My ex and I used to watch this show religiously and always questioned who Jackson Galaxy was and why he had a guitar case full of cat garbage and who’s idea it was to give him his own show and why I couldn’t stop watching it.
And what a random thing that is that Jackson Galaxy reminds me of my ex. God damn life is so weird sometimes
Have you ever been on a magical trip with someone you didn't love?
I’m convinced that timehop app is the worst thing that has ever enchanted my phone. Its a little whisper, a little hint and silent secret every morning that is just a reminder
"psst, two years ago last year you were in love in Montana"
"Last year you were heart broken and alone. It was over"
"Tomorrow it will be the same reminder. Have a great day! Here is some random fact of something that happened in the 90s on this day, hey I’m a cartoon and life is meaningless"
I recently went on an amazing trip to beyond anything I have ever dreamed I would witness. I touched tree frogs and swam in rivers of the amazon and hiked up mountains and bathed in hot baths on an active volcano. All in a week. I saw some of the most beautiful sights that I was left speechless and insecure. I looked around me and saw so much light that I was falling in love with the it all around me. I saw it all with someone who I didn’t love and who doesn’t love me, and that’s totally ok. I’m fine with that. But it was hard and I wasn’t used to it. I didn’t know how to react; where does one put all this over flowing love? Where does it all go? Just up in the atmosphere? Bouncing back into the heat of a volcano? Into sleeping adorable stray dogs? Where does it all go?
Then I wake up and this stupid fucking asshole app just reminds me of how it was, how it could be and how it may not be. This stupid fucking app.
People say, “delete the app. Its not doing you any good. Just get rid of it”
But then how would I remember the good times? How could I forget if I wasn’t constantly reminded? How can you still miss something unless it leaves your mind?
“Being born a woman is an awful tragedy. Yes, my consuming desire to mingle with road crews, sailors and soldiers, bar room regulars—to be a part of a scene, anonymous, listening, recording—all is spoiled by the fact that I am a girl, a female always in danger of assault and battery. My consuming interest in men and their lives is often misconstrued as a desire to seduce them, or as an invitation to intimacy. Yet, God, I want to talk to everybody I can as deeply as I can. I want to be able to sleep in an open field, to travel west, to walk freely at night.”—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via interweber)
Dear Mari, I've been following you since Ned linked to something you posted in his BonerParty days, yes, it's been that long and yes, it's built into one of those odd "this stranger is my friend!" internet-type of things, which is why I'm posting anonymously, but it seems the haters have been coming out of the woodwork recently and I just want you to know that you are incredibly interesting, funny, intelligent and inspiring. Take as much time as you need, I'll keep checking for new posts.
God bless you and god bless the years where I would thank blogs like “boner party” for my 15 minutes of fake internet fame.
My hands and nails have always been one of my biggest source of shame and embarrassment. Being a barber means that I probably have cut off my right middle knuckle so often that I have no feeling any more. The side of my index finger, when I run my thumb across it is covered raised scars and rough skin from point cutting into my own hand for the past ten years. I’ve spent hours staring at my hands and wonder how other women have long, delicate, ivory hands with perfect groomed, long strong manicured nails. My nails are always brittle, peeling, breaking, close enough to hurt even now as I type this. I try to always keep them polished but that doesn’t mask the true nature of my beat up, working hands.
Even in middle school, when my teeth stretched out further when I smiled, when my hair, limp and tentacle like over my shoulders, and my glasses slid down my greasy nose, even then I was always nervous about my hands. Squeezing the tip of my round sausage like fingers in hopes that some how I could mold them into elegant, poetic paws like my other girlfriends. Like I was made of clay. I could mold my own body into what I thought was beautiful. I was too embarrassed to join my girlfriends in manicure parties, and most of the time volunteered to help them with their opposite hands instead.
I’m not clay though. My hands never changed, instead they became more scared and muscular. After I was hit by a car on my bike two years ago my left thumb refused to move correctly due to a snapped tendon. So now, not only do I have torn hands, I can’t even make the number 4 correctly. My thumb will reach a certain spot and then refuse to move. It just hovers there, shaking and unsure. I always thought this was a myth, but my old deep scar from the accident… I can feel it when it rains. It aches. My hand aches and can hurt while I’m working if its raining outside. I always thought it was a myth. Or it only happens to old war veterans. But it doesn’t, it can happen to 28 year old girls and insecurities on their hands.
And if you think this is bad, you have no idea what I feelings about my feet are.
But I’m not clay. I can not mold myself into what I think to be perfect or beautiful. I think that’s a good thing, if I were clay… I would constantly be molding myself into I turned into something that even I didn’t know where I started from. Not because I’m that insecure were I want to change everything about myself, but because as the years change and as I get older, my idea of what is beautiful has become so vast and changed so many times that I would constantly be molding and molding and molding myself into something different from the next. That the only next thing to mold myself into is my original self.
Just original plan ol’ Mari with ugly hands and beat up runners toes and who falls too often and who loves her friends and who is scared of being a lone and even more scared of forgetting herself. I would rather not be clay at the end of the day I think.
I did the Jingle Bell Jog this Saturday morning, it was interesting in the fact that normally I’m doing races in Central Park but this one was in Prospect. It was short. Just 4 miles. I’m not used to running in Prospect park but I do enjoy it.
About 2 and a half miles in, while listening to Christmas music on Spotify and thinking to myself how good I felt, I noticed that my shoe had become untied. With out thinking or looking I jumped out of the race to the left in front of a high sped bicyclist, making her scream out loud as she tried to unsuccessfully swerve out of the way. We collided. She fell off her bike as my knee made hard contact with the front of her wheel.
I was mortified and she was not happy. I immediately started to apologize loudly and close to tears. I’m so sorry, it was all my fault. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking it was all my fault.
She was fine I kept running but everything had changed. The morning, which started off as a cool, charming New York winter morning suddenly seemed bare, just a sea of naked twigs and sticks, slick leaves lurking in places you didn’t expect waiting to fail you, make you slip and ruin your ankles. I suddenly hated that stupid race. People all dressed up in their ugly sweaters and Santa hats jogging with their stupid smiles on their faces. This is running! You aren’t supposed to be happy! Stop laughing! What the fuck! I hate you all! You’re all fucking sheep!
I finished at a good time. I was pissed. After meeting someone for coffee I shrugged to the G train.
So lady who I jumped in front of your bike, if you’re reading this:
"I love you. I love being around you. I just dont trust you"
She turned to him, cold, biter, sad and desperate… all things she hated being, one of them she had never been before, she asked a simple. “Do you want to be with me?”
Because that’s all it really comes down to, right? Forget sex, attraction, trust issues, status… it comes down to a simple yes or no of “Do you want to be with me?”
He looked at her. Then looked down.
There was nothing else to say, so she looked at him, nodded, choked out a weak “right.” and walked away. And hasn’t stopped walking since.
There isnt much left to write. I’ve been single but not single for almost 6 months now. And for the first time ever I’m angry. I’m angry with him. I’ve never been so angry with anyone before. I may have deserved all of this but I can’t wait until he gets what he deserves. But at the same time why do I keep sleeping on my own couch in my own apartment because the idea of being alone in my own queen sized bed in a large one bedroom shared by just one is sad enough to make me wonder if moving to alaska might be better?
What are you doing new year’s eve? Man. Fuck that song. Fuck the holidays. Screw this christmas tree and forget this nat king cole christmast pandora station