Follow This Blog, No Wait, Steal This Blog

I am kinda a wannabe.  If I act/write/speak like my real self, I am sort of like a boring, less talkative, vapid Kelly Kapoor  character.  Even if I act like my alter ego Violet, it is like this, too though really.

Only, we know in real life how fucking smart she is.  I am sorta half smart. I have kind of a "fake smart"  or "smart, affected deal" blahblahblah.  I am a huge phony.  And I am tired; I would love to just sort of become who I am.  But I am too scared, I do not have enough money, etc.  I am no:

Read this blog.

Follow this writer.

Follow this blog.

Write comments about what I say.

Read what I say.

Really, I live with someone who is rarely in a good mood and I am not working.  And I cannot stand to live in my head another moment.  I have seen too many Office reruns.  Fucking save me.

If yer reading, fucking say something about me.   Even if it is only to tell me I have essentially zero to say to me.

I'm sexy and I know it.

Or, read this story, and tell me if you like it or if you did not and why.  BYE.

http://harpers.org/media/pdf/dfw/HarpersMagazine-1998-01-0059425.pdf

But my question remains:  David Wallace?  Is he derived from David Foster Wallace?

And my basic germ of thinking is this:  I am fucking desperate for anybody's attention, seriously.  If you knew anything about the prick-ish way my loser BF treated me, you'd fucking tell me to get the hell outta dodge.

Happy Thankxgiving

We're going to our friends' house which is right down the road.  I am pretty happy to be clear of in laws.  I ran into a casual friend the other night who lamented about the culture of Thanksgiving avec her MIL.  She went on and on.  I would not be able to deal with what she is dealing with.  I would say no, but I know now, from the tiny iota of maturity I've gleaned from my almost four decades on the earth that sometimes it is just better to deal with hit in order to keep the peace.  I am horrid at this.

I have the beginnings of a migraine, I think.  I am in a sort of denial about it, as I do not want to purchase my medication; it is so fucking expensive.

We lost power last night.  I was on my nightly walk the moment the power went out.  It was scary, but mostly so fucking gorgeous.  The trees heavy with too much snow.  The ground perfectly white.  And the air that reminded you of every sledding adventure you've ever had.  I was a bit onto the woods path that is lit up with street lamps and they went dark.  At first, I thought it was just the path and I just has bad luck with my timing, as this has happened on the path before.  It reminded me of being at a kiddie baseball game at night, when they shut the lights off, as it is finally time to go home, and you stumble with your kid(s) and your stuff, hoping you do not step on another person or yourself.

But then, I noticed it was not just the path, as there was a flicker, the lights going back on and then, reluctantly they went off for good.  I looked behind me, down into the street where the path spills.  And it was dark there, too. I scurried home, using my ipod to light the way. waving it over my head somewhat when cars drove past, worrying they'd not see me with my black hat and black jacket.   I looked like I was holding a lighter a t a cheesy, classic rock type concert.  Here is what I loved the most, well, there are two things really.  The way the star lit up the sky was intense in a way that is more organic than any recent experience I've had.  Everything seemed so real, so natural.  And then, as I approached our apt., I saw dim lights from the windows, people lighting up their rooms with tea candles and florescent flashlights.  And I heard them: Mr. Z and the old man shuffling down the epic stairway in the dark looking for the lone, lost momma in the dark.

I loved last night.  If I'd gone in the night, I think I wold have had a good last day.  We played charades in the dark and Mr. Z and I acted out scenes from The Office.  Life felt so sweet.  and I felt like I loved and was beloved.  I did miss my family though, mostly my dad.  I think I will always miss my dad.  It is something that will never go away; I do not want to let go of the hurt b/c it is all I have from him.  It is something.

Here is what I was reading last night and this morning: Confessions of a Memory Eater by Pagan Kennedy.  I'll maybe discuss it in depth later on, another day.  It is an extremely fast read and she has created a work filled with beautiful sentences, amazing imagery via analogies and metaphor.  I am impressed; however, there does seem to be something slightly amateurish about the overall work.  I cannot put my finger on what it is that makes me feel this way.  Again, I'll discuss the work in more detail later on.  I need to shower, get my migraine meds, make a salad, and get my family off to our friends' house.  The novel often refers to Thomas De Quincy's masterpiece, Confessions of an Opium Eater which I have never read, but, of course as a wannabe junky, want to.

That Digression Business got on My Nerves

Here is a blog I read often.  I like the writer.  She is straight-forward and cute.  She reminds me of someone I'd have been friends with if I were like 100 years younger and was less edgy, I mean, um, not a fucking junky disguised as a normal mother, wannabe teacher. The blog is called "Confessions of a Book Lush."  I might've talked about on here before.  Her blog compelled me to read The Bitch Posse.





Here's an example of how I simply cannot just fucking say something without going on and on in this ridiculously silly, digressive way.  I'e got this digression problem, and though I want it to not be a problem, I also struggle when I a not digressing.  As our brilliant character sys, "That digression business really got on my nerves."  There is this book called Howard's End and the book's author, E.M. Forester epigraphs (not a verb, but I think it should be...) "Only connect."  Well, English majors everywhere and Mr. Forester, don't you think it should be, "Only digress."  I think this quote to myself, often.  But about digression as a problem, a problem that gets on our nerves:

I was saying...Ahem, I mean writing, I mean trying to get the fuck on track somehow (maybe me telling ppl. that bupes are a solution is bad advertising??  I'm worried sometimes about this!) I was on the blog, Confession of a Booklush: http://booklush.com/2011/11/15/top-ten-books-that-have-been-on-my-shelf-for-the-longest-but-ive-never-read/#comments and wanted to tell the blog's author that she should read Summer, as it has been sitting on her bookshlef for some time, unread.

Here is what I say:

Hey there. Listen, Summer is a quick, easy, fun read.  I read it when I was a library director and led a book group; this was one of our books. I seriously do not think anyone disliked it.  We had a great time assigning current terminology to the older text.  We kept referring to one character (not to gove too much away) as the baby daddy.  For some reason we could not get over that being hilarious to us.  The protagonist is a librarian, so I was identifying all over the place.  And the tiny town where the novel is set is a lot like the town where I worked and used to live.  I definitely recommend this book to you.  I have never read another book of hers, but I keep meaning to.  I was going back and forth with myself about turning m blog into a book/reading blog and was counting what I read and was also trying to push myself into reading "better" books (less chick li, more classics, etc.), but it made me feel miserable, o I am reading very much like the slacker I am.  The point of this is:  I prolly will not get around to reading anything by her or any one else of any higher merit any time soon.  


To Lorrain above, I am now 38-years-old.  I have not read a SVH book in years, but am interested in reading the sequel that came out most recently.  My mother used by so irritated with me complaining I should read more classics and such.  She and my Reading teacher even offered to PAY me (with my mother's money, not the teacher's obviously) to read books of a high caliber.  I would not.  I needed to be heavily involved with Jessica, Elizabeth, boring Todd, and that awful Lila Fowler.  I think Jessica had kinda a "player" type bf, too, right?  


I have a 12-y-o boy who is not a bog novel reader.  He loves to read online statistics and sports stories, mostly about football, also baseball and hockey (and other sports, but those  are more parenthetical for him).  At times, I obsess about this and wish he'd read more fiction, thinking if he were more used to narrative form then he'd test better, and he' got SATs coming up (um, in like four years...)  But we get along the best when I really stay out of what he reads.  He has an assigned 0-30 minutes to read, nightly.  But, knowing how much I hated having my reading controlled; it felt so insulting and like my mother was trying to control my thinking even.  I would hate it if my son felt like this.  


I wonder though if having some books frowned upon and some even *forbidden* (V.C. Andrews, other "sexy" books you'd find @ the grocer,etc.) made me feel that on some level that reading was/is a subversive act.  I have a tendency to have a pull towards anything forbidden and hate to follow rules, thus, my reading always has felt a bit sinister, even if I am reading something mainstream, like Olive Kitwhatever (Pulitzer winner, recently).


I dunno.  I am like a big epitome of a blogging digression.  As I write, I think and as I think....  


I hope readers everywhere have a super Thanksgiving and that they have a lot to read.  I myself am pist @ the chick who is overdue with The Marriage Plot @ my library; bing it back already!!!!

Part of what draws me to good blog is what they look like. I am going to say some things here that might be a bit over to the top, and please understand, they have nothing to do with the aforementioned blog.  There's tumblr blog referred to dot dot dot...   It almost like inappropriate porn, really, but it mostly  illustrates the images-within-the-mind that so many ppl., girls, women, have in their minds if they've also got a weird-o daddy complex, as I do.  And for women who see themselves as much younger than they are, esp. sexually, this tumblr site nails it (no pun intended, iw.)  I am not including a link to this site, as I worry about the legality of it; some of those images are too innocent.  What the images do, the book by Jennifer Belle entitled Little Stalker also does; it encapsulates that pervy impulse we might have to be on the receiving end of a pedophile.  It is a big, huge, unembarrassed Lolita POV.  It is that weird, broken daddy issue that some of us have.  I am growing fucking tired of this issue, btw.

Back to the digression:  Am I deluded enough to think I am interesting enough for ppl. to read all of that shit?  I am practicing concision, not IBS of the fucking digits.  Shut it Violet, yer awesome and adorable, and man, sometimes you can spit out a smart sentence or conjure a lucid image, but calm down with the over wordy blathering on.

I write too much; I make sense not often enough; I make too many connection that other people fail to see b/c they do not scare my loosey-goosey brain.  I feel lost in my thinking, often.  I think that this blog in addition to other social media and ALSO the imagery that is not really organic the way it was pre1990's is a recipe for an utter ADD, disorganized disaster of any written thing, written by me.

Only digress. xo

Migraine the Day Away

I have spent the day in bed.  I tried shrooms the other day, but we got ripped off.  I am not even making that shit up.  So lame.  So, get this, fake drugs are getting past around @ Further concerts.

Today I staid in bed eating port wine cheese and baker's chocolate.  Boys are both on my nerves.  I am reading blogs and trying to wish myself back into childhood.  Ain't working.

Here is a weird thing I think about often:  I was fucking adorable until maybe four yeas ago. I wish I'd had more racy photos taken of me.  Or, I shoulda taken them my god damned self, for fuck sake.  GR! Oh well, if yer under thirty, take yer fucking clothes off and take a ton of photographs of yerself, for yerslf.  You cannot lose.  Yer gorgeous!  Unless yer a fatso loser fake druggie wannabe.  Then yer just boring and decided waste of my time... And everyone else's too.

Next show, hopefully I will know the tripping experience.  I am such an amateur, man.  At least I have the real deal with me here, and I am without a doubt, unwilling to share,  like ever.  And I am no longer talking about mushrooms.  In yer face, ugly.