Not to be one of those people that talks about pansy writer’s block all the time/ever again — or one of those people that has just discovered a song that came out in 2004 — but seriously. Is this amazing? Yes.
Be Cool, Stay in School
Here is the kind of asshole I was on Tuesday afternoon: hogging an entire booth in a crowded coffee shop for six hours, nursing a single iced latte, all to catch up on a simple subject you breezed through in middle school while I was too busy writing terrible poetry and pining for Matt Anderson.
I was also taking the kind of notes I should have taken in eighth grade, because I don’t remember any of this shit.
How I Went About It (Larger)
Quarks? Where was I the day we learned about quarks? Also, do you have any idea how creepy my Google history is, now that I’ve tried to write some pretentious story about nuclear fusion?
A Room of One’s Own
Like most people, places and things, the Somerville Library would be beautiful if it were only lit correctly. The peeling paint could acquire an antique charm, the missing ceiling tiles a sense of mystery, of the forgotten, and the painted horse engravings edging the wall could occupy a fascinating territory between ballroom and barnyard — at once unassuming and glamorous, sparkling with champagne, chandeliers and hay dust.
It could be the kind of place you run away to.
And running away, at least a few times a week, is very important. Woolf claimed that all it takes is a room of one’s own, but that doesn’t quite cut it. What we really need is a fort. A place for tree bark and invisibility, a secret place, sheltered by leaves: the kind of room you need a ladder to access.
Admittedly, I do not know the precise recipe for “correct lighting” — the necessary placements, angles, intensities and limitations or lack thereof on the color spectrum. But if there’s one thing we can all agree is certain, it’s that high-ceilinged fluorescent overhead lights are simply never involved.
The Somerville library is a small, three-story square sitting on top of a green hill with reasonable views of Boston and suburbia, and it’s lit with the kind of poison that makes you simultaneously want to leave right away, and forget how. Not unlike depression. I’d traversed the third floor at least three times before I realized I’d seen these people and places before. The air was stagnant, the quietude heavy, the faded armchairs worn and bent with butt potholes. Two floors away, ancient keyboards sounded a subtle, dooming percussion. I plunked down at a table near a large window and began to work.
“Uh, holdonholdon hold on,” I said to myself with some alarm. ” . . . What are you doing, again?”
You Can Have It All
Dear Internet,
Ah. You know what? Perhaps I shouldn’t have published that post, four years ago. If I were going to insist upon publishing that post four years ago, however, there were a few, very reasonable options you gave me. And there’s no use feigning naiveté, I was aware of all of them. I could have kept it to first names, for example. I could have used an alias. I could have deleted all of my archives, when I switched over to a new address last January.
Internet, occasionally I am a lazy and careless woman.
Facebook to me
show details 11:51 PM (9 hours ago)Robin added you as a friend on Facebook. We need to confirm that you know Robin in order for you to be friends on Facebook.
Robin says, “A girl that I have gone on a single date with sent me a link to your blog about me dating 4 years back. Kinda freaky, but I’m not offended.”.
To confirm this friend request, follow the link below:
http://www.facebook.com/n/?reqs.php
Internet, I perhaps unwisely publish this correspondence for one reason: oh, it’s on.
Leaving You
The day I decided to quit the job I loved began like any other day. I got up, got dressed, brushed my teeth. On my way out the door, I struggled with tangled iPod headphones, tried to find a song I still liked. I don’t remember what I was wearing. It’s possible I looked amazing — but it seems unlikely, since a nose infection had spread to my left eye two weeks prior and I hadn’t been able to wear make-up without risking contaminating my entire goddamn face.
I got a bagel and a coffee on my way in, opened my laptop, and unplugged the router. As I sat there waiting for the wireless to reboot, I began thinking about my tax return.
“That is certainly a lot of money,” I thought slowly, eyes wandering into the ether. “You could pay off a somewhat noticeable portion of school loans with that money.”
Yeah. Way to go.
I raised my hand to poke at my irritated cornea, then decided better of it.
“Oh, also,” I reasoned, “you should really put some of it into savings. That account has maintained nothing but the minimum balance since you started working. You should be more responsible now, look into having at least some kind of safety net. What if something were to happen?”
Right, right. Good thinking.
“But heeeey, celebrate a little bit, too. Get yourself something a little crazy. Something you wouldn’t normally purchase, you know, for fun.”
The wireless router blinked blearily, a slow green awakening that seemed to say “fuck. You. Fuck fuck. You.”
“I know!” I thought inexplicably. “I could get my hair highlighted! I’ve always said that I hate highlights.”
Fuck. You. Fuck fuck. You.
“… Or I could spent three hundred dollars on that duvet cover! Wouldn’t that be nuts! And it’d really bring the room together.”
Fuck … fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckyoufuckyou.
Back in business. I noted the four full black lines with pleasure, each neatly stacked upon the other in a precise, growing triangle: a full wireless signal. It seemed so clean, so ripe with possibility, like the first day after doing laundry.
“Or!” I thought insanely, “you could put the money in savings, and leave this place!”