Friday, April 22, 2011

Point of No Return

I found her outside a coffeeshop, our coffeeshop, the one where we met, feet propped up on a chair, dark circles looming under her eyes, big like quarters, cigarette in hand.

I pulled the chair out from under her feet, taking back what should have been mine. “I thought you didn’t smoke, Serena.”

As I spoke her name, I realized how fitting it was, she had no idea. Serena. Like siren. Men heard their call, went mad with desire, dashed their ships on the rocks. All they brought was destruction.

“I don’t,” she said, her gaze like the cigarette smoke she blew out, going all around me, but never right at me.

“Obviously,” I replied, shaking my head at her contradiction. It was at her very core, she was contrary by nature. Saying she doesn’t smoke while smoking. Yelling at drivers who cut her off, then merging without looking. Saying she loved me, then disappearing for days at a time. “Where have you been?”

She glared at me, eyes full of fire, the only part of her face betraying her emotion. “Who are you, my mother?”

“No, I’m your boyfriend, in case you’ve forgotten.” Her voice had been like poison, but so was mine. She should know how it felt.

“Boyfriend,” she muttered, low and cruel before taking a drag on her cigarette. “Aren’t we a little old for labels like ‘boyfriend’ and ‘girlfriend?’”

It hurt me, right to the core, but I didn’t let her see. I remembered a time when her eyes lit up when she introduced me. “This is my boyfriend.” There was a time we belonged to each other, once. Now she belonged to no one, not even herself. But I. . . I was still hers.

I wondered what kept me there, why I stayed. I should have left ages ago, I knew that. I was fed up; her coldness, her absence, the way she could destroy me with a single look. But then I remembered her eyes full of light and warmth, the way she cried at sad movies, her hand on my shoulder when my father died.

She had been gone longer this time. Five days, but I hadn’t worried as much as I should have. I stared openly, trying to figure out where she’d been, waiting to see if she’d own up to anything. But she was a wall, impenetrable.

Then I saw it, the red, blotchy bruise on her neck, and I knew where she’d been. My heart turned to stone, cold, dead, just like hers was. I reached across the table and pulled out one of her cigarettes. I saw her face as I lit it, took a puff, and I smiled inside.

“I thought you didn’t smoke, Jude,” she told me.

“I don’t,” I said, my gaze like the cigarette smoke I blew out.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011


I worked a full day at my other job today.

(In my head, the word "other" is full of disdain.
Like the phrase "the other woman.")

My other job.
(The other woman.)
In the box office of a theatre here in town.
But today I was in the call center, taking reservations.
In a room about the size of my bedroom.
For eight hours.

WAY not as fun as Starbucks.
Just saying.

In other news,

Shameless plug:
Read this week's Why Wednesday post:
When Good Writers Go Bad!

When Good Writers Go Bad

Think of a book.
Any book.
Maybe it's your favorite book.
Think of the characters
the plot
the ending.
It's perfect, isn't it?

But now imagine the exact same book

with a different ending.

A BAD ending.

Doesn't it just make you want to EXPLODE?!

This week's Why Wednesday is about books with bad endings. One of my pet peeves is when a book I'm reading has a bad ending. The rest of the plot works out just fine, so do the characters, etc. But the ending SUCKS. When this happens, I have a tendency to throw the book on the floor in frustration.

These are all books I've read lately that have left me wondering "Why?"



Jodi Piccoult's Handle with Care, Gregory Maguire's Mirror Mirror and another book of his, Lost.

The ending for Handle with Care was significantly more frustrating than the others, for reasons I won't reveal, in case you want to read it. The plot, the characters and their relationships were extremely compelling. I was emotionally invested in this book. That's why the horrible ending was all the more devastating. I threw this book on the ground when I finished.

Mirror Mirror and Lost however, are a different story. The books themselves were just okay. They were books to pass the time. And then on top if it, both of the books sort of have "non endings." The stories just kind of fade into oblivion. You don't even care what happens afterward. And worse? You don't even care that it was a bad ending. It was so bad, you don't even care.

And on a different note....

I had to do it. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

(I'm going to talk in specifics about the ending. If you haven't read it yet or seen the movies, you've been living under a rock.)

Cedric Diggory.
He's handsome

And J.K. Rowling kills him off.
He dies.
He dies?

While we're on the subject of Harry Potter let me just say....

Sirius Black

(As a side note, let me clarify that I LOVE the Harry Potter series.
While the things I listed above definitely made me say "Why?" at the time,
I think the overall finished product was excellent.)

But that's beside the point. Kind of.

My point IS...

If you're going to write a book....


Or else people will throw your books on the floor.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Identity Crisis

I would consider myself pretty self-aware.
I'm almost always able to analyze my emotions
my actions
and the reasons behind them.
Anyone who knew me as a kid
(or even three or so years ago)
would be proud of me for such an accomplishment.
I'm proud of me.

But I think I've lost myself.
I feel like I've been in a chronic state of confusion
when it comes to myself.

I haven't felt like myself since before I started working at Starbucks.

Don't get me wrong,
I love working there.
It's a ton of fun
and my coworkers are awesome.

But I've been trying so hard to be nice,
to curb my attitude,
that I feel like I'm stifling myself.

I feel like I'm trying to put on a jacket that's too tight,
that doesn't quite fit.

But today has been good.
I straightened my hair.
I put on a pretty shirt.
I'm at Starbucks
(On my day off. Ha.)
listening to my favorite music.
And I feel like me again.

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Things I've been trying not to say...

Those of you who know me well know that I wear my heart right on my sleeve. Not intentionally, of course.

But lately, I've been finding myself attempting to wall up my emotions more than ever. I honestly have no idea if I've been succeeding or not. Probably not.

But it's been a weary job.

And so I'm saying it all. Here. Now.

I'm finally being honest. Here we go.

At work, I try to be the best part of myself.


To my credit, I
am those things.
But not all the time.

I do it because I want people to like me.

And I'm failing at this goal of being the best part of myself,
all the time.

I snapped at a coworker today.

In truth?

I'm also impulsive. Blunt. Emotional. High-maintenance.

But for some reason, I'm not okay being any of those things.

Not at work.

I try not to think about how unhappy I am.

There I said it.

I'm unhappy.

But somehow, it doesn't really feel better.

I'm lonely.

And kind of sad.

(Mostly lonely.)

(And not just because I'm having an emotional sort of week.)

And disappointed with my life.

(Before you offer, I'm not looking for advice. Not today.)

Don't get me wrong.
I certainly have good days.

Which I'm incredibly thankful for,

more than I could put into words.

But from a big picture standpoint?

I'm unhappy.

I miss my friends.
I miss my family.
I miss the part of my life when I had a goal to shoot for.
Now I feel like the basket is gone.
I feel lost.

So now what happens? Now that I've said all the things I've been avoiding? Where do I go from here? I wish you would tell me, because I don't know.

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Why Wednesday

For my first Why Wednesday post, I was honestly a little stumped.

"What?" you say, "Leah can't find something to complain about? The world must be ending!"

Don't get me wrong. I can always find something to complain about. But I thought it had to be something I could easily tear to shreds with words, something about which I could write an absolutely scathing review. But something which, at the same time just leaves you searching for an explanation.

So I called my best friend and go-to blogger, Emily, who suggested things like rising gas prices or Justin Bieber. But then she suggested the thing everyone is ripping into lately. The thing that's just so bad, you can't help but tear it apart:

That's right. The god-awful "Friday" by Rebecca Black.

The first time I watched it, I didn't even make it all the way through. If I'd had a thought process upon first watching, (Which I didn't, by the way.) it would have been something like, "What in the hell is this that I'm watching?"

But instead, I was just speechless.

I'm tempted to list all the ways this song is the worst song in the history of recorded music, (You think I'm exaggerating.) so that's exactly what I'm going to do. (Since it is, after all, what I do best.)

The basis for this song's epic failure is the songwriting itself, not merely Rebecca's annoying nasally little voice. (But that's beside the point.) Examples:

  • The fact that the song writer makes every day things sound like crucial life choices. Like how she has to have her cereal. (Do we really care? No.) Like how the choice of where to sit in a car is akin to a major life choice like where to go to college.
  • Poor grammar! "We so excited." Um. What? Who talks like that? Or even sings like that? I can't think of anyone, except for the piss-poor excuse for a songwriter who came up with these stupid lyrics. Go back to 4th grade, when you were supposed to learn how to speak and write correctly.
  • "Yesterday was Thursday. Today it is Friday." Um. DUH. Logically, if yesterday was Thursday, then today will be Friday. You don't need to tell me that, since I'm pretty sure that's something we learn in preschool.
  • The rapper. Ha.
And then there's Rebecca Black's singing, which pretty much speaks for itself, and needs no further explanation.

But then there's my favorite part. The video itself.

The fact that there's a bunch of 13-year-olds driving a convertible, without an adult in the car.
And how they're sitting on the back of the convertible driving down the highway.
(A: unsafe. B: you would be pulled over BECAUSE IT'S UNSAFE.)
And how little 13-year-olds don't party. They have slumber parties with their friends, and braid each others hair, and gossip about what cute boys they like.

So all of this begs the question, "Why?"




In truth?


So in conclusion, I leave you with THIS version of "Friday," a version vastly more entertaining one. Enjoy:

(I pulled both of these videos from YouTube. In case you're wondering.)

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

I do all my best thinking late at night.

It's true.

Not long after my last post, I had a stroke of brilliance.

I thought of all of my favorite posts I've written.

And then I realized that most of them are rants about certain aspects of pop culture or life in general.

And then I remembered how excellent I am at complaining.
(Come on, you know it's true. It's a particular specialty of mine.)

Which is why, in an attempt to get myself blogging more, I've decided that I'm going to start a regular series, entitled, "Why Wednesday."

"What is 'Why Wednesday'?" you ask.

On Why Wednesday, I choose a topic. Any topic which leaves you so confused that the only logical answer is "Why?"

Topics such as:

Adventures in Customer Service: The Wicked Witch of the West
The absurdity of Lady Gaga: Ok, HERE'S the deal...
Unnecessary vehicles: I REALLY dislike SUVs.
Talk show host wars: Lame, NBC. Lame.
Unexpected adventures: "Grand" adventure does not equal "Fun" adventure

All of these things leave me asking "Why?"


Why is this necessary?

All this ridiculousness?

I just don't understand.

So, coming this Wednesday:

Why Wednesday!

Monday, April 4, 2011


That's what this is. What I am.

A blogfail.

I've been finding myself utterly without interesting things to say.

My friend Emily, it seems always has something interesting to say.
(I had to give a shoutout. She's my favorite person in the world!)

Nothing has been happening to me.

That's not exactly true.

Last Saturday night, two coworkers came over after work,
and we had a guacamole party,
and watched Winter Passing.
(It's a really great movie. You should watch it.)
(We also woke my roommate up, despite our attempts to be quiet as churchmice.)
(I really do feel badly about it.)
That's beside the point. The point IS
it was a good time.

Actually, that's beside the point, too.

REALLY, the point is,

I'm starting to think I'm just an uninteresting person.

And I suppose I'm fishing for compliments,

needing reassurance from people who care,

that somebody gives a damn.


My bathroom is embarrassingly dirty.

My pantry contains peanut butter, nutella, bread, ramen, pasta, chips, and oreos.
(Fridge contents? Captain Morgan, a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider,
cheese I probably need to throw out, strawberry jam, grape jelly, barbecue sauce.)

I consider myself a terrible roommate.

I hate it when a book I'm really into has a bad ending.
It's a pet peeve of mine. I tend to throw the book on the floor.
(It's kind of an uncontrollable urge.)

I hate putting away laundry, but love clean clothes.

I miss my mother.

I hope someday to have a house filled, floor to ceiling with books.

I sometimes get angry at Eve for eating from that stupid tree.

I love working at Starbucks.

I sometimes experience all of my emotions at one time.
(How, you ask? I'm a girl. That's how.)

For all my confidence and pretending that I don't care,
I really just want people to like me.