It's been at least two weeks now, since I participated in this event. I had been out having Greek food with the Creative Writing Club. I was the president. Outgoing now and we were going over the Colloquial. That's what we called our paper we released. Although, it really isn't a paper as more of a mini book.
Now, I had submitted some writing for the journal. Most of what I wrote was humorous. Anything I submitted was not personal in nature, but as I'm pouring over the table of contents, I see that I have two entries. I see them, read them, and seeing them in physical print they seem so much darker then I had intended. I sound like an emo child, who experiments with blades along with recreational drugs.
No respect for authority. Certainly
not this authority. Sit down. Don't
offend. Nod and curtsy. Grit
to feel it. Verbal abuses
against politics and music. Talk
of how the world's going to end.
May the good Lord take us now.
I can't help but feel
like sinning. Doing anything
to spit, hurt and disparage them.
They teach us how to live,
then tell us not to think.
It's no wonder I need to sin-
Put on makeup I shouldn't wear,
a dress that shows too much
leg, lie about my sanctity,
make out behind the curtains,
always with someone
with a piercing or a mullet.
Sinning needs to escalate.
I'll take an apple, any kind
would do. Molly and Mary
and Angel and Dust. We'll live
and love falling
on the dance floor, crying and hurt
Blame Madonna. There's nothing wrong with rehab. It's not quite the shame it used to be.
"I Stole A Rowboat"
My parents got a divorce
because I ruined their lives My mom
bruised my father- took a statue
of Jesus, slammed it over his head.
He was in the hospital.
When he got out,
he went to her house, threw a rock
in a window, then walked home
and told me not to cry. They were too busy
With one another to realize
how they abandoned me.
At fourteen, I started drinking,
binging, until I threw up
all over my father's car.
He sent me to rehab. At least
that's what he tried. I told him
I wasn't goin. Mother shrugged, cigarette in hand, said
"Girls just wanna have fun."
They didn't care about me.
I stopped drinking, let go of cocaine
settled back into home life. I saw our neighbor buy a rowboat, a little wooden boat- serene,
beautiful. I took the paddles, pushed
into the lake and started rowing
The police came to arrest me.
I had stolen a rowboat
My parents never knew
I was gone.
And, yes the Greek food was good. I had spanokopitas. I probably spelled that horribly wrong, but essentially its a pastry with a spinach filling. Delicious. Filling. Only four dollars. Very much in the price range of a poor college student.
A dear friend of mine was there and we hadn't seen each other all summer. I'd been working five, six days, she had as well at the Farmer's Market, and our schedules were just not conducive to seeing one another. So, of course after we've all eaten, and we're disbanding, she suggest we do something.
Of course. What a great idea. Mind, you I have no idea what this is. I'm culturally unaware. I didn't know what this is, so we're in the car and she tells me. If you don't know hookah is basically a middle Eastern version of cigarettes or cigars.
Some people say it's healthier then cigarettes. I don't know. It could be. But, you're still inhaling smoke into your lungs, and putting water vapor out. It's not great for you.
We get there and this place is in a shady part of town. We walk in, we got carded, and we sit down in these low to the floor lounges. I love it. This is the kind of place you can really put your feet up. My friend orders hookah. I think it was an orange-mint, but I honestly can't remember.
It's a Saturday night. We're alone, so of course we invite other people to come join us for some hookah. Boomer came. You do not understand how great this was. I'm sipping my cappuccino (Dear, God, it was so hot) and in walks Boomer. If you met Boomer, you would just understand how uncomfortable this is to imagine him in a hookah bar.
This large, intricate container comes, with the two tubes connected to it. This is the hookah jar, container, thing. The waiter, server, person comes over and puts this two little square cubes on top of it. He blows on them and I'm informed that the hookah is ready. Whenever, my friend takes a drag from one of the mouthpieces the water in the basin starts to bubble.
My personal favoirte song that came on was “If you're ratchet and you know it. Clap your hands.”
I clapped my hands everytime.