A Natural Death

I'm going to try writing in here a little more before I graduate, but, the truth of the matter, is that this blog was meant only for my years here at University. So, guess what?

I'm graduating in a few months!

No, I am not continuing with school. And no, I have absolutely no fucking idea what I am going to do next.

I can tell you that I've been working on my writing a lot, and that I've improved tons. But I can also tell you that I haven't been actually writing a lot, and that I've been putting things off and letting writer's blog and avoidance get the better of me.

I think I'm going to start a new blog when I graduate, and I'm pretty sure that I'll link this one to it when I do. I've been contemplating doing a writing blog (a friend of mine has one called the lonely pen in which she publishes random thoughts and flashfiction on, which I find amusing and interesting) and I definitely want to do one about the perils of adulthood.

Cats, Jobs, and Apartments, oh my

(My title is so a work in progress)

On another note, I found a surefire way to get my manager to come do something in my apartment in a damned big hurry.

I told him my smoke detector was broken (true) (But it's been broken since I moved in over two years ago).

He showed up almost within 24 hours with a brand spanking new one.

Is that service, or what? ;)

Regards from Purgatory,

Monica

They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha Ha!

They're coming to take me away, hee hee, hoo hoo, to the funny farm!

Right.

So I'm sure I've got plenty to post about but all of it is swirling around in my head in such a conflagration of a melting pot (I'm sure that made sense before I wrote it) that I can't possibly get it out so I'll just say this.

I woke up to see my cat in the china cupboard this morning (Ryou). And yes, literally woke up, opened my eyes, and saw her there (I've been sleeping on the couch where it's cooler in this heat but now that it's getting cold I'm going to move back upstairs.)

And she was itching her fleas.

I found blood on one of my coffee mugs, which is wrong on so many levels I can't even explain. To sum it up--I'm getting another child lock (immediately) and I'm sanitizing everything in there (and hauling out the rags that cushion the mugs).

Then I'm going to pretend that I never saw that.

Ever.

That is all.

Regards from Purgatory,

Monica

I'm Smokey the Bear

So.

I have been at my friend Sarah's in Salem all weekend. She's lots of fun and so is her husband Luke. She's a writer who is currently spearheading the writing group I helped start last Spring and he is a super smart guy that she's super lucky (and cool) to have and I love spending time with them and talking. He really makes me think. My friend Athena is here with me and we are ostensibly "writing" for group (we're surfing the net, reading webcomics and fanfiction and eating good food).

Sarah sprained her knee earlier in the week so she's been trying to stay off of it, but last night she decided that she wanted to go on her walk around Bush Park just like normal, so I volunteered to go with her (leaving Luke, Athena, and our friend Kristel who had come over for dinner last night back at the house). We got about halfway around the park before she had to sit for a second time, at the same bench she always does, and I realized that I smelled smoke.

Normally that wouldn't be an issue. You can do barbecues at this park so it's not a huge deal to smell something cooking (I suspect the upper park has those things you cook in and people cook down by the creek all the time). BUT. We're in a huge burn ban time right now because there have been brush fires (huge serious ones) all over the state for the past month or so. There's been a huge brush fire on the outskirts of Salem for a while (I'm not even sure if it's gone yet) so they're really cracking down on these things.

So while we were sitting there I was sniffing and asking Sarah where she thought it was coming from, the creek? The houses across the creek? Was it a barbecue or something burning?

And she looked down at my feet, kicked at the dirt, and said, "No, it's down there."

And I said, "No, not smokes," because there were a lot of cigarettes under my feet, "SMOKE."

And she said, "Yeah, there's smoke."

"What?"

I kick at it too and I realize that the bark mulch is actually smoking.

"Holy crap. That's not good. Here, lemme kick it out."


But the deeper I kicked it down the blacker it got and the more it smoked. "Really? Just, really? What idiot decided it would be a good idea to bury a cigarette in tinder during a burn ban?!"

I mean, seriously. So I stood up and kicked at it but nothing. All all the while I was explaining to Sarah how these underground things have no fire, but they could smolder for ages and spread from one place to the next.

She then leaned behind the bench and said, "You mean, to the dry brush right behind us?"

So I called 911.

The dispatch thought I was insane, I could tell. Sometimes when I'm trying to explain somethign I forget entirely what I'm talking about and sound like a complete retard. For instance, I said, "There's an underground fire."

And she said, "There's an...underground....fire..."

That's code for: "I'm going to hang up on you, now."

So I panicked and started talking a million miles an hour about it. "No, no, no, not a real fire. I mean, it's burning, yes, but no flames. The paths here are made of peat and mulch and bark dust and it's smoking. That's not a good sign, obviously, but it goes down deep and when I tried to kick it out I just found more and more and it's small right now, yeah, and that might not sound that serious, but these things get bigger and I know how there's lots of fires right now and there's a burn ban and I really don't know what to do with it since I can't kick it out and it should probably be taken care of."

"Hm. Yes. Where did you say you were?"

It was kinda complicated figuring out where I was exactly. Bush Park isn't Central Park or anything, but it is fairly good sized. It has like two baseball fields and a football field bunches of regular fields a creek and even a forest, pretty much. But she called the firemen out there and I met them across the park and we took care of it.

The interesting bit was that even though it wasn't that huge, it really was a good call. Three firemen (in their huge firetruck) showed up. One had dish soap (yes, really), the other had a canister of water, and the third had a huge fire axe hanging from his hand. So when we got there Sarah stood up from the bench and we watched, bemused, as the axe-man took his giant weapon (teehee) to the ground and hacked a goodly sized hole (I never saw an end to the blackness, to be honest) then dish soap guy began squirting into the whole and then water guy filled it with water. They way over-did it, but better safe than sorry, yes?

Then they thanked us for calling, said that yes, it could have spread and caught other things on fire. Then asked me how I learned about this sort of thing (I think I told him books and common sense, which certainly aren't things that usually go together) and they blinked at me bemusedly like I was completely nuts. To which I responded by saying "You DID just say that this was serious, so you can't think I'm crazy now."

Those things are relatively easy to put out near the beginning, but if Sarah and I hadn't have used our noses and our brains and checked it out thoroughly AND called the fire department, that little bit of smoldering? Could have caused an honest forest fire. Even with that axe digging into the ground a couple of feet, we didn't see an end to the burning. Eventually, yes, it would have hit ground that was dirt and unburnable, and too hard for it, but that's when it would have branched off, smoldered some more, and eventually caught the top of the ground (and the nice dry brush) on fire. The horrible thing about underground fires is that once they get big enough, you can't just hack at them with an axe, fill them with soapy water, and put them out. They become raging brush fires that keep coming back no matter how many times you throw water at them because they have roots underground, not above.

So we were heroes.

Nuff said :)

Regards from Purgatory,
 Monica

p.s. I meant to post this in September, I have no idea why it didn't actually happen

I Wish I Knew What Was Up With Me

I haven't written in a while.

I don't even have a very good excuse as to why. Life is going all right, I'm writing just about everything else (besides letters) so maybe pretty much abandoning my blog has to do with me not writing letters to anyone.

If you're one of the people I usually write to and I haven't--I apologize. I have no excuses, none whatsoever. I just...have no motivation.

Blogger seems to have changed around a bit. I think I like the new editing format. It doesn't seem to freeze my computer anymore, which is a gigantic plus. It's minimalist and pretty and yeah, it's fun. I really like it because it doesn't have anything to distract me and it's super easy to use. Those are all pluses in my book.

So.

Life.

It was over 80 degrees outside to me. It was hot and miserable and I didn't like it much, but it really reminded me of Japan so it wasn't really that bad. Last summer when it was hot I kinda just wanted to die, but it was so humid today that all I could think of was sitting on slightly air conditioned trains mopping my face with a My Neighbor Totoro wash cloth I got at the Ghibli Museum while watching other older women, salary men, and school girls do the same.

I think I even saw a hooker pull out a Hello Kitty wash cloth and rub her face with it.

I wanted my wash cloth pretty bad. Today was pretty much one of the few days I didn't have it on me "just in case" and even though I wasn't outside for very long, I kinda missed it. There aren't a lot of opportunities for me to wipe sweat off my brow here in America. Especially not any opportunities I would actively seek.

It's supposed to be over 90 degrees tomorrow. The weather forecast has it at 94.

I think my brain might melt.

Because I can't think of anything interesting right off the top of my end right this second (although I've got plenty floating around somewhere, I'm sure) I'll share a story my roommate Jake just shared with me about his busride home from Salem today:

The bus wasn't full, per se, but there was a person in every row. So this guy, when he got on, instead of asking someone if he could sit next to them he went to the folded up seats that are folded up in case someone in a wheelchair needs to get on the bus. Then he proceeded to spend several minutes fiddling trying to get them down and just couldn't succeed.

Jake watched him with concern wondering if he should offer to help, then he noticed the man's hat which said "Army Strong," and as the busdriver reluctantly went back to help the man put the seats down, Jake thought, "Yeah right, more like Army Derp."

Okay. That's the end of sharing time. Hope to get back on soon!

Regards from Purgatory,

Monica

It's Summer?

I did a garage sale today. And a car wash yesterday. And I washed a few cars on the side today.

I got a sunburn.

On my leg.

The back of my left leg, specifically.

To be even more specific, on my calf, and only about 8 inches by 4 inches of it.

Why only this specific part? I have no freaking idea. All I know is that it was shining red and hurting already by the time I noticed and finally put some sunblock on.

Does it hurt?

Oh yeah.

Regards from Purgatory

Monica

Things Are Crazy

I apologize hugely for not writing recently. I wrote a post not too long ago (okay, over two months ago) but I'm not sure if I ever posted it.

School is crazy, my private life is almost nonexistant (except for when I hide in my room under the covers) I've got too many groups/clubs going on, and writing is well...

One of these days I'm either going to write myself to death, or give up altogether.

But, just a snippet from life: I got a phone call last night.

My first thought was "Oh Fuck, who's calling me now."

My second was "Whose number is this?"

So I answered and this is how the conversation went:

Me :"Hello?"

*Staticky and creepy breathing*

Me: "Hullooo?"

"HELLO?"

Me: "Oh shit, yeah, Hi."

"Hello is anyone there?"

Me: "Yeah, Hello?"

"Monica? This doesn't sound like you."

Me: "Yeah, it's Monica."

"Oh good, I'm calling to tell you A***** needs a bath because she's starting to itch at her crotch and--"

Me: "Auntie? Auntie, you've got the wrong Monica."

*More Staticky breathing*

"Oh! Well I was calling Monica to tell her that she hasn't given A***** a bath in two days and that she was really starting to smell, but I'm really glad I got you instead!"

Me: "...."

"I've been meaning to call you, how are you?"

Sometimes, I wonder about my families.

Regards from Purgatory

Monica

A Peek into the Secret Room

It's cluttered, but a comfy kind of clutter that speaks of a single person trying to fill a large room. Clothing litters the floor, but never fear: there's nothing to trod on underneath. The walls speak volumes, or none at all. Plain old while paint, bumpy, but the shiny plastic kind that makes it easier to clean up after small kids glows fairly unobstructed, except for a poster here and there.

Two scrolls with cartoon characters fill up the gaps, trying desperately to make the walls seem less bare. A well-cared for Star Trek poster hangs proudly, covered in plastic and mounted on cardboard, in the center of the wall as though it's kind.

One wall is entirely covered by memories. Photos of random people, chickens, trees, a half eaten birthday cake that says "Happy Swett Sixteen" and a proud portrait of a friend running at a Hummer with a metal pipe in his hands. A smile lights up his face. 8 1/2 by 11 computer printouts hang with drawings addressed to the owner of the room. A cat-boy here, a girl with her rat there, a random drawing of a boy under a tree. They all hang proudly as gifts should. A wrinkled crayon drawing sucks you into its vortex from its comfortable spot in the corner, bright colors glowing despite the black paper it was drawn on. A friend drew it, and, frustrated, ripped it to pieces.

The owner of the room painstakingly glued it onto another sheet, and there it hands, signatureless.

Above it is a mish-mash of colors in acrylic on a piece of tough paper by someone whom no-one knows. The owner of the room found it in a scrap pile, and carefully painted a figure on top, almost blending in with the whirlwind of colors.

Three bookshelves are propped with little pieces of wood underneath keeping them from tipping forwards from their sheer weight. All three are identical, save for the lavender one hidden behind the door. They weren't chosen for beauty, they are mere press board constructions holding priceless collections of worthless things that only the owner finds valuable. One is so full of books that the shelves bow, and books hang off the ends. Another has three shelves of VHS tapes, and one of DVDs and video games. The third is new, and merely half full of books.

But it's getting there.

Some of the furniture belongs, and some doesn't. The coffee table by the door has been there since the empty fish tank actually hand fish, and is now mostly littered with pocket-lint, receipts, and coins that haven't yet made it to the glass piggy bank hiding behind the movies. A white press board dresser holds socks leaking off the top and a sewing machine that's seen better days, with cat hair clinging to the seems.

A big bed takes up most of the room, desperately filling in the spaces as though that's it's entire purpose. The blankets are tucked in on two sides: the far side and the bottom. It's obvious where the owner sleeps, for the sheets and polar fleece blanket don't quite stretch to that side and there is no debris on the mattress. on the other side are spare blankets, pillows, lonely socks, little blue empty packets that used to hold gummy fruits, notebooks, textbooks, and letters from home.

A square coffee table on the tucked in side is meant for most of these things, but a pillow takes the place of honor, along with a box of crackers, more letters, and plastic bags looking for homes.

The closets never close, and no matter how many times the owner rearranges the clothing hanging in specific patterns they always stick out funny, hangers tipped in all directions, and look like someone didn't even try to make the clothing hang straight. In the far corner many scarves strangle the bar, twisted and hanging nearly to the floor. Rainbow, silk, wool: you name it, it's there.

Yet another coffee table has insinuated itself in the bottom of the clothing closet, and houses every single pair of shoes known to man. Boots, heels, clogs.

There are even a pair of roller blades underneath.

Boxes from a friend sit up top, forgotten, with only a few hats and some cat treats to keep them company.

The other closet is a geometrical design of boxes and things that simply need to be out of the way. Some are closed, some open. Some are laden with quilts and blankets on top. One is kept company by a backpack stuffed with as many old school things as possible and two bags full of cotton fluff meant for making plushies.

A refrigerator takes up most of the top of the utility shelf hiding amongst the boxes, and no matter how it's reposition it always leans a little to its left.

A large suitcase looks emptily propped in the corner, but upon further inspection is houses two more inside, an overnight case, and all the yarn in the world. On top are propped two styrofoam pads that used to be the sleeping place of the room's owner before the queen-sized bed magically appears.

A green desk looms over the coffee table with the fish tank by the door underneath the nostalgic photos. It's unused, the foot-space stuffed with boxes and the top piled with more.

Beside the bed is a dresser with drawers half empty because they stick and simply take too much time to open before school. On top are more sheets and an old-fashioned television with a VCR. A pantry table is slid between the wall and the dresser, and houses two weeks worth of dishes, a lava lamp, a desk lamp, a photo of a smiling Japanese girl, and a glowing digital clock with numbers big enough for a blind person to see.

The room's owner can only see it from less than a foot away without her glasses.

Cords frame the head of the bed, taking up the few inches between the mattress and the wall protecting the sheets from mildew and dampness.

On the door is a world map, with the little country of Japan circled. On the hall side it says Monica and from the door handle swings mardi gras beads from well meaning but young cousins who probably didn't imagine they would end up being cat toys for an enthusiastic kitten at 2 in the morning.

Beside the open door is a tattered box, well loved by cats, and stuffed with clothing that the owner has been meaning to donate for ages.

She'll get to it eventually.

But even though half the furniture isn't hers (including the bed), and the floor isn't clear, and there are little wrappers everywhere, it still smells clean and homely. Like laundry straight out of the dryer, or cleanly vacuumed carpet.

For her, it's enough.

Regards,

Monica