On the ground level of The College's library there are many couches, illustrating not only the school's thoughtfulness but also the students' ability to appreciate such thoughtfulness: Especially during break times, many are found utilising this facility, sprawled and asleep in all directions like sprinkled ice cream toppings.
Do I appreciate such thoughtfulness too?
Yes, of course I do.
This afternoon I realised how much I would miss losing consciousness on public property this way during the upcoming month-long VACATION! so I decided to let the couch kiss my hair one last time. Once my head hit the soft leather the lights in my head automatically switched off. At times I wonder if we should blame blackouts on leather couches instead. Short circuits - SO BORING. News Tonight: Blackout Caused By Leather Couch - Infinitely more interesting.
An hour later I felt a tug on my sleeve and woke up with a jolt. A fellow student I didn't know peered at me almost fearfully and began, "Hey, I think you should be careful... Your skirt is short..." At first I thought she meant to warn me about a booking for my scandalously short skirt. Biting her lip, she tried to find that words that eluded her, words that I suppose sound something like, YOUR ASS IS AIRING ON INTRASCHOOL TV.
I mumbled confused thanks, gave a weak smile, threw my jacket over my ass, and watched her leave. When my head connected with the leather again (It's that damned leather couch!) through the miasma of sleep I wondered idly if I should have bothered waking up at all, and if I should have simply replied, "Now you know the colour I'm wearing. Cool." and gone straight back to dreamland.
If anyone thinks that The College is a cold place it's probably because they've been using the air-conditioning for too long. The College has such thoughtful people... and I'm not saying this because of the couch per se.
My hip is very self-assertive in the sense that it feels a need to hit on every object possible, living or otherwise. I don't intentionally hump or bump into walls, but whenever I navigate, somehow I'll manage to sustain bruises on my hip from hostile corners and sneaky edges and acute elbows.
I used to tell Mr X about how annoying it was, especially to acquaintances who have had the privilege of experiencing my pushy hip, and he used to say, "Some people don't know a good thing when it comes." It always made me pleased, not having to admit that the problem lay not so much in the hip's personality flaw as in my being a klutz who'd have more success crawling without tripping over a limb maybe.
My upcoming month-long June holidays, starting day after tomorrow, will be spent mostly on studying for the exams at the end of this blessed VACATION!, though the studying part hasn't completely sunk into consciousness and killed my optimism yet, so all my brain hears when you say June holidays! is, LOVE! WANT BOOZE? (Did I really make it this far into 2006? Whoa!)
The hyperactivity sparked by the growing intimacy of reality with VACATION! has filtered down to every single part of me including my heart which is pumping with force enough to squirt liquid some thousand metres high. As for my hip, it has blatantly announced its existence to a few classmates.
Yesterday morning I tried to dislodge Z's hip using my own with an Angelique rendition of High-fiving: Using Hips, Because That's Hip, Because Angelique Says So. After witnessing Z fly across the corridor I realised that Hip Attack has anti-gravity effects and can propel an object, wailing or otherwise, some distance up and away. And I couldn't wait to do it again, except she wouldn't let me. Upon which my hip moved on to victimise E and J.
After executing Hip Attack on those three different people with similar anti-gravity results my contented hip became a devotee of World Peace. But while minding my own business trying to make conversation with E, J and Z separately, they launched a hip revolt that I fell for on all three occasions, which made me realise that retribution is hard to escape.
It also added to the already overpopulating, overlapping, and superimposing bruises on my hip, and I imagine that if I were to draw a line through these dark spots I would find the graph of a complicated Mathematical equation.
It's a conspiracy; every Friday night I'm at the desk having a delicious assignment for dinner and suddenly my alarm clock won't shut up AGAIN; it's still dark when I wake up on a Monday morning and I realise that GOOD LORD, all I remember of the weekend? Is that I had the privilege of regaining consciousness after the sunrise, twice. This is what I imagine the aftermath of drunk sex would feel like: The Morning After dominated by a room that won't stop spinning and the persistent thought, What the fuck happened?
Some part of me hopes that the other part of me wisely squirrelled away all those years of weekends into a Swiss bank account for withdrawal upon retirement, because my existence seems to surround Rushing these days: Assignments, deadlines, plans. In the near future I'll graduate, attend University, get a degree, find a job, work, work, die, work, work, get married, work, change diapers, work, nag at kids, work, blow up the damned kitchen, work, retire, decay.
I think I need a vacation right now to figure out where I'm heading. I need to stop worrying about petrol prices and affordable housing and the taxes/bills I'll have to foot because the thought makes me so guilty to spend another cent that anorexia seems to equate thriftiness.
I don't want my life to be all about counting down to the next deadline or the next disappearing weekend, or the next gram of chocolate I'll forgo because I'm thinking about the house I want to own a few years down the road.
It's been 6 weeks since that painful break-up and, just to make today seem a little brighter, I looked through private entries written during those very bleak days. It's like spraining your ankle and feeling better by focusing on how much more crippling being truly, literally crippled is.
I came across an entry which made me thankful for a classmate, Z, who saved my life by shoving chocolate down my food pipe for an entire fortnight, the most difficult fortnight of my life whose enduring legacy takes the form of weight gained thanks to a nothing-but-chocolate diet, and three tragically overdue and still uncompleted pieces of homework.
The entry:
"I'm feeling shitty."
"Here, have some chocolate."
"I feel so fucked up. You know, I emailed him last night."
"About?"
"His stuff. I asked him if he wanted them back."
"Okay."
"And my stuff, especially this soft toy doggy. I told him to keep it if it meant anything to him."
"Is he keeping it?"
"Yeah, he is."
"..."
"OH GOD HE LOVES MY SOFT TOY MORE THAN MY HEART."
"OH GOD. EAT CHOCOLATE."
"You're right."
And then I stuff chocolate down my throat.
I'd wanted to place a few land masses between Z's head and her body for ruining my plans to become professionally anorexic; in those dark days mass murder and pious fasting made sense, in perspectives skewed myopically towards problems of global population explosion and the divine, sacred hour-glass figure.
Today I'm bitter about having to lose weight, but then I'd rather be heavy than be dead, and maybe it's because I don't know what death feels like. Though I suppose no one can ever prefer being dead after they've experienced it; to my best knowledge corpses have a tedious lack of opinion or conviction.
Anyway, this limerick gone as wrong as my love life is dedicated to Z:
To make sure I didn't croak, Z shoved food down my throat, And so I ate And ate and ate And binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged and binged until I became as fat as an overfed goat.
I was thinking about how living, to me, has degenerated to become nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction and a mindless pole dance. This was proven beyond doubt when an acquaintance approached me in the school library and promptly informed me, "Angelique, you're sitting next to a sign that says, 'Physical attraction'!"
The 'C' fell for me! <3
I then hung upon the sign like a hooker soliciting business on the streets, personality dolled up to match the wildly painted face, mini skirt, and push up bra; cheap perfume sickeningly sweet, like the scent of fast decaying flesh; yesterday's tears and broken dreams tucked away carefully in black pantyhose, to be emptied out later in the privacy of a small dimly-lighted rented room.
On days like this I wonder what it really means to be alive and whether I really am alive, or if I might wake up to a different world and find He Who Programmed My Mind thanking me, in between hysterical laughter, for being his experimental subject. "I hope you had fun," he would say.
"I've never thought highly of X and her clique anyway."
"Why are they so mean?"
"I don't know. The other day X was looking at someone else and saying, 'Oh my God she's so fat and ugly!' and I'm like--"
"I'm sorry if this sounds mean but... Isn't this a pot and kettle case?"
"Yeah."
"X is like twice my size!"
*laughter*
Sometimes I suspect that people publicly put others down because they themselves are so disconcertingly hideous in physical appearance. I doubt they realise that it backfires and instead draws attention to their own flaws. In my opinion, undergoing liposuction is more productive, even in the short term, than releasing hurtful words as though from a hole in an overinflated balloon, the spiteful outburst highlighting the existence of the unfortunate orifice.
It's raining noodles! Hallelujah! And the noodles shall inherit the earth!
If you know me, pretend you don't. If you don't know me, don't pretend you do.
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Do I appreciate such thoughtfulness too? 
CMNT
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