Monday, October 31, 2011

NaNoWriMo - See you in December


Sometimes I get myself into messes that even I can't explain. November will be one of them. 

I signed up for NaNoWriMo, a contest that urges both amateur and professional writers alike to bang out a first draft (at least 50,000 words) of a fiction novel. That's 1,667 words a day. That means I have to write. On. The. Daily. 

It also means I have to write fiction, which I admittedly suck at. I can write ad nauseam about eating mint chocolate chip ice cream for the first time. I once wrote 19 pages on the non-existence of aquifers, peer pressure and grape soda. 2,500 words on green markers? Done. But fiction? I have to just make shit up? Oh hell. It comes out clunky and contrived. And it does not please me. 

But luckily that's kind of the point of NaNoWriMo. It's all about quantity over quality; this exercise forces you to write now and ask questions later. I won't be able to spend hours agonizing over plot threads and character revelations like usual. I'll just have to go with it, no matter how bad it is. 

There is no "prize" for completing your 50,000 word draft, just mad bragging rights, which I plan to exploit for years. And realistically, I will have a rough draft that I can laboriously tinker with, should I try to get it published in part or in whole later.  

My friend Mike (this is his blog) is doing this as well. As you can see from his post (read it after mine, you A.D.D. sons of bitches) he's all about the community that NaNoWriMo offers, he wants to go meet the other people in Tampa who are subjecting themselves to this, and I bet he'll be all over the forums asking for and offering advice. I think he compares NaNoWriMo to boot camp- bonding through a stressful environment- which I think is stupid. This can be done solely online, there is no physical labor, no abuse, no eating and showering and bunking together, no isolation from friends, family, pop culture, etc. 

Now that I've called his point stupid, something I strive to do on the daily, I will say I understand it. It will be stressful, especially for us perfectionist types. But I'm not interested in meeting new people and building creative relationships. I want to sit in my room, writing, ignoring my phone and friends and family. I want to lose track of days, I want insomnia to consume me. I want to forget what the outside world looks like. I want to emerge on November 30th, pale and confused and wild-eyed. I want to mutter "it is finished" before collapsing. 

That's if I don't give up on November 10th.  


See you in December.

By the way, because I am sometimes a spoiled princess, Fiancé bought and built me this desk and chair from IKEA. Because I totally "needed" it for NaNoWriMo. I am in love with it.


And he says if I don't finish 50,000 words by November 30th, he will take the desk and awesome chair away from me. I swear, there is no justice in the world.  

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

On Being Rejected By My College Crush

I develop "crushes" on people of a purely intellectual nature. I have no desire to sleep with these people, but I become consumed by the frantic urge to know them, to befriend them, to find out what makes them tick. People are my addiction, and when I stumble across someone worthy, I binge to the point of overdose. From the other point of view it must be kind of creepy. In fact, I've been told that I'm creepy. That's okay with me. You don't have to fall in love with me. You just have to let me in, let me poke around for a while. It doesn't hurt, I promise.

I developed one of these crushes on a college professor once. I had him for Social Philosophy and I thought he was just the bees' knees. So after I'd earned an A in his class, I asked him if we could get drinks and I could pick his brain for a while. I think I told him I was thinking of being a Philosophy major. My boyfriend at the time was in the class with me, and as we were both good students and cool people, Professor obliged. I think my exact request was something like "we think you're cool, and we wanna hang out outside of class. Will you go on a date with us?" See, I am creepy.

It was incredibly exciting sitting and bullshitting with him. His "professionalism" kind of melted away and he became this metal rocker who only shaved because capitalist society dictated social norms and hierarchy based on appearance... or something. He introduced me to IPA. He reached across the table to light my cigarette. More than ever, I was smitten. We hung out a few times, always at the same cute restaurant. He said he invited me out for good conversation, and I was beyond flattered that he thought I was anything besides vapidly idiotic.

I went to his house once after drinks once. It was a creaky old bungalow in a cute historic area of Tampa. The hardwood floors moaned with my every step, his couch cradled me as I lounged in the heat. His air conditioning was broken, and the open windows offered a modest breeze that only served to fill the living room with waves of humidity. I remember how my cheeks felt flushed.

Over a bottle of wine and many more cigarettes, we talked about music, argued whether or not punk was dead and compared venues and bands we'd been to and seen. I noticed that night how his smile curled up and then over when he is genuinely amused. His hair fell in messy disarray, such a stark contrast to his slicked back appearance in the classroom. Our conversation was easy, ebbing and flowing gently through stories about teachers, students, family, lovers. I was desperate to know everything about him in a few hours, I demanded to know his opinion on anything from The Food Network to Marx to the New York Dolls. He obliged, and I devoured all of it, drunk not on wine, but words.

He got up from the couch a few times to turn the TV off or get us glasses of water, and when I watched him weave around boxes of books and stacks of ungraded papers, I found myself wondering what it would be like to be naked with him, moving to the bass line of some obscure metal band we both saw months ago at the Brass Mug. He caught me in my reverie and I blushed fiercely. I hoped he attributed it to the sweltering Florida summer or the alcohol, anything but my ridiculous (and looking back, obvious) school girl crush. Of course, part of me, a very deep down secret part, wanted him to notice and pounce on me, our bodies tangled and sticking to the leather couch. But Professor was a gentleman and I was undoubtedly, severely awkward, so nothing of the kind happened.

I learned about his family, his upbringing and his love affair with academia. I asked questions that made him wince, but he answered with eloquent candor. I toyed with his real sense of humor, something I'd only seen glimpses of before. I saw him as a real person, not just Professor, but a man with strong ideals and wide-ranging opinions, a passionate man with confidence and charisma. He was hopeful, but jaded at the same time. I relived some of his heartbreaks as he retold them, and seeing both the smug playful Professor along with the bitter broken Professor was what sealed the deal. I saw honesty and balance and misguided ambition that made no apology for itself. I could have loved this man forever.

We met for drinks and good conversation a few more times before he moved out of state to teach elsewhere. We kept in touch through Facebook "likes" and links and casual posts, but it was nothing like we had before.

Last weekend he was in town for a conference, so we exchanged numbers on Facebook (I still had his, and I can't decide if that's endearing or pathetic) and planned to catch up. I was ecstatic. I sent one text message which garnered no response and fell into tragic self-loathing. I cursed myself for wanting to see him again so badly. I hated that being ignored perturbed me so deeply. I felt that our short but intense friendship demanded respect and a nostalgic drink for old time's sake. I listed to Clapton's "Layla" on repeat for the better part of an hour. The unplugged version. Yes, it was that bad.

Fiancé tried to console me, urging me to call him and when I refused, he made logical excuses that the conference ran late or Professor was catching up with colleagues. I pouted, made plans with other friends and got over it.

But I can imagine my 45 minute drive to St. Pete, my mind racing with anticipation and anxiety. I can picture walking into a strange bar, sipping on a beer, making awkward small talk because it's been three (or maybe four) years now and it's hard to just jump back into things sometimes. I would have had fun, but I also would have resented that we weren't sitting on his couch in the summer heat, drinking wine and making sweet intellectual love for hours. I would have driven 45 minutes back home, only to cry on Fiancé's shoulder about how Professor was different and I am different and everything is different and now it's all tainted and I'm stupid for thinking anything could be as perfect as that one night a few years ago when I was innocent and curious and a man I fell for pretty hard didn't take advantage of that.

I'm glad now that I didn't go. Trying to chase something that once was might have also shown me what it really wasn't, and what it will never be. I am still irked that I got blown off, but this way I can keep some fond memories of a guy I thought the world of safely intact.

This way I can love him forever.

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Open Letter to My Doctors

Dear Doctors:

For the most part, I think you are jerks. Maybe not all of you, just those of you I see on a regular basis. If I had to take my car to a mechanic as many times as I have to come see you, I'd get a new car or a new mechanic. I am stuck with my fickle health. And no matter how many second opinions I get, I seem to be stuck with you. And I hate you for it.

I have done everything you've asked of me. In return I am just asking you to do your job.

I show up early to appointments and wait in a room full of cranky looking sick people. I don't complain when Donna, the vapid "nurse" behind the desk kick starts my dreaded appointment with her painted on smile and dead-behind-the-eyes look. On three separate occasions she has typed my birth date into the computer incorrectly, thus yielding no results for my name in your system. I have gotten into the habit of telling her "01-26-88" instead of saying "January" because I have a feeling that the conversion is too hard for her to do in her head. I don't know why you haven't fired her, but I'm sure it's because she owns her own highlighters or gives really good blowjobs.

When a real nurse takes me back into the exam rooms I make small talk. When they ask "How are you today?" I respond with some frivolous pleasantry because it would be rude to say "I'm here, you moron. Something is terribly wrong with me and instead of living my life I came here to have you poke around all of my orifices. Your lube or mine this time?"

Sometimes you tell me to wear that paper dress and I do so without protesting even though I'm sure you don't need to check my vitals while I'm naked. Once I think you forgot about me back in Exam Room 4 so I walked to the water fountain with my ass hanging out the back. I wasn't thirsty, but I wanted to announce that I was still naked and waiting. It didn't really work because I still sat naked for half an hour on that table with tissue paper over it. However, I think you must have written something in my chart because that's the last time you made me wear the paper dress. I hope it says something like "Patient is not to be naked. Will cause a scene."

I don't self-diagnose because it probably irritates you and will be wrong anyway. I trust that your education and the fancy equipment that you don't let me play with is enough for you to tell me what's wrong with me. Every once in a while you tell me not to eat before an appointment because of some test that you don't explain to me. I stop eating at midnight even though I get an intense craving for an omelet about twenty minutes later. This does not stop you from seeing me at 1:25 when my appointment was for noon. From now on, I'm eating the damn omelet at 12:20 because with your ultra-considerate punctuality I know it won't affect the test.

When you ask me questions about how much I drink or smoke, I tell you. When you ask about my sex life or diet or sleeping patterns I give you detailed answers because even though I think it's weird, I assume that my answers may lead you to discover what freakish disease I have. (I secretly hope it's something so new and freakish that the medical community is forced to name it after me.) So far this has not worked, but when you ask me how many stuffed animals I had in the third grade or how often I eat hummus (often, because it's delicious) I will tell you.

But one time I asked you why I couldn't drink grapefruit juice with a certain medication. You curtly replied "I don't know" and moved on. I think that's a really dick move because I was just trying to be safe and I happen to have the curiosity of a toddler and you could have just told me the answer instead of being a dismissive prick. When I saw you next, you asked me how the iron supplements were working. I replied "I don't know" because I was still holding a grudge, but I know you didn't get it because you just looked at me like I was crazy.

And about the iron supplements - once I told you I had been excessively tired and I couldn't attribute it to insomnia or alcohol. You laughed and said "well, that's unfortunate, huh?" and didn't really address my problem. Three months and some bloodwork later, you told me I was anemic and iron supplements would help me be less tired. Thanks for listening. You owe me three months of good sleep, asshole.

In the short respite that comes after my visit and before the clusterfuck frustrations of the pharmacy, I want one thing and one thing only. A sticker. I want a dinosaur sticker or a Disney Princess sticker. I would prefer a princess riding a dinosaur sticker, but I realize those may only exist in my imagination. I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop judging me when I dig through the sticker box like a frantic junkie on a dumpster dive. Once you told me that the stickers were just for the kids. I told you that my insurance pays for my visits and all the fruitless tests you order for me, I always pay my co-pays and the amount of kickbacks you get from drug companies by recommending their brand of synthetic dope is more than enough to afford buying stickers a tad bit more often. In fact, I'm convinced that the revenue I alone generated last year paid for your ungrateful child's cello lessons or your two week summer vacation in the Poconos.

I don't need an ass-kissing every time I grace your office with my greasy hair, unwashed face and sweatpants. I don't need a TV in the waiting room or every issue of Good Housekeeping from 1993-1996. I just want you to fix me so I don't have to see you again.

Oh, by the way, do you remember the time you found about two dozen penises fashioned from cotton balls, tongue depressors, some crude Sharpie details and medical tape in the drawers of Exam Room 6? Yeah, that was me. That's what you get for being such a dick.