I took a programming class in college and have had this inside joke url ever since
Things got a little violent in our apartment building over the weekend. View the evidence for yourself, if you like.
Where he fell.
Flickr, Facebook, personal weblog . . . if you and I should happen to hang out, it is my promise — my solemn oath to you — that evidence of our transgressions will pop up all over the internet, with tags.
It seemed as though the cops busted up the party only because this was a natural defining element of The Quintessential Party, and thus it was our destiny, their destiny, two destinies colliding. Up until the cops arrived, the stage had been set perfectly for their arrival, resembling every party you see in leading young-people movies and which you’ve joked does not actually exist anywhere in reality. There were dozens of sexy twentysomethings in each room, pouring into the hallways like spilled slushees, donning feathered fake eyelashes and anonymous plastic cups, their shoulder blades and butt cheeks leaning up against walls and backing into fireplace mantles. The main question you have in such a house at such a party is but where did they put all their furniture?
We’d had a horrible time at this party because this is exactly the kind of partying we’re bad at, and decided to leave an hour after we’d arrived.
“God freaking dammit,” I said as we faced a veritable mountain of piled coats, purses and scarves. “Well. I guess it’s time to start digging.”
It was dark in the hallway, with no visible light switch. Jurvis stuck his hand into the tower and began rummaging for our belongings by feel.
The first time I saw the Skinny Russian Girl, I judged her in the exact way I dread others judging me. She tiptoed into yoga class late, and before I’d even seen her face, when all I knew of her was a vaguely narrow form in the periphery of my vision, I thought the damning word: weak.
It became pretty clear almost immediately, however, that she was the strongest person in the class, let alone girl. Whenever we went into twists, I propped my elbows on my knees and innocently stared. Where did her strength come from? She had no outward appearance of muscles. She was a twig in shorts and tank-top, braless and small-chested with dark hair elaborately pinned to a delicate head. Chandelier earrings dangled from her ears in small crystals. Her eyes were heavy with kohl. When arched on all fours, she could swing through her arms in one graceful motion and land noiselessly into a seated forward bend, her body creased in half at the hips like rolling paper.
After class, the few men in the area would line up to speak with her.
“Where are you from?” I heard someone say, leaning towards her intimately in the coat room as I struggled to find my scarf in a pile of boots. “Russia, right? Somewhere in Russia?”
She shyly mumbled a response, seemingly eager to get around him and out the door.
“You know,” he smiled wolfishly, “I . . . speak a little Russian.”
Dipshit, I thought at him. That’s exactly the sort of thing you’re supposed to say in Russian. I mean, come on. I’ve never taken a single Spanish class, but I could tell you I spoke it, un poco.
“Some guy touched her arm today!” I would exclaim. “Like he owned her, and he said ‘hey, nice to see you here again.’ Come on. Doesn’t he know that she’s always there? She could freaking teach at that studio, and he says nice to see you here, like she’s doing him some kind of favor by showing up. Geez!”
Or, “she seems to know Elliot, the instructor, pretty well. He asked her if she’d be attending his workshop this weekend, and warned her that it’d be a long drive from her place.”
Or, “I heard her talk today. I’m not sure what she said. She has the quietest voice.”
I’d recount the amazing physical feats I’d seen her accomplish, the neverending pairs of earrings, the heavy eye makeup that wouldn’t smear a centimeter. I had begun to suspect that she was magical. Every class, she would tiptoe in a minute or two late, and place her mat next to mine.
It snowed all day today and still hasn’t stopped, big soft flakes floating all down the east coast. Cars squealed and spun along Spring Hill, and I wore my red rubber boots.
“This is a beautiful city,” I thought, pausing mid-tromp through a particularly large white dune. “I would like to make snow forts in it.”
Quinzhee
It occurred to me, about a month ago, that the only thing really preventing me from becoming a vegetarian was my fear of what other people would think. Namely, I worry about people thinking I have an eating disorder.
[Appendix A]
If we haven’t met, there are a few things I should probably clarify at this point:
1.) I am naturally skinny,
2.) There was a time in my much younger life when I was more than naturally skinny, and
3.) We’re all going to be enormous in twenty-five years.
A few years ago, I had a boyfriend’s mother pull him aside and tell him that she was concerned that my anorexic ways would rub off on him, influence his eating habits, and actually turn him anorexic (you know, like how homosexuality works). I was a quieter girl then, so instead of making an immediate bee-line to the computer to flip my shit in a cutting, well-worded email, I started stuffing my face any time I saw her.
See, I was saying, a strip of steak dangling from my bloody mouth, see: I fuckin’ eat.