50 word stories

Sentimental Sunday to end all Sundays

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 06 Dec 2009 05:12:00 +0000

The greater portion of the readership here at 50 word stories is accustomed to posts such as this one (where I ramble on and on about the love life). Additionally, most here know that introduction of new potential readers often warrants a post in which previous posts are linked into the very text. This post is no different.

Ms. Starchild, this post is for you. Here are some of the highlights from when it was great. In fact, at the end of this note is a sneak peak at exactly what I wrote about how I (still) feel, so to speak.

After a bit of retrospect, I have a theory that is the one I'll adopt as the way things are. You have never accepted me for who I am. I believe that you came to view me as some sort of cosmic reward for a good life. I was a golden token that appeared to you after much personal hardship and strife. It's all pretty logical: The long-haired young one who is good in bed, has guitar chops and loves you dearly. It's all reads like it's out of some trash novel.

At some point, you decided that we had outlived our natural expiration date. Thereafter, something wasn't right. Your need to put all natural things right (like our expiration date), as well as the discovery that I was, in fact, a person, and not some golden token, was the unobserved driving force behind any dissatisfaction, as well as the hypercritical lens you began to view me under. This is the truth, and no amount of postulation on the biological nature of humans, predator vs. prey hypotheses, the theories on cocks, the imbalances of hormones, or anything else, will escape this fact.

Your text earlier this week is curious. You say hi, and acknowledge that you were going to say hi even if I didn't want to. What if I say: "You've satisfied yourself on my life enough." What if I say: "I can't be your friend just like you can't be my lover," which I already said. What if I say: "My life is shambles without you. I'm getting back my self esteem slowly, but it all seems so pathetic without being able to call you and tell you I love you. I still love you and want only for you." Do you know what you did for me? You left me with a long, lasting impression of love that won't easily diminish. It could be years before I can even acknowledge you again. Hell, you ruined Zeppelin for me; you ruined Simply Red; now I really do hate Godsmack (I never did hate them before, really); you very nearly ruined 3EB for me; and oh my god you could've ruined Tool, too. You must be living your life with an air of nonchalance to be able to say "hi" whenever you damn well please. I have no comfort, or nonchalance. Everything I do has you in it. My joy, my pain, my cooking, my life — you're still here. I think of you all the time. You're still in my plans and in my dreams. I could continue to profess in this way, but it'd get us both nowhere.

I feel like you never gave us a chance. You never allowed yourself to be vunerable to me — always smarter, always more capable, always in control, always elder, always paying for things, always sensible over silly, always everything on your terms: You had to be all these things; you forced yourself to be all these things; you felt threatened when I embodied any one of these more than you. I saw that on your face; why threatened? In many ways, I feel like you failed to know me and/or you straight-up disliked me. And maybe that's why I can't engage you as a simple, platonic companion. I could swallow my pride, dignity and any self respect and engage you as only friends, but to do that would be hopelessly soul crushing for me. It would be futile and dangerous for us to give each other our hopes, advice, comfort, or anything if we must do so while disregarding the principle reason behind why we would even be in each other's lives. So, get that idea right out of your head. And while you're doing that, I'll be working on getting you right out of my head — a process I've already done so many times before. And speaking of the so many times before, you're now privy to my thoughts regarding those episodes, as well as any (hahhahadhahhahhahaha) future episodes. This may all seem pretty negative. But on the bright side, though, at least I'm giving you some way to keep up with my life (even if it is one-sided). Which is a nice segue into...

If all goes according to our current plan, this site, 50 word stories, is the closest you'll ever be to me from now on. So, if you chose, you can be "in the know" on the celebrated and mundane events of my life. Additionally, you can message or comment directly to me using the directions posted at the right of the page. Be warned, though, that if you do chose to comment or message, it may be published as this is a public site. And finally, you may be a bit angry with me that I never showed you this site until now. If that's the case, then not only do we feel exactly the same way, heartbroken, but now we're even. That's the end of the story.

To the rest of the readership — you guessed it — I'm going on one of my predictable sebaticals. Yes, I know. This episode wasn't very bright at all. In fact, it was downright gloomy. It was a horrible and depressing episode to end all episodes in the foreseeable future. And I'm sorry you had to read the messy paragraphs above. They weren't intended for you completely. I don't hold out much hope that the following episode, whenever it will start, to be much brighter. There is hope on the horizon, somewhere out there, however far away it may seem. I want you all to know that I'll be trying my best to pull myself back together, to dig myself out of this grave, and to exist mindlessly until such a time when I can awaken and look back on my history as just that: history. And, at such a time, maybe we all can enjoy a clear breath, a kind word, and the sun on our shoulders — either in one another's company, or forever divorced.

And now, after all these 'eater girls, the journlimisom girls, the wire copy girls, I have a State News girl, —NO! a Washington Post-caliber girl, —WAIT! a coveted New York Times-caliber girl, ... No, she's at league with the BBC, or the DW, ... No. If there were some kind of Post-Dispatch, or Courier, or Journal, or Times the reporting coverage area of which extended to the far ends of the universe, to the edge of this reality's expanse, beyond that myriad colored blackness where waves fall into particles frozen at the outer depths at the face of God —she's that caliber girl. And basically, no matter how good the job is, it won't be as good if I'm away from her.
[excerpt from Sentimental Sunday August 3, 2008]

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sat, 05 Dec 2009 20:43:00 +0000

Four CDs — $20. Advantage, P-bone. Seems there's this retailer that is ending its business relations at the mall here in town, which is reason enough for it to mark down merch. And yeah, I'm definitely going to get down on Mr. Dando's cover of "Beautiful." Right up my '90s-girl-band-twist alley.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 04 Dec 2009 15:00:00 +0000

After spending a little time reading through the past few years of posts here at 50 word stories, I lament not abandoning this blogspot locale. There're several years of content here, but it'd look so much better if I just did it all myself. I suppose I'll figure something out.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Thu, 03 Dec 2009 15:17:00 +0000

Today marks two years working for this company. Retrospect shows, in my view, a downward trend: Newspage squeezes, hiring/wage freeze, consolidation, newspage shrinks, attrition, furlough, pay cut, bankruptcy, corporate bonuses?!?!, more attrition... It really is about time I found something else. And if you're an employee, so should you.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Wed, 02 Dec 2009 20:30:00 +0000

I've spent the past few days with some great newspaper design. None of it was mine, nor does it belong to any colleagues here. It comes from the West. After giving it the requested critique, I sent it off. With any luck, they'll like what I said and want more.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:25:00 +0000

Ms. Starchild sent me a text today. It says "Hi." The worst part of all is that I don't believe she really knows how much I cared for her. I gave up a great job for her. I immolated myself on Jacksonville for her. I forsook many others for her.

"Hi"? She has no idea who I am.

Sentimental Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 29 Nov 2009 19:21:00 +0000

There's a little hope to be had! Yes, a little hope to get away from this awful place with all these awful things to think about, all these awful people to work with, this whole series of awful luck that I've had for the last two years or so. More details as they emerge.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 19:11:00 +0000

As it turned out, my holiday feast was anything but sparse: butternut squash and lima beans with a savory spice reduction, rosemary-roasted vegetables with a cashew curry sauce, apple and chickpea stuffing, dark chocolate and good beer. I love talking about it almost as much as I love eating it.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Wed, 25 Nov 2009 16:35:00 +0000

My holiday feast will be a little sparse this year. I put off purchasing the foodstuffs until, ... well, right about now (as I'm leaving work now). Hopefully, the drivers won't be completely drunken yet, and I'll make it to the market with relative ease. Yeah, so I'd better get going.

Sentimental Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 15:52:00 +0000

Due to a fellow blogger's description of her own inability to understand her locale, I thought it best for this Sentimental Sunday to follow suit and describe my own confusions, loves, likes, eccentricities and refusals to accept my locale. Where to start, where to start?
Foremost, the good. On certain days, when the sun, sky, air and people are perfectly balanced, I find life here quite enjoyable. The ability to witness the ocean firsthand is a gift to everyone out here — however undeserved or unappreciated it may be. My luck in living in such close proximity to various necessities (work, grocery, entertainment, laundry) is another appreciated variance here. ... And I guess it's nice to have my brother around sometimes, too ... sometimes.
But as agreeable as all that, life out here is most disagreeable for the following reasons presented in a bulleted format in no particular order:
, My publisher does not cotton to theories on the truth of global warming.
, The few friends I do have live quite a distance away. Additionally, they've burdens (children, family, remaining "young"/reckless) that I can't carry. Also, our interests don't always agree; ipso facto, they don't agree with some beliefs I uphold. What I mean is that their ignorance is often too distracting to forge beyond.
, Most of the things in my life remind me of Ms. Starchild. And really, this is the largest of any item here.
, The residents of this town are crazy. The residents of this state are, on average, disagreeable.
, The entertainment is boring. As for live music, the only venue here offers mainstream-to-hard core acts, which wouldn't be so bad, except for the incidence of a large population of ready-to-fight-and-even-sometimes-shoot-someone-in-the-parking lot Marines who frequent the establishment.
, The plan of the town is bizarre; roadways, locations, street signs and active construction/efforts to optimize don't seem to serve anyone, to me. Myriad fast food locations — sometimes the same franchise, but across the street — people the town. Local business are paradoxically pushed to the outskirts.
, Individuals whom I work alongside nearly every day are either boring, dim, insulting (for the most part unintentional), unjustifiably proud, or, at particularily disappointing moments, all of the above. The work that I produce seems neither appreciated nor valuable. And, however unrelated, the reputation of the company for which I work has dropped from reasonable to jump-ship shaky.
, But the final bullet point is more to the point, I suppose. I really can't figure out North Carolina. I mean, it's not to hard to discern the motives in everyday people: mostly centering on the simple, reasonable life that's easily approximated from any number of popular country songs. Examples include fast-food comforts, television comforts, religious comforts, and the comfort of a job to power through it all and provide for the fuel to keep it all going, afloat. But what has me perplexed is the individual's compliance, their utter refusal to change anything no matter how reasonable the alternative. Even trivial adventures like "Here, try this food," "Think about the other person driving," "I know a shortcut," fall on unacceptance.
I feel generally unaccepted; whether this is because I don't accept here or here doesn't accept me I don't know. While this setting is absolutely stunning, I don't believe it's ever been enough to hold me satisfied to be here. And it's not as if I have a huge problem with any of the items above; my problem is with the lack of alternative.
[And here's the part where I refer to the fellow blogger's post so as to find some conclusion to this negative rambling]
I've never considered myself a flower of any sort. While living in CoMo, I did identify with a certain tree growing outside my E-campus apartment. And even as I make plans to lay down roots elsewhere — anywhere, really — my thoughts drift to that tree still probably stuck in a place it should not be. ... Rather, best not be. Will I find another railroad tie? With the next tie be a better tie? Or something completely different? Fertile soil, maybe? Is that too much to ask, if only at this point in my life?
No. It's not. Everyone, never settle for less than you deserve. I will rise and leave. It's a matter of time. If the next place is as undesirable, I'll leave again. ... Holy shit! Maybe I do have something in common with these country-song-lived people. And I know that this will please my fellow blogger, if she's indeed reading. So, even though my life is like a song sometimes, I'll forever venture to be unpredictable, hit those nonharmonics, and fuck this state up for as long as I'm here. Hell, it's the only fun to be had.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sat, 21 Nov 2009 21:31:00 +0000

My dip into literary masochism continues. Having wrapped a tour of destruction and wrought hope, I'm planning to dig into something regarding the detail, cold, hard facts of life. Additionally, I'm planning a musical masochism, in which complex and heart-rending songs are played. I've quite a collection of originals, anyway.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 19:47:00 +0000

The lock with which I secure my bike takes a key. It never wants to close. Last night, having pedaled 20 minutes to a bar, I struggled with it. 'Twas then I realized I'd forgotten the key, and money. Then — then only — I was thankful that it was so stubborn.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 17:34:00 +0000

At the B&K today, I sat next to someone who really stinks. Like, B.O. + diet of bottom-feeding crustaceans and the fattiest of porks + overactive sweat gland + no wife/girlfriend/prospects. He's gone now, but his stink is just lingering. How does anyone get to smelling that badly? How do they not know?

Sentimental Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 15 Nov 2009 15:45:00 +0000

The one thing I'd like to talk about is a person that I saw Friday night.

My duties wrapped up at an unprecedented 7:30 p.m. on that particular night. Feeling the loss of equilibrium that comes with having nothing to do, I stopped by the grocery store and picked up dinner. By the time I'd finished cooking and eating dinner it was 9 p.m. I was still bored. So, I decided to give this town another try* and grab a beer outdoors.

At one particular place, Snug Harbor it's called (it's not a gay bar, though I think it sounds like it would be), some acquaintances remembered me from the last time I'd patronized the establishment.

"Just grab you a beer and sit on down!" said the group of four. And I followed their suggestion.

So we were talking a bit, singing along with the kareokeing. And that's when I saw her (or should I say him). A man in full-on drag sat confident, poised, dignified and obvious at the bar among all sorts of hope-crushed regulars, young&crazy marines, young&crazy marine wives and regular local kids. It didn't seem like she knew anyone; she sat alone. She exchanged friendly and happy faces with the other patrons. She made social talk, but didn't cause a "scene" of any kind. Her manly muscles bulged from her fuscia cocktail dress. Her five o'clock shadow was quite noticeable from underneath her rouge. I'm not sure if she was wearing a long, brunette wig or what sort of drink she'd ordered. From her mere presence, I was taken aback for this reason:

She was comfortable. Since I stepped foot in this town, I've felt uncomfortable. I've felt like I was the outcast. I was the weirdo. I was the rejected party unable to fit in. Granted, these feelings are somewhat psychosomatic; I know that I project these feelings of inadequacy with background. Though, as long as I've been here these feelings were merited through the fact that I've seen no one weirder than me. Well, that's no longer true.

So what now? I guess a good bit of business-as-usual will commence. Though I will take solace in the fact that (should've figured this long ago) I'm not the only person with bad feelings toward this town.

Everyone! In the words of the owner of the laundromat at which I now currently sit typing, "Enjoy this beautiful day!"

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 19:57:00 +0000

Angelina Bro-lie and I will head to Will-ville before long for the sole purpose of collecting items to create: pies, trail mix bars, holiday feast. We'll probably grab some expensive beers at an expensive bar, too. ... Something to look forward to. But we won't linger; that's Ms. Starchild's turf now.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 17:20:00 +0000

I'll be making another try to leave this awful town. This time around, I'm aiming pretty high. Please, everyone, if you're reading now, envision me having a beautiful life in this locale. Without getting my hopes up too much, I'm doing the same. ... all I hope for is a callback.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 13 Nov 2009 00:16:00 +0000

Here's a little ditty I dug up from the past. You could say the same thing about how I feel today, except that I'd probably be wracked with guilt about the entire thing. I'd probably not acknowledge her. ... I hate it all. I have to escape as soon as possible.

The Wednesday Headache

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Thu, 12 Nov 2009 23:17:00 +0000

In a dream last night, Jim Morrison and I met with a smile, strong handshake. He offered to record a song as I played, which was CCR's "Bad Moon." Later, he asked "Wind-up girl?", asking whether I knew the song. "No." "Hmm," he said, "Good song title, ... for future use."

Co-worker Mr. Sports-Junior killed a mouse earlier in the week. Thereafter, he relieved himself of his responsibility to dispose of the body, yet will proudly accept "Thank You!"s for it's demise. As I cleaned his mess, I worried about his upbringing — one that'd allow decomposing animals indoors to be OK.

A friend to Ms. Starchild e-mailed me today asking whether I'd be interested in buying her auto. I replied with a no thank you, which included a detail about my current transportation. Point: I'm so obsessed with Ms. Starchild that I wonder about whether she knows about my transportation now.

I've revived The Wednesday Headache today, on Thursday, because I've a headache. Breathing in all that death from the dead mouse probably did it; either that, or the current state of my life (ironic conclusion). As your life unfolds, keep a sad and lonely little soul in your thoughts (mine).

Sentimental Sunday [cup half full]

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 17:56:00 +0000

While riding my bike last night, I put on both my gloves without stopping or slowing down.

Sentimental Sunday [cup half empty]

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 08 Nov 2009 17:50:00 +0000

Last night, my friend Mr. Slapphappy Chef canceled our plans for the evening. Seems that the brake lights on his car had failed sometime during the week, and would no doubt generate attention from law enforcement officials during nighttime hours in transit.

I'd planned to try my luck at raising self esteem in a more hospitable locale, namely S-boro, which's about 30 minutes away. Though, without transportation, and with a strong desire to leave the inside of my apartment (and namely my brother's company) that particular last night, I tried to indulge in this city. Last night's attempt was as fruitless as all those before it. It was more expensive than it should've been, and my self esteem was given another warranted demerit.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 19:28:00 +0000

The new girl today, whom we are to train, has not arrived yet. She's 40 minutes late as of now. Looks like we've got another great hire! In other news, I've discovered these banana chips at the Oriental market here. They're acceptable. I mean, I wouldn't throw them away, anyhow.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 23:23:00 +0000

I dreamt of Ms. 2012 last night. We were sitting in some ill-lit room. She told me that people live as an ever-expanding line, the point of which is an ongoing, burning spark. Her face was light, but severe. I yelled, "I miss [Ms. Starchild];" I woke up bawling.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 21:34:00 +0000

My bike chain popped off twice today. It's becoming a thing, and by thing I mean nuisance. Maybe it's just this nuisance, but I found that it takes me much longer to get places than it did when I first got the bike. ... Maybe the novelty has finally wore off.

Sentimental Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 15:29:00 +0000

Mr. Kravitz and I had a conversation last night regarding not much in particular. He was on his way back from glamourous Virginia having wrapped the day's work. I was playing guitar. The usual topics came up: lovelife, futures, mutual friends. At one point, I asked him a question; the topic was something I've been wrestling with.
"How do you deal with people that benefit from your work?"
"How do you mean?"
"I mean, how do you deal, or cope, with people that exist on your ability?"
And at first, he didn't follow what I mean. So I said:
"Like, say, my peers, and even more than them, editors above me, senior editors, they are the ones that benefit from my hard work. Even people in real life. Any other burdens I take on from my friends I take on knowingly and willingly.
"But I'm talking about people that would, you know, stand on your shoulders? You've had ability for much longer than I. How have you dealt with it?"
He pretty much said that it's our place to deal with this, because of our respective junior positions in our respective lives. And, that he'd gotten used to it.
He's a man of considerable talent and ability, just a stellar writer when applied properly. In my opinion, he is the most promising one of my group that came up from the jsoudmiosiiomos school.
Yet, he's as human as I.
Maybe we can — someday — find a way to make our work our own. ... Anyway—
I've finished up my good little ditty on capitalism, value, ability and love, which is probably the lion's share of the reason behind my current analysis on my part of the weight of the world I carry. The book was decent, yet lacked realism (which is my ironic analysis). My guess is that the author had never dealt with children much, nor had she much access to a true musician. Nevertheless, if you're feeling mascochistic, try it.
There're a few items on deck for the next few weeks, considering I live that long, which is probable yet not guaranteed.
As you lay yourself to sleep, think of a time when you won't have to suffer to create, when you won't have to operate under the whip as a beast of burden, when you can lift your sails and shove off with nothing but the desire to tame the waves.

noreply@blogger.com (The Administrator) — Sat, 31 Oct 2009 15:13:00 +0000

In a dream, Ms. Starchild and I were back together, traveling somewhere. She was speaking with another passenger; I saw loopy notes of happiness in her notebook. I looked at some small canvases we'd painted: Jesus on a surfboard, of us in an abstract setting; I'd painted over the rest.