mess. For some reason, I inherently knew that the guy was a neat freak. Not looking forward to another insult, I slammed the door shut and walked over to my parents' room, where my mother was folding laundry.
I began to unload my frustration, beginning with my immediate dislike for the jerk. My mother merely nodded. Allison, on the otherhand, whole-heartedly agreed. She could even quote his insults word for word. Royally peeved, I headed downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink. As I looked around, I noticed that neither the jerk nor Ariel's parents were in the house. They were gone.
I spoke to my father, who was sitting in the living room with the TV chattering on about the war. I asked him where Adam Brody had gone. He explained without looking up that Adam Brody had to catch a train to Japan. Dubious, I said, "How the hell are you supposed to take a train to Japan?" My father completely ignored my question. As I trudged up the stairs, I asked one more question. "Why did he even bother showing up here in the first place?" My father replied, "He needed a break from Hollywood, somewhere they aren't likely to find him."
I walked into my room. Ariel was standing by my dresser, apparently trying on different earrings as she gazed in her reflection in my window. "Well, thank god he's gone," I announced as I sank into the bed, exhausted from all the drama that had happened. She shrugged and said, "He'll be back in a few weeks. At least you guys met with a BAM, though it was a pretty nasty way to meet. Almost seemed Hollywood style." I snorted and replied, "Sure, how often does a person call a complete stranger fat? He's been around too many waifish models and actresses; I'm not even that fat."
An electronic Disney song rang as Ariel answered her cell phone. "Hey, what's up?" she said. I gave up trying to follow her conversation and waited for her to finish. She laughed. "Sure. Get me some earrings in Japan, alright?" Her cell phone closed with a snap.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
- I read the Time magazine article on Adam Brody that afternoon.
- I read Ariel's emails that day.
- I saw Allison running at the track that evening.
- When we passed by the Light Rail that morning, my brother and I talked about Japan' Bullet Train.
- I have been listening to Thursday's CD recently.
- I have been worrying about gaining too much weight.
Dreams are also very choppy, as in they make perfect sense until you rationalize it through and realize just how stupid it was. So here it goes.
-------------------------------
I don't know much about Adam Brody. Sure, he was a star on the O.C., but I never watched TV. It would be safe to assume that everything I knew about this actor was from reading the article about him featured in this week's Time Magazine. But that didn't explain why Ariel's parents were suddenly very close friends with this guy. For some absurd reason, this eyecandy actor needed a place to stay in Norcal, and my parents had offered him my brother's room to stay in.
My brother remains absent throughout the rest of this story.
Ariel, Allison, and I were loitering around the airport parking lot, chatting about nothing in particular. Ariel had the complete rocker-chick vibe going, dolled up in vintage t-shirts and multiple studs and rings pierced through her ears. Allison and I, however, remained unchanged.
The car clicked twice, signaling that my father had unlocked the doors. As we climbed in, Ariel described Adam Brody's situation. As we buckled up in the back seat of my family's minivan, I was telling them about how according to the article, Adam Brody felt pigeon-holed by his role as Seth Cohen, when Mr. Adam Brody himself stepped into the car and told me to stop talking about him.
I had never really seen this guy before, save photographs poking here and there in various magazines. The actor I found myself face to face with was tall and lithe with dark hair. He probably would have been handsome if he had not been glaring at me so viciously. He then said to me, "You really should stretch and exercise more if you don't want to be so fat."
Though I was steamed by this comment, I was still stunned by the fact that this piece of paprazzi meat was sitting in my (techinically, my family's) minivan. He took a seat in the middle passenger seat directly in front of me and sat there quietly, looking extremely tired and frustrated.
Later along the road, we took a right turn that jolted the car, causing my leg to jerk upwards and kick the back of his chair. Then he turned around and his eyes shot daggers at me, but I had been listening to "On the Other Side of the Crash" by Thursday on my iPod and ignored him.
Ariel's parents were already waiting for us in our driveway, and they greeted this rude and unfriendly Hollywood star. Peeved by his attitude, I climbed up the stairs and headed towards my room. Looking in, I realized that my room was a humongous mess. For some reason, I inherently knew that the guy was a neat freak. Not looking forward to another insult, I slammed the door shut and walked over to my parents' room, where my mother was folding laundry.
I began to unload my frustration, beginning with my immediate dislike for the jerk. My mother merely nodded. Allison, on the otherhand, whole-heartedly agreed. She could even quote his insults word for word. Royally peeved, I headed downstairs to the kitchen to get a drink. As I looked around, I noticed that neither the jerk nor Ariel's parents were in the house. They were gone.
I spoke to my father, who was sitting in the living room with the TV chattering on about the war. I asked him where Adam Brody had gone. He explained without looking up that Adam Brody had to catch a train to Japan. Dubious, I said, "How the hell are you supposed to take a train to Japan?" My father completely ignored my question. As I trudged up the stairs, I asked one more question. "Why did he even bother showing up here in the first place?" My father replied, "He needed a break from Hollywood, somewhere they aren't likely to find him."
I walked into my room. Ariel was standing by my dresser, apparently trying on different earrings as she gazed in her reflection in my window. "Well, thank god he's gone," I announced as I sank into the bed, exhausted from all the drama that had happened. She shrugged and said, "He'll be back in a few weeks. At least you guys met with a BAM, though it was a pretty nasty way to meet. Almost seemed Hollywood style." I snorted and replied, "Sure, how often does a person call a complete stranger fat? He's been around too many waifish models and actresses; I'm not even that fat."
An electronic Disney song rang as Ariel answered her cell phone. "Hey, what's up?" she said. I gave up trying to follow her conversation and waited for her to finish. She laughed. "Sure. Get me some earrings in Japan, alright?" Her cell phone closed with a snap.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
- I read the Time magazine article on Adam Brody that afternoon.
- I read Ariel's emails that day.
- I saw Allison running at the track that evening.
- When we passed by the Light Rail that morning, my brother and I talked about Japan' Bullet Train.
- I have been listening to Thursday's CD recently.
- I have been worrying about gaining too much weight.
April 1, 2007
April's Fool
My name is Sophelia. I am an April child. I have dark hair and light eyes and I spend too much time looking in the mirror wishing I was a solarhalfbreed like Olivia in my lovely profile picture. I have had a phobia of conversational strangers ever since I met a mentally unstable man who would not stop talking to me about government plots. I am much more observant than most people realize. I have never been in love. To me, love means you would be willing to sacrifice anything for someone and frankly I have never felt that way. I do not hate anyone, even though I have met many assholes in my life. I do not like change. I am afraid of taking chances. I am afraid of my brother's increasingly bad attitude towards my parents. I cringe when I hear him say the F-word to my mother. I wince when she shoves him to the concrete and drives us away without him. I pretend to be tough but I am vulnerable. I never know what to do when someone is crying. I wish someone could take me away from here.
Just kidding. April Fools. Or not.
Love,
April's Fool
Just kidding. April Fools. Or not.
Love,
April's Fool
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