Inelegant Observations is dead. There are too many broken memories and spoiled dreams lurking in the HTML coding to go back to that wasteland now. However, as promised, I've birthed a new blog from the ashes of the old one. So folks here it is: You Wanted It In Print. The title comes from your ceaseless requests for stories about my train-wreck of a life. I guess the verbal versions were a little lackluster for your liking, and you wanted to relish in my skillz as an English major. Skillz like alliteration and punctuation. Similes and metaphors. Is this reading like a rap to anyone else?
I decided to write for a few reasons:
1. I graduated college and don't have a steady source of income so I'm confined to doing things that are free.
2. I've been learning the same six chords on guitar since High School and I think it's time to let that go.
3. In four days I've read three books from the Twilight Series and while I realize I'm about five years late on this one, I'm starting to wish I was dating a vampire, and since I've recently stopped letting myself commit to unattainable goals, I need to find a new hobby. (Side note: if you're a vampire reading this, I'm easy, get at me.)
Speaking of being easy, let's talk about yesterday. Well, to be fair it started long before yesterday. I've been exercising lately, it won't last I promise you, but for now it's a routine. Proud to be on the treadmill and eager to text "can't text right now, I'm exercising" to anyone who contacted me, I brought my phone into the gym. Innocent enough right? Well, sure enough my greasy little hands dropped the damn thing facedown and the screen was smashed to pieces. At the time I was too busy trying to breathe and hide the sweat circle around my pot belly to care. It wasn't until later, when I had sixty thousand tiny shards of glass in my thumb and index finger that I decided it was time for a new one. So, I tried my luck at the Apple store, hoping to be one of those people who ends up walking out of there with free shit. It wasn't the case, 204 dollars later, I had a new phone and some serious insurance on it. But this is where the story gets interesting. Dejected and wondering why I was not Apple's pick of the day, I trudged out of there. My fingers were starting to heal, but my recently amplified self-loathing was just starting to peak. Why didn't Apple want to help me out? Was I not friendly enough? Poor enough? Charismatic enough? I was used to these feelings with Verizon. And with men. And even with customers who don't tip. They always knew how to make me feel small, but not Apple, not the Apple I knew.
Lost in self-pity and wondering if anyone will ever love me, an angel called my name. Just kidding, it was a mall kiosk employee shouting "I noticed your dry skin!" Fuck, I thought to myself. First, because I have a history of this; I have maybe 5 nail buffers at home, all still in the package, all memoirs of poor decisions. And second, because he knew he had my attention. "Ah, beautiful girl" he cooed, "let me scrub your delicate hands." Hysteric at this point, because I don't have delicate hands, in fact since infancy they've been more like a weathered construction worker's than a baby's bottom, I screamed "no! I'll buy something, get away from me!" This silenced him for a moment, calculating his next move, his beady little eyes sized me up and down. "What's the harm in trying?" he asked. I thought about this, there was no harm, why not let a hot slab of Israeli ass massage my pumice skin if that's what he wanted? Why not be shamelessly complimented for ten minutes even if it meant feigning consumerism for the duration? "Okay, fine." I grumbled. As he scrubbed he spoke sweet nothings "oh you're so lovely, how'd I get so lucky?" "Where did such a stunning young woman come from?" "Oh, how I wish I didn't have to go back to Israel, how I wish I could stay in these hands for ever!" Hook, line and sinker. I was done for. I let this go on probably too long, we had exchanged names, I knew about his home life, his upcoming vacations, every product on his damn rollie-cart. "You could be so smooth, so fragrant, just a hundred forty dollars, two year supply my little darling." I thought back to the Apple store, I remembered the rejection. This didn't feel like that, this felt like love, like a new beginning, like I was scrubbing away the failure, like I was emerging from the Dead Sea of Israel salt still sparking on my body! I WAS GOING TO BE BEAUTIFUL. I WAS GOING TO BE THE PERSON WHO GETS FREE STUFF! All I needed was this sea salt, and this body butter, and Hadar my new boyfriend!
"The mall will be closing in five minutes, please make your final purchases" corrupted my vision. I looked in the kiosk mirror at my deodorant-stained Del's shirt, my matted hair, and the poppy seed in my tooth and I knew things could never work out with Hadar and the Dead Sea. "No thank you, I can't afford it, I'm so sorry." He seemed to understand. "Fifty dollars and I'll give you this for free" he countered. FOR FREE!? My eyes lit up like Christmas trees, I had no idea what it was but it was free, and someone wanted to give it to me! "I'll take it!" I shouted, handing over my debit card. "Wonderful, my little China doll, oh how I wish I could put you in my pocket and take you out when I'm sad!" Back atcha Hadar, back atcha.
As I was walking back to my car I realized what I had done. Idiot, I thought to myself. I looked cautiously down at the bag wondering what surprise was waiting for me. I teared through the package: nail buffers. God damn it.
In short, I paid for a prostitute last night. He was in the form of a cosmetician, on a work visa from The Promised Land, and we were in love. For the next year I'll be soft, like "a bebe's boom" as he kindly explained to me. And my nails will be shinier than ever. And you'll all be jealous knowing that's what kind of hands are typing these posts. Pampered ones. Rich with minerals.
If this is your first time with me welcome, I'm glad you're here. If you're a survivor from the last blog, thank you for having more faith in me than I could ever ask for, I don't deserve it.
