Je pense.....

Quand j'avais 13 ans, je savias que j'etais en amore avec l'idee de vivre a Paris.

Mais maintenant, je veux etre dans Chicago.

Quand j'ai 26, je veux etre la.

I know it's annoying that I write multiple posts at a time, but I don't like clumping them together.

Hippie is pretty great. He waited for me after class today, but I had to leave early. Too bad he's like a real hippie and smokes the weed.

Missionary and I are going out Friday.. Woo!!

I leave in 2 weeks and 2 days...

I miss the Bear.. 

It's just being with someone so long that you're uncomfortable without them...

Poems from Kobayashi Issa

 New Year's morning - 

everything is in blossom!

I feel about average.

------

For you fleas too

the nights must be long,

they must be lonely.

Don't kill that fly!

Look - it's wringing its hands,

wringing its feet.

------

In this world

we walk on the roof of hell,

gazing at flowers.

Random poem from class

Ballad of Oranges and Grapes by Muriel Rukeyser

After you finish your work
after you do your day
after you've read your reading
after you've written your say —
you go down the street to the hot dog stand,
one block down and across the way.
On a blistering afternoon in East Harlem in the twentieth century.

Most of the windows are boarded up,
the rats run out of a sack —
sticking out of the crummy garbage
one shiny long Cadillac;
at the glass door of the drug-addiction center,
a man who'd like to break your back.
But here's a brown woman with a little girl dressed in rose and pink, too.

Frankfurters, frankfurters sizzle on the steel
where the hot-dog-man leans —
nothing else on the counter
but the usual two machines,
the grape one, empty, and the orange one, empty,
I face him in between.
A black boy comes along, looks at the hot dogs, goes on walking.

I watch the man as he stands and pours
in the familiar shape
bright purple in the one marked ORANGE
orange in the one marked GRAPE,
the grape drink in the machine marked ORANGE
and orange drink in the GRAPE.
Just the one word large and clear, unmistakable, one each machine.

I ask him: How can we go on reading
and make sense out of what we read? —
How can they write and believe what they're writing,
the young ones across the street,
while you go on pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE —?
(How are we going to believe what we read and what we write and we hear and we say and we do?)

He looks at the two machines and he smiles
and he shrugs and smiles and pours again.
It could be violence and nonviolence
it could be black and white      women and men
it could be war and peace or any
binary system, love and hate, enemy, friend.
Yes and no, be and not-be, what we do and what we don't do.

On a corner in East Harlem
garbage, reading, a deep smile, rape,
forgetfulness, a hot street of murder,
misery, withered hope,
a man keeps pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE,
pouring orange into GRAPE and grape into ORANGE forever.

I'll Haiku You!!

I've come to hate one of my teachers more than I thought I could.

After I gave a lesson plan that was really supposed to be on my own teaching methods she lectured me, the girl I did the lesson with, and the people who did one after us on not using Judith Michaels (some writer) in our writing.. 

Then praised the lesson on Haiku and asked why it's so important. I figure it's because the Japanese probably teach sonnets, so we should teach Haikus.

So after being pissed off, I had a Haiku for her...

I do it myself

No need for Michaels' help

I'll do it alone

Also she constantly says "what are we seeing her.. what is happening" 

My instant thought is "your mom"

Soon

Before I leave to London in 45 days, I am going to do stand up comedy at Wise Guys on the open mic night. 

I'm nervous and I'm not sure exactly which day I'll be doing it, but I am for sure.

I want to be rich and I want to be famous

Did you ever have the night where you don't know what the fuck you're doing except that what you're doing is something completely wrong? Oh yes those nights are now my reality. As a drunk little girl talked to her ex and he lied about something we both knew was a bad idea because he's a lazy ass. But the result was much needed release for the both of us. The morning texts were sorries and sheeshes, but understanding that whatever the fuck. Hilarity came about in my life at that moment when I realized how ridiculous my actions were and how ridiculous his were as well. The hilarity was not construed at the beginning, but the moment I heard the words I will not utter, it transpired. 

While talking to some people and my mind fully clear, I began discussing how I've known little kids that I've wanted to shove and push down on the ground. Let me tell you, later I realized being pushed on the ground hurts your ass. But in my defense, those little kids deserve being pushed on the ground by someone bigger than them. I feel they need to see that it's not fair when they pick on smaller kids because it's rude. Also when they are being little douche bags and treating adults like they're nobody, I feel like if I pushed them down, they really deserve it and it's not my fault that they are turds. 

I would trade a BLT minus tomato for Molly right now. 

I got a cantaloupe the other day and assumed my mom would eventually cut it for me. Apparently she would've had I just asked her. I feel that if I had her cut it for me, it'd make her feel good about herself. She would get a nice pat on the back from me and a hug and a thank you. I know moms like that kind of thing.