Fifteen Pounds of Fuck-Puppy in a Ten-Pound Bag (tableau_vivant) wrote,
Fifteen Pounds of Fuck-Puppy in a Ten-Pound Bag

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Feed Me.

It's a rainy Saturday afternoon. Your hair is bothering you, so you decide to cut it.

You put on your Cream and your Dead Kennedys and your Pixies and you get to work on your bangs, which are more than halfway down your face. Not exactly bangs anymore. You get to work.

Half an hour later, you look a little bit like Hayley Mills. In Pollyanna.

The upside is that if you do choose to go out for Halloween, you will make a passable Barbarella. The bad news is Hayley Mills for Christ's sake.

You are not terribly alarmed because it will a) adjust to the shock and move in a more sophisticated direction in your sleep, b) grow out again, c) both.

The only alarming thing is that it is not 1969 nor is it 1979 nor is it 1987. And you are not sixteen. It is 2004, you are twenty and a half, you should know better than to cut your own hair, and it's time to put your Interpol back on.

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On a related note: weren't there pictures of a half-naked me floating about some time ago? Do those still exist? Or have they been snapped up in a geekish, Sarah Lawrence lust for skinnyass whiteboys?

There should be more dork bacchanals. Really.
My question to you is where the hell have you been all year so I could have told you?

The pictures still exist. The reception they got was good, and you have no stalkers. You were actually put next to some pictures of me in a mini-retrospective.

Can I ask what you've been up to lately, or will the government send somebody after me?
Four months in London, with occasional meanders thru couches in fjord-cities and Finnish flats. A week teaching English in an all-expenses paid four-star Spanish villa in the shadows of Sierra de Gredos, where emus ran free and Texan former CIA spooks dressed in drag. A jig or two in Germany. Living for two months in closets in Polish drug-capitals, making notches in the wall with a switchblade I bought outside of a salt mine.

I return. Internship in marine biology, job in music promotion, study in everything, ever.

I've been about. You could have just torn a tab off the 'Not Gay, Not Crazy, Not Taken, Not Kidding' flyers I have posted outside of the Strand and Toys in Babeland.

No stalkers? Damn. Don't I feel like the underachiever.

Anyway. How goes?
Wow. Jeez. Um. I've been to California?

I didn't see your flyers because I haven't been down that way in a while. But I'm sure that someone I know probably has one. Maybe even more than one person.

But I'm all right. Lots of writing classes, two screenplays in the works. I may go to Israel in the summer and Prague in the fall. I've been propositioned to go to London and Beirut this winter, but I'm not sure that either of those will happen, sadly. Hopefully I'll be able to find some kind of internship or job or something in a film-related industry for next year. I'm dating a very nice boy who was actually in your Urban Anthropology class and remembered you, oddly enough. Since you last saw me I look completely different, and I will probably look completely different again soon.

Break is coming. We should do something.
Boy from Urban Anthropology? A pity his name isn't Jack. Then I would have thrown a stuffed monkey at him, once.

I once heard that we should change our names every day. Failing that, our appearance will suffice. Godspeed.

Which break? Those weekend things? Because I'll be in Chicago for Thanksgiving, and giving mom hot stone massages during winter to prevent any psychotic breaks during dad's ensuing transsexualism.

Which screenplays? You could go to Hong Kong and be an extra in John Woo films. You could be 'Panicked Whitey #7."
His name is not Jack. His name is Matt. But the idea of throwing a stuffed monkey sounds delightfully amusing.

I was referring to Thanksgiving, but the weekends are good too. Just not this one because I will be teching a horribly depressing show. Is your father really a transsexual now? I thought he was an air-traffic controller.

My screenplays, that's which. Original ones that I'm writing. (Well, one of them is an adaptation of someone else's story, but I'm still writing it.) And John Woo is not allowed to see them.