Ok I've Got It

Song of the day:: Muse - New Born
Quote of the day:: "Why does pomegranate sound sexy?"

Another day of wine and roses.

That being another day of Peppermint Green Tea Boba and microwave Mini Pizzas. Im sure this is what they call "funemployment." Atleast it was, the first month. This officially makes it day 102. I don't yet know how I feel about that. I don't have the will to follow politics, I don't have the cashflow to follow fashion, and I don't have the motivation for school. In short:: I need a job. I keep getting that same question on interviews::

"What are you doing right now?"

"Hangin out..."

People keep telling me that I should tell my "possible employers" that Ive been focusing on my writing. One hundred and two days and the closest things I get are quips and querps of possible things that I could quite possibly mold into something publishable.

For instance::

"My twin sister slit her wrists the day before our thirteenth birthday. I stitched her up with fishing line. I guess you could say that was the day I started making other peoples problems my own.

I found her sitting on our porch swing drinking from the remains of a yoohoo bottle. Eyes calm and collected. Auburn hair frazzled by the summer stench of Los Angeles. Her fingertips were glazed with blood that was turning black from the heat of the Santa Annas that drahgged a blanket of hot across Southern California that summer. She said she tripped; her Chuck Taylor laces the color of newspaper that hung lopsided from her shoes were caked with blotches of blood, those same laces that were tied only on major holidays till we were twenty two.

She said she tripped. How many times had we all stumbled up those stairs? Her hands hit the warped flakey painted wood first, leaving hot scrapes across her palms, followed by her knees on the steps leaving dirt skids on her jeans, the chocolate milk bottle was sent kidding across the porch hitting a potted plant that sent a crack through the neck of the bottle.

Our mother used to press cold milk bottles against our bumps and bruises when we were younger children. This is where the bottle shattered between her palms as she pressed her hands against the cool glass.

My stomach lurched. It wasnt the blood that got me, it was the smell. The hot metal smell that made you feel like you were sucking on a mouthful of lose change. I could hear children playing in the backyard next door. The clank of Tonka Trucks, the kitter of jacks, and the subtle swish of hoola hoops.

She turned and looked at me.

"I tripped." She said.

For a second I thought I was watching myself bleeding there on the porch swing.

"Okay." I said.

I swallowed hard, turned and walked into the house. I walked calmly through the house, out the back door to the garage. It smelled of wood rot and decomposing old clothes. Like the dressing room of a thrift store. I knelt down and pulled our mothers sewing kit and our fathers tackle box, and for a second I could have laughed. For the first time our parents hobbies, that equally annoyed the eachother, were actually something that could share a common ground. Though I knew they wouldnt find the nervous humor in it that I did. I grabbed a slim needle and a length of fishing line. I felt my shirt stick to me as I stood and turned to the garage door. The sweat winding its way down the part between my braided pigtails. The winds kicked up as I closed the garage door, sparking the animal urge inside me to bolt. The last thing I needed to do was alert anyone.

I walked back through the house, the smell of dinner being cooked by our mother wafting through the livingroom, the sizzle of the black cast iron pan as she poured in some kind of sauce. I opened the closet door looking for anything to clean up the blood. Had I taken a towel from the linen closet we would both be caught for sure. Somehow mothers have an odd catalogue of things like that. I found an old baby blanket, some pinesol, and a book of matches. I walked back outside to find the porch swing empty. Panic dropped in my stomach like hot rocks.

I followed the trail of blood and yoohoo she left to a crawl space under the porch where we used to hide as children. I poured the pinesol onto the bloodied porch swing leaving everything in a pink flakey wash. The baby blanket didnt help, the pinesol seemed to disolve its fibers leaving everything covered in a purple pine scented fuzz, it would have to do."

I don't know where this one came from. For one I don't have a twin sister, nor was I raised in a house with a porchswing.

I think I should have had a twin though, it would have been nice.