Motherfucking snakes

Sep 25, 2006

One of the best Top Model Photos in my opinion.

Knotts Scary Farm in two weeks. I hope it's crowded and alot of people go because I don't want to be a focal point of the scares.

by, Haruki Murakami

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

and there's no distance that can hold us back

Sep 18, 2006
1 comment

Whenever he leaves I get this lump of loneliness that settles in my thoat, you know? Which is stupid because he's just going to work or something.

But if you were in love, you'd know what I was talking about.

Snakes on a plane

Sep 17, 2006

what a crazy weekend in arcadia. good times, good people, lots of sick nasties.

studying.

speaking of hot, sexy, wet, sex with textbooks, i was thinking about my future and what college I want to attend, and I'm thinking Boston, guys. I've heard alot of good things about there - namely, high costing dorms, parties, booze, eclectic people, the slums, oh yeah, and academics. But hey - anything to get into a name-brand school, right? My current list so far:

Oxford University (Don't know if this is such a good choice, now. Four years abroad. I'm thinking more along the lines of using the study abroad programs at a university as opposed to having to deal with all the abroad shit. And being American.)
Boston
Notre Dame
NYU (Iffy. New York is too metrocentric for me. I'd love to visit, but don't know about the living. I'd have to to <strike>whore myself like a dirty little slut</strike> work hard for that money.
UC Berkeley (Name brand. San Fran is very claustrophobic, though. Not to mention too close to home.)
UCLA (Love the people.)
Northwestern
Duke
Bard

Anyway, enough about college. My schedule has been off, way off. For some reason, I tend to study better at night. And I mean 'at night'. I'm saying 3am-4am in the morning. It's as if I shut down during the most part of the day, and my body just flicks back on around early morning. (Fuck you, pervs.) While this has it's perks (none.), it's messing drastically into my sleep time, which affects me very much. Not only that, I'm so tired by the time I'm done studying that I don't tidy up my workspace. There's a clusterfuck of shit everywhere.

Watched Snakes on a Plane and to tell you the truth, it was a fun movie. The boyf and I moviehopped from 10 in the morning until midnight for 5 bucks. Call me asian, but I watched like 50$ worth of movies, so all and all, manf and I saved like 100 bucks. Laugh at me now, but who's wallet is heavier, huh? Huh? That's right. Not me.

Spoiler: One of my favorite snake attacks was when the couple was having a quickie in the bathroom and the snake bit her titty. Holy crap. sidenote: how would you feel if you were known as the actress who got her titty bitten by a snake? In a movie called Snakes on a plane? The title and premise sound so absurd that it cancels itself out and actually becomes badass. ... I want to watch little miss sunshine.

anyway, I've been looking for a bag big enough to carry all my stuff (Books, books, books) that is separate from my schoolbag (that my lovingly broke boyf still bought me for 120 bucks against my will (and probably his). crazy. ... I love you honey!) so i went to look at some bags the other day at urban outfitters, american apparrel, and ebay. found one that i liked but it's like 700 dollars or some ridiculous shit like that so i have a feeling i'm going to be carrying around my books for a few lifetimes or so. shweet.

So I've been sorta giving the manfriend some feedback on some apartments/rooms he wants to move into, and alot of the places around here are 3,000$ plus for a little cubicle NOT including utilities. fucking ridonkulous.

All this inflation makes me want to pawn off favors for some income. It scares me how much in debt I think I'm going to be in the future.

I'm getting my license in two months.

... and going to knotts scary farm in one. peace.

Concerning pluots and plots

Sep 15, 2006
1 comment

I'm so bored. With life.

Seriously, it's not even funny at all. I'm bored out of my mind. I do things out of structure and stability so that later in life it can be instable and maybe just a little bit more exciting.

I'm not very tired, my eyes are straining .... but I'm not tired. Repetition is boring. Everything is boring.

I can't wait until Knotts Scary Farm because that will take some dull out of this everyday shit.

My schedule will only be eat, sleep (When ... I can.), study, work - endless cycle.

I sort of miss the hectic high school day, going from period to period and seeing everybody. Seeing everybody that I know, and people I don't know.

I guess I'm just never satisfied because while I was in high school, it felt like herding to me, and now that I'm in college, it feels the same way. Just more matured, just more ... elaborate, in a weird (and boring.) way.

even my writing has gotten boring. look at this shit, man. it's stuff to fucking fall asleep to.

I want to party. I want to go to homecoming. I want to go to prom. I want to go to six flags, and the beach, and to fling sausages at Niccolo with Martin. I want to walk home again with my friends. I want to nearly die while Mel is at the wheel. I want to go to the movies, the mall, shop, go to amusement parks. Bike, run, anything. Go to restuarants, dress up, dress down - wake up and wonder if I'm going to live today or not.

I want more out of life.

I'm never content.

I'd rather dance with you than talk to you.

Sep 2, 2006

Part one.

Classes are pretty dull and expensive for the most part and I am so totally broke. My brother offered to pay me 20 bucks to eat my shit - which is pretty stupid if you ask me. Anyways, I was actually considering it for awhile until I came to my senses! I mean, shit, I wouldn't want to rip my brother off like that, would you? You jerk.

I was watching some advert on TV today about Unicef donating school books for 5 million kids in Afgahnistan or something like that, and they said something about how education creates peace, which I think of course is bullshit, and that's why I'm writing this.

In case they haven't noticed, a lot of these terrorists are highly educated people. I mean, do you expect some uneducated fuck to come up with these kind of plans? Educated people basically means they're educated, meaning they have more knowledge at their disposal to create mayhem and destructiveness. Take a guy off the streets, and ask him to operate on someone with liver disease. Compared to an educated and qualified surgeon, who do you think would do a better job? Exactly.

Anyway, I suppose when they said education creates peace, they meant that the people would be educated with a sense of right and wrong in a more profound manner, but then again, what these terrorists do, in their own eyes, they believe they are right. Bottom line, it kinda all boils down to perception and choice.

Philosophy class is interesting - my professor is fucking insane, and I mean it in the most literal way possible. He gets passionate about his subject, pissed - and I mean shit your pants red in your face pissed - and then starts laughing really crazily. Cool right? Right. College is nice because they don't have any pretentions like Arcadia High. I love college because you can find morons everywhere you turn. Arcadia High's morons are turds because they pretend not to be - and succeed because of all the omGZ AP classes and follow the general herd. BUT WAIT. You're saying, "BUT JESS, wtf, you don't know how hard it is to adhfajhdkjkajgfg and the classes ahfjdsfh and I got a benz as my first car sdflshdf totalled it and got a bmw sdfajsdf parents paying for my tuition dfasjkdfhkjahsdfkjhadf. You're so full of shit! You can't write about us like that! You n00b!" Well, has J.R.R. Tolkien ever met a hobbit? Did that stop him from writing about them?

Oh yeah, I'm broke again guys. So broke that I didn't pick off the olives from the pizza I had on campus today. And I hate olives. Round food is overrated and totally rolls away when you drop it.

Now to my significant other of whom I love. I never thought I'd have someone who could cheer me up with a touch, a hug, a hand-hold. I never knew that I could trust somebody so much. I never knew that I could be so dependent. And I never knew that I could connect so intensely to him that the thought of losing him makes me terrified. He honestly is one of the few people that can make me laugh my ass off, as well. Everything I see or hear or smell is associated with him. I can't re-elaborate because my style is simple and sweet. There's nothing more to say than ...

He's perfect. Could I have asked for more, folks?

No fuckin' way.

I guess naming something Part One means you've got to have a Part Two. Will there be one? Who knows?Well, I guess one means another one to follow this one. I mean that there will be another one following Part one. You see? You dig? You follow? You saw, you dug, you followed while I came, I saw, I came again but this time it wasn't as strong because I was tired so I punched you.