alecto - your little bluejay (pollytrance) wrote,
alecto - your little bluejay
pollytrance

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They Think So Small, They Use Small Words

Yesterday was a good day.

I woke up at 12 and got nothing done for about an hour. Then I showered, dressed, and headed to the mall to pick up Monster's Inc. for my mother. I reserved it for her too, once upon a time when I had my own money from working.

Then I went to the high skool to visit Mr. Greene and to return some books that I borrowed when I was a junior.

Both of the teachers from whom I had borrowed books were MIA, but I did successfully visit Mr. Greene. The students were giving me funny looks, and one teacher made a snide remark about how everyone who graduates comes back.

So Mr. Greene and I talked for a bit, I showed him the pictures from Rasputina's last show at Foley's, and talked about what was going on for a bit. Then his son came in and I got to meet him. His name is Taylor, which is my middle name, and he is 5. Taylor came in to tell him that his wife was waiting for him, so he had to take off and I left. I looked around for a bit, trying to find another place to go, another teacher to visit, but there was nothing left for me. I tried to get some water out of a machine and it was jammed. Another machine that sold water wouldn't take my money, and I ended up having to buy more carbonated diuretics, which will probably kill me.

But I'm a good girl, so as the song says, I will die young. Why should I fight it?

After that, I went to Stefan's and he gave me a glow stick and I told him all about my visit with Mr. Greene, because he is one of the only people who can understand what kind of impact he had on my life. I probably wouldn't have made it through high school without him and Mr. McKeon.

And to think, I used to hate male teachers. All the way up until 8th grade. I thought it a bit queer that they would choose jobs designed for women. But my mind was closed off.

Then I left Stefan's and headed back to my house, where, even though I saw it twenty times to and from Germany on the plane, I watched Monsters Inc. with my mom, during which I forgot to eat dinner, which was a downer because it meant that I was late. Stefan called me at 6.30 to tell me he would be late picking me up (I am afraid to drive to places like Oakland by myself.) This was a good thing, and I was appreciative and told him to take his time.

So hurriedly, I put together some bread, turkey, cheese and bell peppers, and ate it with, guess what? More carbonated diuretics. Shortly after which I got ill because my system hasn't handled digesting something that hearty in a bit. Mostly I've been drinking water and... water... and cola and bell peppers. That would explain my lack of energy...

So anyway, I get sick, Stefan shows up, and I am trying my hardest not to grimace as my stomach writhes in pain, "You fucking bitch, what did you think you were doing to me, eating that? Meat? Are you fucking crazy?"

I apply some lipstick and sparkly stars, and we leave. We get there (Oakland, Tourette's Without Regrets, I failed to mention this...) right on time and find that Will is there, and he rocks. He speaks of Crispin Glover often. At this, I realise that I still have the Crispin Glover book in my bag, not having been able to return it earlier that day. I whip it out and show it to Will, and he becomes ecstatic. He has never seen one of Crispin Glover's book's in real life, not to mention autographed. He has only seen relics like this when the man himself has appeared on David Letterman.

He excitedly begins showing it to the passersby, handling it with the same care that you would handle a newborn, and not bending the spine.

The night goes on, I see Lindsay show up looking mighty fine, hear some good poetry, look at some dirty Polaroids, watch a disturbing video, and voila. I get inspired.

I go outside and write a piece about why you shouldn't spank your kids, done in a funny tone. If I end up performing it at the next one (which I plan to, in a British accent, no less) I will put it in here following that. I find it quite disturbing, which is why I like it. It's about something perverted and twisted, which will probably make the Tourette's audience like it.

I hope.

The show ended, I schmoozed very little. My only consolation is that some guy at the bar offered to buy me something. I thought this to be very generous, coming from a stranger.

Time out. Crispin Glover is a sexy bitch! Resume.

So we begin to head home. Stefan asks if I want to go to Denny's. On any other occasion I would agree, but having something at Denny's + falling asleep soon thereafter = sick Katie in the morning.

So he asks if I want to hang out because I don't have to be home until three. I don't really want to be stationary. So I ask him if he will just drive me around. I drive so much these days that I can never actually enjoy driving at night anymore. I have to be alert and deal with the stupid fucks that by-some-act-of-God were able to bamboozle the DMV out of a license.

He gets off the freeway into Benicia and turns into the hills and the suburbs.

"Take me to my old house."

Big mistake.

We get to my old house, and whoever lives in it currently has no decorations, no lights on, not even a car in the parking space. I decide they are unworthy assholes and get angry with them. If it wasn't my old house, I would throw a brick through their window.

He parks in the empty space marked with my old address, obviously unsure what to do. I look around at what used to be my neighbourhood and notice that life has indeed been going on without me. There are new plants, and a new tree replaces the one they cut down in my last summer of living in that house. The house has a fresh coat of paint and the roads have been redone.

My throat starts to burn.

"We can go."

He asks me if I am ok, and I don't dignify him with an answer. I turn up the music and I start to cry. I strain all the muscles in my neck staring out the window harder than I've concentrated on something in a long time. We pass by old trains, and the place my dad and I used to go fishing. Huge tears roll down my cheeks.

I watch the moonlit landscapes roll by, and my eyes start to burn. I close them and give in.

I open them to find that we are stopped and Stefan is trying hard to get me to look at him, but I won't. When some of the music stops, he tries to talk to me.

"Just drive. Take me home or just drive." I say.

He continues driving. I am crying so hard that my stomach muscles are all locked up and I feel like I need to scream or vomit. I open my eyes and we are in some town I don't recognise, and very close to the car, and to my open window is a tall figure, my head tells me to scream, but my body only jumps and my lungs burn even more.

My eyes focus, and I see that it is only a post.

I close them again. Now we're in Cordelia. I close them again. Fairfield. I close them again. I don't know where we are but we're in the middle of some rolling hills with no light but the moon's to light them, and they look silver, and I begin to feel better.

I continue crying, and in doing so, scrape all of the toxic shit that has been building up for the past few months out. I cry until there are no more tears.

Embarrassed, I stare out at the stretch of road ahead, like a zombie, not moving, ignoring the fact that my hair is itching my nose.

A song come on that reminds me of my father. It reminds me of how he saw a brightly coloured, plastic-topped Elmo water-bottle and bought it for me because the top of it was a toy and he knows I love cartoons. He never understood the difference between PBS and Cartoon Network, but it was still special. Just like when he graduated from rehab and came back to live with us. He would see things that reminded him of me and just get them. I am too afraid to drink that water. I am afraid it will make my father disappear.

When we got a scanner, he was excited because he'd be able to scan and enlarge pictures of his parents and be able to frame them looking healthy and happy. They died miserably. He didn't have the best childhood in the world because his family was poor, but the fact that his mom would do extra things to be able to buy meat for dinner rather than rice, and that both of his parents did the best they could for him keeps him awake at night, feeling hopelessly guilty about having them so close and yet so far away, and watching his mother wither and die alone in a nursing home after my grandfather passed and our So. Cal relatives sold off their trailer, their home of God knows how many years, and all of her knick-knacks.

When I hear this song that reminds me of my father (one he used to play for me on his guitar before his hair started to gray), I begin to cry again. I need this. It is good for my soul. It is how I survived before.

I am still the biggest daddy's girl you will ever meet.

The last time he ever hurt me was about five years ago. He chased me up the stairs, cornered me, and hit me with one of his shoes. I got a bruise about eight inches long and five inches wide. For someone who doesn't bruise, that is pretty fucking big. I couldn't lay on that side for two weeks.

He kicked me out when I was seventeen.

He's told me that my entire existence was a mistake.

But I can't help getting sad when I think of him being gone. What could I possibly say at his funeral that would do him justice? How could I make everyone feel that same sensation of arms being loaded with springs because no matter how many times you hug your father, you will still want to give him more hugs, because no words will tell him how much you value him.

So I cried, we drove, hours passed, and I was back at my house at three. I wouldn't look at him still.

"Do you want me to call you?" He asked me.

"Do what you want."

I got out of the car and a large clattering noise was made as I tripped over one of his stereo wires. I hate myself. I finally looked in his direction, but not into his eyes.

"You can call me, but only if you really want to."

"I do." he said.

I came up the stairs with my keys in hand, and when I pulled the screen door it was locked.

FUCK!!!

Just what I need, my mother opening the door in the middle of the night and seeing the lines of mascara all down my face, and half of my stars cried off.

She opens the door, and I have my head down and push past her as fast as I can, screaming, "I really have to pee!!" Irrational, yes, but I didn't feel like dealing with her. It didn't occur to me that she didn't have her glasses on, and she's just woken up, she probably wouldn't be able to tell.

Fuckin' A.

I come out of the bathroom and she is blocking the entrance to my room like some psychotic bulldog.

"Why won't you look at me?" She asks me.

"Go to bed." I tell her.

"Katie, I mean it."

I slip by and get into my room, and she chases me in there, I try to close the door, and with violent mom super-strength, she pushes it open before I can deadbolt it.

"Go to BED!" I shreik at her.

"Look at me!" she yells right back in my face.

I look at her with a shit-poke grin on my face, and through gritted teeth, seething with anger about having my privacy violated, and say, "There, what the fuck were you so obsessed with seeing, same face you see every day. Go to bed."

She didn't notice the tears or the clogged sound of my voice.

Then, she decides to interrogate me.

"Why did you do that?" she asks me.

"Why not. I'm a crazy teenager. You shouldn't get bent out of shape about kids doing weird shit."

She makes a stupid face and I slam the door. I fucking hate being chased when I don't want to be.

Stefan calls. He tells me he was worried. (Translation: I thought you were going to kill yourself, so I called to make sure you're still alive and say weird things until you laugh.)

I get a message from Mya saying that she can't come to Fresh Choice tonight.

Well, didn't think that would happen.

I crawl into bed and sleep the best sleep I have slept in too many months.

Snape is on the calendar for today. Yum. No, really, there is a picture of Alan Rickman, and it says, "Wednesday, September 18th".

All right.

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