Thursday, October 25, 2007
Last April when I decided to defer college for a year my friends said I was insane, but I’m not. I have no idea what I want to do with my life. What a waste of time and money to go to college if you don’t know! My mom was furious at me when I told her, although she pretended she wasn’t. She said “But, sweetheart, that’s what college is for. To discover your bliss.” That sounds great on paper but what if I don’t discover my bliss until the end of sophomore year and it has nothing to do with the classes I’ve already taken? I’d have to start over. Or what if it turns out my bliss is something that doesn’t require a college degree? Like jewelry design. Or horseback riding. Or sex. Ha!
The next morning my mother emailed me and said if I was really serious about deferring and wanted to go on living at home, I’d have to get a full time job. What did she think I was going to do, hang around the house all day?
When I told my English teacher, Ms. Rath, of my decision, she took off her hippie glasses, rubbed the purple spots on both sides of her big-pored nose and said “I’m concerned. A girl like you needs structure.” As if you can only get structure at college! That’s pretty harsh to all the kids who can’t afford to go. And what about the girls who do go but instead of studying get drunk every night and bone the whole football team? Is that structure? Ms. Rath said I should keep a journal or start a blog so that one day I will look back on my year off and learn from the experience. I told her that was a wonderful idea. I was lying to get away from her yellow teeth and vegan breath. At least that’s what I thought at the time. Guess not!
I hope I’m not a disgrace at blogging. I have always excelled at creative writing but I suck at grammar and punctuation and can barely write my own name without spell-check. (Ms. Rath thinks I’m mildly slysdexic. Ha!) Maybe this experiment will help me to discover my bliss faster. Hope so. Bye.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Most blogs are just some boring chick telling you everything you never wanted to know about her stupid life. Every single day she tells you more boring details until you just want to write to her and say “Yo, bitch, when something actually happens, let me know!” My blog will be the exact opposite. I’ll only write when I have something fascinating to report. Which is not now. Right now it’s Halloween. I’m going to put on my rotting corpse mask and get drunk.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Last night Dan called and asked if I wanted to come over and watch a movie. We both know what that means. Which is why I swore I’d never go back. But I did. In fact I ran the whole way. I have no will power. Outside his front door I put on my corpse mask and when he opened up I screamed “Boo!” He wasn’t scared at all. He just laughed.
It’s always the same with me and Dan. As soon as I get to his house, we light up cigarettes and start bitching about our love lives. Last night I complained about how when I got home really late Saturday night from a semi-rave, my boyfriend, Rory, was waiting outside my house. He flipped out and called me “a disgusting whore” even though I hadn’t done anything wrong. All I did was drink rum and root beers with a really funny skate-rat named Tobias who’s gay and doesn’t know it yet. Rory didn’t believe me. He got so jealous he yelled in my face and shook the shit out of me. When I told him to get the fuck out and never come back, he panicked. Within two minutes he was whining like a little bitch, telling me how much he loved me and begging me not to break up. He is grotesquely insecure. I have to dump him.
Then it was Dan’s turn. He complained about his French girlfriend, Martine, and how she’s been getting crazier and crazier lately. Right before her period, she calls him terrible names and throws heavy objects at his head. He says at these times she is “unfit for human consumption.” They had a major fight this week because he wants her to go on Prozac a few days before each period and she said no way, she’s not some stupid American who takes a pill every time she has an emotion.
Now that we’ve finished justifying what’s about to occur, Dan gets out the weed and I pick out a film from the three he’s Netflicked. Dan teaches cinema studies at a local college. He is absolutely brilliant and is writing his P.H.D. on Anti-Americanism in the works of Jean Luc Godard. The movies he picks for us to watch are all classics. No Hollywood junk. My relationship with Dan would be like my own personal film school if only I could get through a single movie with my pants on. Hahaha!
Last night it was so cold out that while Dan stuffed the bong, I borrowed one of his sweaters. I chose a big gray cashmere V-neck with holes in the armpits. Older men’s sweaters are the best.
. . .
We got totally stoned off two hits each then Dan hit play. The film was “The Seven Beauties” by Lena Vertmuller. (She also directed the incredible “Swept Away” which most people think is about sex but is actually about the class system in Italian society.) As usual we sat on opposite sides of the couch. Then about 15 minutes later, also as usual, I crawled over, pushed him down on his back and laid my head on his chest. I love watching movies like this, even though I can barely hear the dialogue sometimes, because of the noise his hand makes as he gently scratches my scalp. A therapist would say it’s because I get no love from my dad. I say so what? It still feels amazing.
I lose track of time on marijuana so I never know exactly how long it is before I kiss him. But I’m always the one who kisses first. If Dan made the first move he would feel way too guilty. He’s 32 and I’m 17. Can you say “jailbait”?
Once we start kissing, Dan goes insane. He pulls my shirt up, grinds me to death and in about two minutes my pants and underwear are on the floor. Is every older guy a master at oral sex or just Dan? I guess I’ll find out one day. Can’t wait!
Besides how good it feels, I also love it because I get to close my eyes and let my stoned mind wander wherever it wants to. A real journey. Last night I was back in our old house before my dad moved out. We were watching the Greenbay Packers on TV. When he screamed at the TV so did I, even though I was only six years old and didn’t understand the rules. Then I was floating on my back in a perfectly clear lake where we used to go every summer and the sunny sky had no clouds and Mr. Silaggi, the Hungarian man with the cabin next to ours, was on the shore clapping for me because it was the first time I’d ever floated with no help. He was wearing plaid shorts with black socks to cover the earthworm vains in his calves. Then it was last June and Principal Wise was handing me my diploma and whispering “We’re all so proud of you, Katherine.” He said this because as a freshman I spent three days in a mental hospital. Instead of his kind compliment making me happy good, it made me feel sorry for myself because it reminded me that my dad was too sick and selfish to be there. And then all of the sudden I was back in the present and Dan was crawling up my stomach wiping his mouth and saying “You get so close. Every time. But you always hold back.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s your loss not mine.”
Sad but true!
One wonderful thing about hooking up with an older guy is that you don’t have to reciprocate. Younger guys practically grab you by the hair and push you onto their dicks. “My turn!” Or else if they’re the sensitive type, they tell you how making love will bring you so much closer, and then they start to whine and beg like a hungry puppy. Yuck! Dan never makes demands. The only way I knew I was sexually frustrating him is that one time at the door he said “I’m going to cum before you get to the corner.” He was joking of course but I got the point. The reason I’ve been so selfish with him is that I always thought if we did anything more, we would end up having sex. I’ve never slept with a guy older than 22. Will it be different? Will I hate it? Or will I love it so much I’ll never want to have sex with a guy my own age again? These are the questions I ask.