Tag Archives: Mrs. Nosek

Dancing

I used to think you danced with your feet. I would watch my feet and tell them to move around. Then I went to middle school and saw everyone dancing with their arms. So, I started moving my arms around and bouncing a little. I asked my mom after she came home tipsy from a date. She said it’s in the hips. And then I remember Kira told me once that women and India dance with their eyes. For the longest time, I figured you just danced with your whole body. But why does Dizzie’s entire body undulate like a brush fire, and then why does my body only feels like water splishing against the side of a swimming pool?

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Cold Eggs

It’s Sunday but the sun isn’t even out. It’s cloudy anyway. Sadie pokes her eggs with a plastic Little Mermaid fork.

“Why aren’t you eating your eggs?” Her mother inquires. ”You always like them scrambled.”

“Not always.”

“When you were a little girl you used to love–”

“I’m not a little girl anymore.” Sadie glares at her mother. She keeps glancing at the seat to her right, the one her father used to occupy when he was alive. It’s a nervous habit. “I’m just not hungry.”

Her mother doesn’t say anything. She continues eating.

“It’s cold, anyway…”

Metal crashes on the uneven table. The noise makes Sadie jump. Her mother clutches her head. Sadie hates when she does that. She hates that her mother acts like she’s this constant headache. She’s so dramatic.

“I pray every day–”

“Here we go again.” Sadie rolls her eyes.

“How about this, then! I work every day for you and I have been working to put this food on your plate! And the least you can do is when we have these rare moments where I’m not at the hospital and you’re not locked in your room or hanging out with your friends, then we can have some mother-daughter time together! Is that so much to ask?”

“So,” Sadie cringes, stirring her eggs. “It finally comes out.” She stabs the fluffy morsel. “You don’t like who I hang out with. You don’t like Dizzie.” Her fork pushes against the plate.

“Please, Sadie. Don’t do this. I love your friends and Dizzie has been a blessing, but all I have is you.”

The fork skids violently against the surface of the plate. The muscles in their jaws jump as they wince.

“Sadie…”

“Mother. Stop. I’m going to hang out with my friends and that’s that.”

“At least come back to church with me,” her mother pleads, hands folded like the virgin Mary.

“Sadie, I’m glad you worship at home. Believe me, ever since you set up that shrine in your room, I’ve thanked God every day. I just don’t understand why you wouldn’t want to go to church. Pastor Thomason knows more than anyone I know about God. He can give you a new perspective.”

“Has he met God? Has he shook His hand? Has he stared Him in the eyes?”

“Well, not exactly. But he–”

“Then he doesn’t really know, does he? I’m sick of all this speculation and all this talk about what could be. What about right here? What about right now?”

“Sadie, please. Think about it? It’s what your father–”

Sadie’s chair screeches on the floor as she stands.

Her mother sighs. “I’m sorry, Sadie. Just… please help me understand what it is you want out of your life.”

Sadie leans over, takes the fork and pops the fluffy piece of egg into her mouth. She straightens herself out and stands there, chewing and then swallowing. “Right now the eggs are cold. And I want to go to my room and go to bed.”

When Sadie gets to her room, she slams the door behind her.

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Filed under Novel, Session XIX

Sadie’s Blog

Sometimes, at 3 or 4 in the morning, when I’m all alone, I think about drowning. At first it seems like a peaceful way to die—nothing but water all around you, dampening out the noise of the world, covering your senses like a warm blanket—but then I think of the actual dying part. I mean, think of it—you’d try to breathe and breath wouldn’t come, and then your lungs and chest would start collapsing and you’d try to breathe but only water would come in, and you’d start choking and you’d feel like your head would explode from the pain. And the water tries to come into you, take over you, and death tries to make you nothing, take you from yourself. In your last moments, you’d wish for life, a breath of precious air. And that’s when you’d lose consciousness. Your brain loses function, your body turns to ice, and you shit yourself. The water seeps inside and changes you, warps you into some swollen doll, and you sway at the bottom of the ocean like some corpulent buoy or float to the top like a long-forgotten diver with flesh like cottage cheese. The fish would probably eat at your crap-filled clothes, ‘cause fish’ll eat shit like that. Heck. They’d probably eat your cottage cheese face, too. And when all’s said and done, you’ll probably get fished out with a hook by some fisherman and maybe someone would spew chunks into the water just look at your hideous body— and the fish would probably eat that shit up too. Fish are disgusting.

Anyway, it kind of loses its appeal when you think of it that way. I’d probably never drown myself. And I know she loaded up her pockets with a bunch of rocks, but Virginia Woolf must’ve had some serious balls to take on the water like that. I wish I had that kind of strength. I’m such a coward.

Posted 2/2/08 3:58 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Mom and I fought again today. She says she’s going to take away the computer when she gets home. She thinks I’ll sleep better then. Sometimes I just hate her. And I’m not being an emotional teenager. I hate her like a knife in the eye. Sometimes I wish my dad were still alive. Maybe my mom wouldn’t be such a bitch then.

Posted 2/3/08 6:30 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I’ve started cutting myself again. Mom said she’d let me have the computer again. She doesn’t know what to do when I “act out” so she just caves. She’s so pathetic. Every night she tells me that Jesus loves me. I hate when people say that. It’s like they’re using Jesus as a crutch to feel the love they’re incapable of. I hate myself for making my mother cry but she cries too much. I don’t even believe her anymore. Well, she can cry all she wants but I wish she would leave me out of it. I always feels like there’s all this tension building up inside of me, and when I make that first cut, it all just melts away. Maybe she’s afraid someday I’ll just decide to go for the veins. God. Maybe it would be better for her if I did.

Posted 2/6/08 7:47 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

We keep gauze around the house all the time. I know how to bandage myself up and I always wear a sweatshirt or long sleeves, so it’s not a huge problem at school. I used to just let myself bleed and Mom would take me to the hospital, but we don’t have the money for all that. She works cleaning people’s houses and now she’s started going to school to be a nurse. I don’t know why she still pays for the internet. Maybe she’s afraid of what I’ll do without it. I can hear her praying for me in the next room right now. She does that every night before bed.

Posted 2/6/08 10:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

There’s only one person who makes school remotely bearable. Dizzie and I are kind of friends but not really. We don’t really hang out but she talks to me sometimes. I mean, she has her own circle of friends, which is mostly her band. Somehow, they straddle being cool and being outcasts. They kind of float around among the stoners, the nerds, the band geeks, and other assorted freaks. Sometimes we talk at lunch. She’ll start drumming tables and people’s heads and then stop at me to chat before moving down the drumline. I don’t know why she talks to me. I was suspicious before but I think she really likes to talk with me (because I have weird stuff to say?). I find myself smiling sometimes when she’s around and I have to stop myself so I don’t look like an idiot.

Posted 2/7/08 4:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: Alien She by Bikini Kill

It must be so easy having a penis. I know it’s a cliche, but boys have no idea. These are cramps that would take down a bull elephant. No lie. Mom says it runs in the family. I told her that the women in our family should all be sainted as martyrs.

Posted 2/8/08 6:57 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams. This middle-aged woman set herself on fire. She was smiling. And then she started shaking all over. She opened her mouth like she was about to scream and it was all blackness inside her mouth. Then, I heard the scream in my head after I woke up. It was the most haunting thing, like the sound a cat would make if you used her ribs to sharpen knives. But the weirdest thing is, I read an article today about Kurdish women setting themselves on fire. I don’t know if I believe that dreams are God sending us messages like my mom does, but I do think sometimes that I know things that I don’t know when I’m conscious and aware. If that makes any sense. Maybe I just know how people respond to all this pain in the world. I mean, think about it. You’re trapped. Your parents have abandoned you since you married. Your husband hates you for being ugly and barren. He beats you. Daily. Everyone in your community is blind to it. They just stare ahead with those dead, vagrant eyes that just look away from the truth. You feel tired and invisible. What can you do? How can you make yourself heard when no one will listen? How can you be redeemed when you feel like your role in life is to be discarded and forgotten? You light the kerosene stove for dinner. There’s no way out. But the stove looks so warm and inviting. Maybe there’s a way… and then you do it. Woosh. Pain. Unimaginable, hold-a-hot-frying-pan-to-your-face pain all over your body. Your hair and clothes ignite. Your skin bubbles and melts. Your eyes boil out of your skull and the fire climbs into your mouth as you scream. It feeds off of you, turns you into a shrieking bonfire. When your husband breaks down the door, he finds a smoldering corpse, like a doll made of ash. The only part that still looks human is the blackened shape of a person. You wear an eternal grin, the result of your lips melting from your face. I could never be as strong as that.

Posted 2/9/08 11:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Watching: Reign Over Me

I accidentally told Dizzie about my blog. She wanted to read it but I told her it’s private. She didn’t push the issue. She just shrugged and went to eat lunch with her friends. I feel bad. I mean, Dizzie has always been really cool to me, but there’s a limit to how much freak someone can take and I don’t want to ruin what we have. I can’t tell Dizzie. She’d end up just like the rest of them. I can’t give up what little things I have that hold my sanity together. Dizzie is all that I have to hold on to right now.

Posted 2/10/08 5:44 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I keep thinking about Dad lately. He and my mom were high school sweethearts. Probably not a good idea but they went with it. I was an accident, and they got married because of me. Another bad idea. Dad got into highway construction. Mom did, well, pretty much what she’s doing now. She didn’t get the nurse idea until after Dad died. Depression runs in my family down my mom’s side. She had postpartum pretty bad with me. Dad had to take time off of work, which was not really possible with the financial situation. He must have thought she would have killed herself if he wasn’t there.  So he sacrificed his time then and worked a second job later. My mom tries to be more and more like him every day.

It’s weird but I feel like I should remember more about my dad but it’s only some small things that stay vivid in my head while the rest kind of fades away. I remember my dad had that kind of booming laugh that came deep from the gut. He always smelled like sun and asphalt. After that man hit him while he was on the job, I remember wanting to find that man and murder him. I would dream up the most vivid scenarios of me pulling off his toenails or tying him up in barbed wire or cutting off his penis and shoving it in a knife wound in his side. They say everyone grieves in a different way. Maybe my dad wasn’t being careful. I just don’t know. They wouldn’t let me see him in the hospital. I was 13. I cried and cried and it’s been hard to cry since. There wasn’t anything noble about his death. He just died. In a stupid accident. The only one I can really truly blame in the end is God.

I didn’t mean to write so much tonight. I need to settle down and get some sleep.

Posted 2/11/08 4:32 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I talked to Diz today and told her she won. She just raised a pierced eyebrow at me. I told her I’d post my stupid blog. She had this big stupid grin on her face, looking all smug. I tried not to smile, too, but she’s like a virus sometimes. So, every post from now on is going to be posted publically. I don’t have to say everything that’s on my mind. I can start out small. You can do this, Sadie. No you can’t. Why did I have to open my big mouth?

Posted 2/11/08 5:09 PM angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

So. This is my first public post. I mean, how’s it going? This is kind of weird. I don’t know what to say. Okay. Let me start over with something familiar.

“And then a Plank in Reason, broke, / And I dropped down, and down – / And hit a World, at every plunge, / And Finished knowing – then –” -from poem #280 by Emily Dickinson

All right. Now that you know how weird I am, I guess I’ve broken the ice. So, school is pretty lame. I just read the entire time during classes. Mrs. Troutman is a total bitch, though, and she always takes my books away. Luckily I keep spares around in my bookbag and my binder pockets.

God, I sound lame. Sorry, Dizzie, if you’re reading this.

Posted 2/13/08 4:38 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – 1 comment – edit – link

Comments: np sadie lady! chillax 4 a while. eat your wheaties and get back on it k? Love that Em D. Keep her comin sadie the sadist! Mrs. T is dbag no doubt! lol catch you in school, grrl ;P

Posted 2/13/2008 7:55 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Thanks, Dizzie, for the pep talk. I’m not really fond of that nickname, though, Dizzie. I still feel weird about this. But since you requested more Dickinson, I might as well:

“I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you – Nobody – too? / Then there’s a pair of us? / Don’t tell! They’d advertise – you know” -From poem #260 by Emily Dickinson

Mom’s never around, but I get the house to myself a lot. I just like to hang out, watch movies, and surf the internet.

Posted 2/14/08 5:15 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – 1 comment – edit – link

Comments: sry, Sade. u know the Marquis is my idol! btw, did u call me a nobody?! JK. i was doin some serious teletubby giggles after reading that. Keep rollin with it, Sadie lady. ttyl!

Posted 2/14/2008 7:31 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

I just can’t do this anymore. My public messages are just sad. Why is she even reading them? And why is she talking to me at all? Today she invited me over to her table with her friends. I felt like she was expecting something out of me but I really don’t know what to say at all! This is a nightmare. I should just stop.

Posted 2/14/08 5:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I swallowed my pride and talked to Mom. She told me to pray. I told her to try again. She sat down – crumpled, collapsed, imploded – and put her face in her hand. I tried to fight this deep revulsion for myself, this emotion in the pit of my stomach like wanting to cry and throw up at the same time but with cathartic/purging release. Nothing new. But then she told me to sit down. She was smiling and crying at the same time, and she started stroking my hair. She told me how beautiful I am, and how much I’m like my father. She said that my father was a bit of a loner but he hoisted everyone’s problems on his shoulders. She said he would have walked on water for me. Yeah, right.

But then she put on her amused Mom voice “Your father is probably being a big grump up in Heaven. He needs somebody to talk to.” And then she told me to pray with her. I kneeled down by my mom’s bed and tried to pray in front of that ghastly crucifix, Jesus body wracked with pain and dying on the cross. Then I had a weird thought. If you put more weight on Jesus, he’d look a lot like my dad. Kinda weird, but I felt a little more comfortable with him on the wall. We all ended up sleeping together, wrapped up in a polar bear comforter. It was actually kind of nice not having my mom fussing over me. Tonight, I felt like a daughter instead of a mental patient for once.

Posted 2/15/08 4:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Diz, we need to talk. Rather, I need to talk. And I need you to listen. If you’re not okay with that, it’s fine. I’ll live with it. I’ve been alone for a long time, anyway, and I don’t expect you to mold yourself around my lifestyle. I don’t want you to sacrifice anything for me. Not even your time. It would hurt too much. Understand? Okay.

The truth is, I’m messed up. I think about death on a daily basis. I think about killing myself, about other people killing themselves. I hate myself. I cut myself just to see my own blood. I cut myself just to inflict pain on myself. Because I’m a bad person, because I hate my mother and she’s done nothing but good for me. And I also hate my dad for dying like he did. I can’t talk to anybody. I don’t have any friends. All I do is sit on my computer and surf around, maybe writing something of my own every once in a while. So, I’m going to bare myself to you. I’m going to set all my entries to “public” setting. Read them or don’t. But only do it if you really want to. I don’t want to hold you back.

Posted 2/16/08 4:07 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Posted 2/18/2008 7:11 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Mom was ecstatic to find out I was going to hang out with “friends” this weekend. I told her I hadn’t even met any of them except Dizzie. She kept on grinning and washing dishes. Then she started singing “Strangers in the Night”! Ugh. Sometimes my mom’s like a virus too.

Posted 2/19/08 8:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: In the Garage by Weezer

Guess I haven’t written in a while. Every writer needs a room of her own and I guess every band needs a garage. It’s not where I saw myself even a month ago, but I’m enjoying the company. I still stay up late but I don’t have as much trouble getting to sleep. Even Mom’s happy, but I’d never tell her too much about the “Bayside Sex Deviants.” She’s much happier not knowing, I’m sure. Dizzie’s bandmates are pretty cool people. I’d never really talked to them before in school. They were sort of inspired by riot grrl bands like Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, and Voodoo Queens. Dizzie says they’re also going for the “stage presence of The Clash and the sexiness of The Ramones.” No small feat. It’s kind of weird writing music. Not all the lines have to make sense. It’s kind of hard to explain, really. I suggested that Diz and I collaborate on writing a punk ballad of the Marquis de Sade. We’re using Dead Kennedys as a model to work from. I don’t want to step on their toes, but the band seems totally cool with getting some original ideas. I’ve never been complimented for having a “disturbed mind” before : )

Posted 3/11/08 4:32 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

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Sadie’s Blog

Sometimes, at 3 or 4 in the morning, when I’m all alone, I think of drowning. At first it seems like a peaceful way to die—nothing but water all around you, damping out the noise of the world, covering your senses like a blanket—but then I think of the actual dying part. I mean, think of it—you’d try to breathe and breath wouldn’t come, and then your lungs and chest would start collapsing, shrinking, and you’d try to breathe but only water would come in, and you’d start choking and all the veins would bulge in your head and it would hurt. So. Much. And the water. The water tries to come into you, take over you, and death tries to make you nothing, take you from yourself. You’d think, “No!” No. I don’t want to be water! I don’t want to stop being! And that’s when you’d lose consciousness. Your brain loses function, the neurons stop jumping, your body loses it warmth, and you shit yourself. The water seeps inside and changes you, warps you into some swollen doll, and you sway at the bottom of the ocean like some corpulent buoy or float to the top like a long-forgotten diver with flesh like cottage cheese. The fish would probably eat at your crap-filled clothes, ‘cause fish’ll eat shit like that. Heck. They’d probably eat your cottage cheese face, too. And when all’s said and done, you’ll probably get fished out with a hook by some fisherman and maybe someone would spew chunks into the water—the fish would probably eat that shit up too. Fish are disgusting. Anyway, it kind of loses its appeal when you think of it that way. I’d probably never drown myself. And I know she loaded up her pockets with a bunch of rocks, but Virginia Woolf must’ve had some serious willpower. I wish I had that kind of strength.

Posted 2/2/08 3:58 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I’m having trouble sleeping again. No big news, right? The sun does look so pretty in the morning, though. I just wish I could see it when I wake up. I’m so useless! I mean, why can’t I function like normal people? I’m going to get to bed before my mom wakes up and yells at me.

Posted 2/3/08 5:42 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Mom and I fought again today. She says she’s going to take away the computer when she gets home. She thinks I’ll sleep better then. Sometimes I just hate her. And I’m not being an emotional teenager. I hate her like a knife in the eye. Sometimes I wish my dad were still alive. Maybe my mom wouldn’t be such a bitch then.

Posted 2/3/08 6:30 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I’ve started cutting myself again. Mom said she’d let me have the computer again. She doesn’t know what to do when I “act out” so she just caves. She’s so pathetic. Every night she tells me that Jesus loves me. I hate when people say that. It’s like they’re using Jesus as a crutch to feel the love they’re incapable of. But the truth is, I couldn’t care less what she does. I’m just so tired. I hate myself for it, and I hate myself for making my mother cry. It always feels like there’s all this tension building up inside of me, and when

I make that first cut, it all just melts away. I’m afraid that I can’t stop. I’m afraid someday I’ll just decide to go for the veins. It doesn’t sound so bad, anyway.

God, I hate myself.

Posted 2/6/08 7:47 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

We keep gauze around the house all the time. I know how to bandage myself up and I always wear a sweatshirt or long sleeves, so it’s not a huge problem at school. I used to just let myself bleed and Mom would take me to the hospital, but we don’t have the money for it. She works cleaning people’s houses and has started going to school to be a nurse. I don’t know why she still pays for the internet. Maybe she’s afraid of what I’ll do without it. I can hear her praying for me in the next room. She does that every night before bed.

Posted 2/6/08 10:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

There’s only one person who makes school bearable. Dizzie and I are kind of friends but not really. We don’t really hang out. I mean, she has her own circle of friends, which is mostly her band. Somehow, they straddle being cool and being outcasts. They kind of float around among the stoners, the band geeks, and other assorted freaks. Sometimes we talk at lunch. She’ll start drumming tables and people’s heads and then stop at me to chat before moving down the drumline. I don’t know why, but I think she likes the freak in me, and she’s the only person who’s made me laugh so far. Only once. Still, that’s a good record she’s got going.

Posted 2/7/08 4:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: Alien She by Bikini Kill

Ugh. Having the ol’ period again. Whoop de doo. These are cramps that would take down a bull elephant. No lie. Mom says it runs in the family. It must be so easy having a penis. I know it’s a cliche, but boys have no idea. And then when the subject of period comes up, they flip a bitch. It’s ridiculous! I won’t silence myself for them!

Posted 2/8/08 6:57 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Sometimes I have the weirdest dreams. This middle-aged woman set herself on fire. She was smiling. And then she started shaking all over. She opened her mouth like she was about to scream and I woke up I was so scared to hear it. Then, I heard the scream in my head after I woke up. It was the most haunting thing, like the sound a cat would make if you used her ribs to sharpen knives. But the weirdest thing is, I read an article today about Kurdish women setting themselves on fire. I don’t know if I believe in “the power of dreams” like my mom does, but I do think sometimes that I, in my “moments of non-being,” know things that I don’t know when I’m conscious and aware. Maybe I just know how people respond to all this pain in the world. I mean, think about it. You’re trapped. Your parents have abandoned you since you married. Your husband hates you for being ugly and barren. He beats you. Daily. Everyone in your community is blind to it. They just stare ahead with those dead, vagrant eyes. You feel tired and invisible. What can you do? How can you make yourself heard when no one will listen? How can you be redeemed when you feel like trash, like your role in life is to be discarded and forgotten? You light the kerosene stove for dinner. There’s no way out. Maybe. Maybe I’ll light myself. The only way. There’s no way out. And then you do it. Woosh. Pain. Unimaginable, hold-a-hot-frying-pan-to-your-face pain all over your body. Your hair and clothes ignite. Your skin bubbles and melts. Your eyes boil out of your skull and the fire climbs into your mouth as you scream. It feeds off of you, turns you into a shrieking bonfire. When your husband breaks down the door, he finds a smoldering corpse, like a doll made of ashes. The only part that still looks human is the blackened shape of a person and those teeth. You wear an eternal grin, a result of your lips melting from your face. I could never be as strong as that.

Posted 2/9/08 11:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Currently Watching: Reign Over Me

I accidentally told Dizzie about my blog. She wanted to read it but I told her it’s private. She didn’t push. She went back to her friends. I feel bad. I mean, Dizzie has always been really cool to me. But there’s a limit to how much freak someone can take. All the other girls hate me. I can tell. The talk behind my back, about how I’m an emo bitch, crying out for attention. Yeah, like your low-rise jeans and insect glasses aren’t a cry for help. At least I don’t write sob poetry about my boring life over a Lindsay Lohan background. I can’t tell Dizzie. She’d line up with the rest of them. I can’t give up what little things I have that hold my sanity together. I need this blog. And I need her.

Posted 2/10/08 5:44 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I keep thinking about Dad. He and my mom were high school sweethearts. Probably not a good idea but they went with it. I was an accident, and they married because of me. Probably another bad idea, but who am I to judge? Dad went into construction. Mom did, well, pretty much what she’s doing now. She didn’t get the nurse idea until after Dad died. Depression runs in my family down my mom’s side. She had postpartum pretty bad with me. Dad had to take time off of work, which was not really possible with the financial situation. He was quite the self-sacrificer, my dad. My mom tries to be more and more like him every day. But, it’s a weird thing I remember this now. I remember him telling me a few months before he died: “My mother was into the whole feminist thing, but I never understood it. She never had any girls, so she’d always tell me over and over again at the most random times, ‘This doesn’t apply to you boys, but don’t be a martyr. If you ever have a little girl, you pass on that message.’ I always thought it was a weird thing to say, but she’d say it anyway. Constantly. Then she’d pinch my cheek and tell me to go out and have fun playing football. That was her way of saying not to worry, to just be happy I had friends and that I was a kid. I think she always wanted a girl, though.” Then, he’d shake off the old cobwebs of his memory and pat me on the leg, saying, “Go have fun and play football, or whatever.” And he’d laugh and laugh. My dad had that kind of booming laugh that came deep from the gut. The man had lungs like bellows. He always smelled like sun and asphalt… dad was doing road construction on the highway at night when a car went speeding through and hit him. Maybe he wasn’t being careful, I don’t know. They wouldn’t let me see him in the hospital. I was 11. I cried and cried and it’s been hard to cry since. There wasn’t anything noble about his death. He just died. In a stupid accident.

I didn’t mean to write so much tonight. I need to settle down and get some sleep.

Posted 2/11/08 4:32 AM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I talked to Diz today and told her I’d play ball. She just raised a pierced eyebrow at me. “You win. I’ll post my stupid blog.” She had this big stupid grin on her face, looking all smug. I tried not to smile, too, but she’s like a virus sometimes. So, every post from now on is going to be posted for everyone to read. Well, not forever. I’ll just try it out for a while. No biggie. Okay. OK. You can do this, Sadie. Here goes nothing!

Posted 2/11/08 5:09 PM angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

So. This is my first public post. I mean, how’s it going? This is kind of weird. I don’t know what to say. Okay. Let me start over with something familiar.

“And then a Plank in Reason, broke, / And I dropped down, and down – / And hit a World, at every plunge, / And Finished knowing – then –” -from poem #280 by Emily Dickinson

All right. Now that you know how weird I am, I guess I’ve broken the ice. So, school is pretty lame. I like English class, though. Obviously.

Listen to me! I can’t do this, Diz. I’m sorry.

Posted 2/13/08 4:38 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: np sadie lady! chillax 4 a while. eat your wheaties and get back on it k? Love that Em D. Keep her comin sadie the sadist! ur hardcore! jk! pretty sweet peptalk right? lol catch you in school, grrl ;P

Posted 2/13/2008 7:55 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Thanks for the pep talk, but please don’t call me Sadie the Sadist again. It’s embarrassing. Anyway, since you requested more:

“I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you – Nobody – too? / Then there’s a pair of us? / Don’t tell! They’d advertise – you know” -From poem #260 by Emily Dickinson

Mom’s never around, but I get the house to myself a lot. I just like to hang out, watch movies, and surf the internet. It’s cool having someone read my blog. Thanks, Diz.

Posted 2/14/08 5:15 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: sry, Sade. u know the Marquis is my idol! btw, did u call me a nobody?! JK. i was doin some serious teletubby giggles after reading that. Keep rollin with it, Sade. ttyl!

Posted 2/14/2008 7:31 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Why did I agree to do this? What should I write about? How much I want to kill myself? Well, can’t do that! Mom’s been hiding the damn razors again. Can’t even shave my damn legs! I’m just not strong, not like her. And I’m not brave enough to live like you. And I’m not so resolute as to die like Virginia Woolf. What should I do? Dad? What should I do? I’m sorry, Dizzie. I’m so sorry.

Posted 2/14/08 5:25 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

I swallowed my pride and talked to Mom. She told me to pray. I told her to try again. She sat down – crumpled, collapsed, imploded – and put her face in her hand. I felt this deep revulsion for myself, this emotion in the pit of my stomach like wanting to cry and throw up at the same time but with cathartic/purging release. Nothing new. But then she told me to sit down. She was smiling and crying at the same time, and she started stroking my hair. She told me how beautiful I am, and how much I look like my father. “I’m nothing like him.” She sighed. She kissed my forehead. “Your father was a bit of a loner, too. He kept hoisting everyone’s problems on his big shoulders. And whenever anyone tried to help, he’d just push them away. He loved you so much. The man would have walked on water for you.” “Yeah, right.” She put on her amused Mom voice: “Yeah, really. Now, come on. Pray with me. Your father is probably being a big grump up in Heaven. He needs somebody to talk to.” I kneeled down by my mom’s bed and tried to pray in front of that ghastly crucifix. Then I thought, if you put a lot more weight on Jesus, he’d look a lot like my dad. Kinda weird, but I felt a little more comfortable with him on the wall. We all ended up sleeping together, wrapped up in a polar bear comforter. It was nice.

Posted 2/15/08 4:23 PM by angelintheattic92 – Private – add comments – edit – link

Diz, we need to talk. Rather, I need to talk. And I need you to listen. If you’re not okay with that, it’s fine. I’ll live with it. I’ve been alone for a long time, anyway, and I don’t expect you to mold yourself around my lifestyle. I don’t want you to sacrifice anything for me. Not even your time. It would hurt too much. Understand? Okay.

The truth is, I’m messed up. I think about death on a daily basis. I think about killing myself, about other people killing themselves. I hate myself. I cut myself just to see my own blood. I cut myself just to inflict pain on myself. Because I’m a bad person, because I hate my mother and she’s done nothing but good for me. And I also hate my dad for dying like he did. I can’t talk to anybody. I don’t have any friends. All I do is sit on my computer and surf around, maybe writing something of my own every once in a while. So, I’m going to bare myself to you. I’m going to set all my entries to “public” setting. Read them or don’t. But only do it if you really want to. I don’t want to hold you back.

Posted 2/16/08 4:07 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

It’s been over a day. I’ve seen her at school, but I don’t think she’s talking to me. I probably scared her off. Talking to myself again. I’m so freaking pathetic.

Posted 2/18/08 4:49 AM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Comments: omg! sry! took me 4evr to post! i was readin all ur entries and ive bin rly busy with stuff. actually i lied. only read a few mths back. Still grrl thats sum wickedness fo rlz. i told you bout my band right? ***BAYSIDE SEX DEVIANTS*** prty cool ya? we kick hella ass but our lyrics all kinda sucK with a capital K ;P anyway, we meet on Saturdays. c u then???

Posted 2/18/2008 7:11 PM by DizzyGrrrl16

Mom was ecstatic to find out I was going to hang out with “friends” this weekend. I told her I hadn’t even met any of them except Dizzie. She kept on grinning and washing dishes. Then she started singing “Strangers in the Night”! Ugh. Sometimes my mom’s like a virus too.

Posted 2/19/08 8:28 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

Currently Listening: In the Garage by Weezer

Guess I haven’t written in a while. Every writer needs a room of her own and I guess every band needs a garage. It’s not where I saw myself even a month ago, but I’m enjoying the company. I still stay up late but I don’t have as much trouble getting to sleep. Even Mom’s happy, but I’d never tell her too much about the “Bayside Sex Deviants.” She’s much happier not knowing, I’m sure. Dizzie’s bandmates are pretty cool people. I’d never really talked to them before in school. They were sort of inspired by riot grrl bands like Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, and Voodoo Queens. Dizzie says they’re also going for the “stage presence of The Clash and the sexiness of The Ramones.” No small feat. It’s kind of weird writing music. Not all the lines have to make sense. It’s kind of hard to explain, really. I suggested that Diz and I collaborate on writing a punk ballad of the Marquis de Sade. We’re using Dead Kennedys as a model to work from. Diz is really excited about it. I’ve never been complimented for having a “disturbed mind” before. It’s a strange feeling. Kind of embarrassing, actually. But I’m happy, too. Mom thinks it was the praying, and maybe it was, but I feel saved in Dizzie’s eyes. Sometimes it’s just enough to belong.

Posted 2/25/08 4:32 PM by angelintheattic92 – Public – add comments – edit – link

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Filed under Short Story

Before-After

The night before Sadie’s father died, they ate pasta with garlic bread. She and her mother drank milk. Her father had a beer.

“Careful, Daddy. You’re starting to get a beer belly.”

He frowned around the lip of the bottle. “Hey, now. Can’t a man enjoy a beer every once in a while? Back me up here, Laura.”

“Your father works extra hours to put food on the table for us, Sadie. I think he’s entitled to a beer every once in a while.”

“Ha! I win,” he tilts back the bottle with a smug look.

“Whose side are you on, mom?”

“I’m on your side, sweetie. I’m just trying to be reasonable.”

Sadie crossed her arms. “I don’t know how you’d survive without me.”

“I’m glad I have you to keep my  heart beating strong, Sadie-bear!” He laughed with lungs like bellows. Sadie loved that laugh. She blushed and twirled her pasta around her fork.

The night after Sadie’s father died, she had spent the entire day locked up in her room. Her mom came up to feed her. She wasn’t hungry. She came up to give her water. She wasn’t thirsty either. Did she want to talk? No. She merely stared at the blinds, watching the sunlight through the slats die.

Finally, she got up and switched on her computer. In her private blog, she wrote: “We killed him. If we weren’t around, Dad wouldn’t have had to be out there working. He’d still be here.”

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Filed under Flash Fiction, Session XVII