and so she said

Dec. 3, 2009 at 2:19am with 143 notes

Reblogged from meaghano

meaghano:

Pack up all of your clothes. Put the good ones in a suitcase and throw the other half away. It is good, you think, to be able to leave at a moment’s notice, to not take anything you can’t carry. Pick up your bags with your mother’s voice in your head and consider how it will be to carry them up four flights of stairs without someone behind you making sure you don’t die a slow, embarrassing death before you make first month’s rent.
Throw away anything you haven’t touched since you got here and ruthlessly fling it aside, atop shopping bags that have long since fallen over and exploded with your disregard, your tyranny. Look around the room and catch your breath because you have to, for the people who have been here with you and the people you have been here without them. Toss out old purses to the tune of New Beginnings or is it Opening but you know it’s Philip Glass and you don’t even think twice anymore as you condemn sweaters to Salvation Army. You are merciless; without mercy. Christen yourself ‘not the kind of person who holds onto things’, a master of getting rid of That Which You Do Not Need. This is because, and there is no other way to put it, you no longer want things that aren’t of any use.
Sweaters, handbags, people: you shed them like skin, like tears.

—————————————————————————————-
When my days become unyielding and my literary reviews pile up, and when my misogynistic professors tell me, “while this paper is effective in making your statement Sher, I guess I just cannot identify with your voice because I personally don’t menstrate”, all the while speaking the word “I” in an italics tone,
and while the pigeons shit on me whilst I smoke that last damn cigarette from the same pack I’ve thrown away in the trashcan three times this week before fishing them out from in between the rotten banana peels and my flat diet cokes, outside of my “British Lit, Romance to Present” class, and while I drive home listening to Neko Case, because FUCK YES this woman knows what she’s talking about, I sometimes get super panicky and upset at this world because why, pray tell, can that foreign kid next to me that writes only WOW fan fiction get an A in his “Aesthetic and Interpretive Understanding Writing Class”, while I get Cs because I don’t have MALE GENITALIA.
I get really listless thinking about all of the females in the world that could publish something truly extraordinary, like meaghano, who’s blog I rush home to read, ( and whom I alternately curse if she hasn’t written anything that day) cup of chamomile in hand, before I catch up on my dvr’d Gilmore Girls, and I get so upset that they are not published yet.
Then I get mad at Meaghano personally, because, Jesus CHRIST, she should be published and writing stories on best sellers lists already and then following them up, of course, with chats on Oprah’s couch and then following THOSE up with her wry-witty entries of her experience on said couch on her blog for ME TO READ. HOW CAN SHE BE SO SELFISH TO NOT HAVE A NOVEL FOR ME TO DEVOUR YET?
Then I remember that I, myself, am a writer too. And then I just feel terrified. And then I curse myself for posting sentences that start with “and” on my tumblr, and then I remember, IT’S JUST A TUMBLR.
Anyhow, if anyone knows Meaghano, tell her the fate of my sanity lies on her written word. That’s all. Goodnight.

Pack up all of your clothes. Put the good ones in a suitcase and throw the other half away. It is good, you think, to be able to leave at a moment’s notice, to not take anything you can’t carry. Pick up your bags with your mother’s voice in your head and consider how it will be to carry them up four flights of stairs without someone behind you making sure you don’t die a slow, embarrassing death before you make first month’s rent.

Throw away anything you haven’t touched since you got here and ruthlessly fling it aside, atop shopping bags that have long since fallen over and exploded with your disregard, your tyranny. Look around the room and catch your breath because you have to, for the people who have been here with you and the people you have been here without them. Toss out old purses to the tune of New Beginnings or is it Opening but you know it’s Philip Glass and you don’t even think twice anymore as you condemn sweaters to Salvation Army. You are merciless; without mercy. Christen yourself ‘not the kind of person who holds onto things’, a master of getting rid of That Which You Do Not Need. This is because, and there is no other way to put it, you no longer want things that aren’t of any use.

Sweaters, handbags, people: you shed them like skin, like tears.

—————————————————————————————-

When my days become unyielding and my literary reviews pile up, and when my misogynistic professors tell me, “while this paper is effective in making your statement Sher, I guess I just cannot identify with your voice because I personally don’t menstrate”, all the while speaking the word “I” in an italics tone,

and while the pigeons shit on me whilst I smoke that last damn cigarette from the same pack I’ve thrown away in the trashcan three times this week before fishing them out from in between the rotten banana peels and my flat diet cokes, outside of my “British Lit, Romance to Present” class, and while I drive home listening to Neko Case, because FUCK YES this woman knows what she’s talking about, I sometimes get super panicky and upset at this world because why, pray tell, can that foreign kid next to me that writes only WOW fan fiction get an A in his “Aesthetic and Interpretive Understanding Writing Class”, while I get Cs because I don’t have MALE GENITALIA.

I get really listless thinking about all of the females in the world that could publish something truly extraordinary, like meaghano, who’s blog I rush home to read, ( and whom I alternately curse if she hasn’t written anything that day) cup of chamomile in hand, before I catch up on my dvr’d Gilmore Girls, and I get so upset that they are not published yet.

Then I get mad at Meaghano personally, because, Jesus CHRIST, she should be published and writing stories on best sellers lists already and then following them up, of course, with chats on Oprah’s couch and then following THOSE up with her wry-witty entries of her experience on said couch on her blog for ME TO READ. HOW CAN SHE BE SO SELFISH TO NOT HAVE A NOVEL FOR ME TO DEVOUR YET?

Then I remember that I, myself, am a writer too. And then I just feel terrified. And then I curse myself for posting sentences that start with “and” on my tumblr, and then I remember, IT’S JUST A TUMBLR.

Anyhow, if anyone knows Meaghano, tell her the fate of my sanity lies on her written word. That’s all. Goodnight.