I started a new blog. I’m still working out the kinks, and maybe I’ll give it up eventually, but right now it’s where I’m writing. Check it out:

http://fannonfic.tumblr.com/

<3

–Mae

THINGS I HAVE BEEN BUSY DOING

1) Acquiring a (FREE) stress ball shaped like a smiling penis. It is smiling because it is so healthy (I think). At the bottom of the penis it says “Get tested for syphilis five times a year!”

2) Watching The Wire. All of it. I sat through a lot of fake shootings, fake beatings, and fake accents–because the guy who plays McNulty is secretly British, and so is the guy who plays Stringer! My dad showed me a YouTube clip of Stringer (“Idris Elba”) introducing some Masterpiece Theater and calling people “ahtists” in a shirt that I think was SILK. Actors, man. You can never tell how much silk they own!!!

3) Talking to my dad about elliptical trainers. He doesn’t like them because he can’t figure out if he’s going forwards or backwards. Or, as he put it: “I get on them, and I start moving, and I’m like, what IS that?” My dad is a college professor. To all his students who are scared of him: you are also scared of elliptical trainers indirectly. Which means double indirectly, you are scared of walking. Which means suck it up.

4) Buying a bed. It was surprisingly hard (no pun intended) (especially no dirty pun, what would that EVEN MEAN) because whenever I lie on a mattress that is for sale, I want it. It feels great. Lying down is sick. Eventually, I picked (at random) a ridiculously hard mattress–it is like I have an icebox where my mattress used to be, ONE COULD SAY–but I don’t even care. Other people care. Other people think I must be kind of severe. But I am in my extremely firm bed right now, getting enough back support for at least four people, and I am so happy!

So, those are my top four excuses for having no internet presence. I’ll try to write something SOON/tomorrow? Love to anyone who has stuck with my blog through the thick and the very very vanishingly thin.

So animals do not see me as an authority figure. (Neither do children. Neither do adults.) And yet, just by being a human and being bigger than her and paying rent, I have some authority over my roommate’s cat. I can do things like pick her up and move her out of the bathroom when I’m showering, or close doors so she can’t go into/out of rooms. . This drives her nuts. The first night I slept in the apartment, I closed my door and the cat sat outside ALL NIGHT, not sleeping, not eating, and not liking me. Sometimes she would stick her paw under the door and hold it cat-palm up, like a little begging orphan. She would also flex her claws, like a little begging DRAGON orphan. Badum chhhh. Badum fire. I should delete that because it’s so unfunny but I can’t because it’s also suuuch an honest look inside my brain. That is all there is in there. “Badum fire” floating around in like, Comic Sans.

Anyway, I wish there was a way I could talk to the cat and just be like, “Hey, I know I don’t inspire a ton of respect. I know you saw me break my own mirror by sitting on it. But I respect you, and what you do, which is lounge around all day smelling the walls of the apartment. I know sometimes I pick you up and move you out of the bathroom, but I think if you had really comprehensive information about what goes on in there, you wouldn’t mind. Please don’t be mad at me. I think you are special!”

Cats don’t talk though, so my plan is mad foiled right now. I need a new plan. My backup plan so far is “become likeable” but I feel like it needs to be fleshed out more.

One time I was sitting outside a restaurant with my friend, pretty bored and also (as I will reveal again in this same sentence) kind of sexually frustrated, and I was like, “Man, friend, I just want to make out with someone. It doesn’t really matter who. I would make out with that horse.”

Because right then one of there was one of those horse and carriages going by. Also, I call all my friends “friend.” It’s like how Quakers call each other “Oats.”

So my friend looks up (GRAVELY) at this horse clopping down the street and then she looks at me and she goes, “Yeah, that makes sense. You both have big teeth.”

She was not wrong. But the horse was kind of gone by that point and if the horse had approached me, maybe I would have gone for it, but I wasn’t going to really pursue the horse. I hear the horse was kind of a douche anyway. A good horse does not kiss and neigh. Or kiss and hoove. Or kiss and ponytail. (What is the horse equivalent of kiss and tell? Why can’t I stop talking? THE END. THE END.)

SIDE NOTE: I love the parentheses in that song title. I literally could look at them all day while smiling lovingly. The only way the title could be better is if it was “(Tonight) I’m (Lovin’ You)” or maybe “(Tonight I’m)(Lovin’ You)” and then you would have to use the FOIL method to talk about the song at all.

We’re listening to this song and my dad’s like, “This song is kind of… shrill,” and I was like, “Also, fun fact: it’s actually called ‘Tonight I’m Fuckin’ You.’ This is the radio edit.”

My dad, being old, is shocked and like, wonders if this has something to do with Twitter. Which is what old people wonder about everything. They see a cloud in the sky and they are like, “It is there because of Twitter.”

So later that day we’re driving back from wherever we were driving to, and that Nelly song “Just A Dream” is on the radio. And we’re listening to the part where Nelly’s telling you to put your hands up if you’ve ever loved somebody, and suddenly my dad (as if waking from a long sleep! Which is weird because he was driving and being asleep while you drive is party foul numero uno!) goes:

“But he’s really saying ‘If you’ve ever fucked somebody put your hands up.’ Right?”

Which is not right, but I bet someone makes a song that says that soon. People like putting their hands up, people like profanity… it seems like a hit waiting to happen! Or multiple hits waiting to happen! Once “If you’ve ever fucked somebody put your hands up” drops, it’s only a matter of time before “If you’ve ever shat somewhere put your hands up.”  And THEN it’s only a matter of time before insta-classic of 2016, “If you’ve ever ass put your hands up.”

I was just listening to this in the car coming back from Whole Foods (my life is so interesting it should honestly be a reality show. A reality show called “Driving To And From Stores And Listening To The Top 40 Alone.”). There is a part in the song where Chris Brown says, sort of unclearly, “Move your body like a snake.” But I thought he said “Move your body like SNAPE.”

Which made me lol alone in the car. “Okay baby, put on that cloak. Now don’t wash your hair for a week. Now move your body like Snape… that’s right, stir the potion. Stir it real nice. Now get your wand out… yep, you got it. Kill Dumbledore. Oh man, I love you. I love dead Dumbledore. This is the best love song you’ve ever heard in your life! Avada Kedavra!”

It’s rare that something is so corny and so factually inaccurate at the same time. Like, maybe three tears together could constitute a waterfall, but A SINGLE tear is not a waterfall. It is a waternothing.

Also wtf YOU ARE GROWN MEN, COLDPLAY MEMBERS. Can you imagine being an adult man and introducing yourself to someone like, “Hey, I’m in my 30s, I’m responsible, I pay my taxes. Oh and I also invented this great all-purpose saying, ‘Every Tear is a Waterfall.’ Excellent for Christmas, New Years, and birthdays!”

It’s so depressing I just want to cry and then go listen to “Cry Me A River,” a song about crying that makes sense. Britney SHOULD cry JT a river! And she probably did!

Tupac’s face belongs on a shirt. He is important. He died tragically. I wouldn’t even hate if I saw Tupac face pants.

But today, I saw a dress with guess whose face emblazoned on it? Not Tupac’s. Not Biggie’s. Not even Reba McEntire’s. It was CHELSEA HANDLER’S FACE, my friends. All big and graffiti-style. On a sundress.

WHY. WHY. Watching YouTube clips of Chelsea Handler’s standup is literally what I do when I want to wallow in the depths of despair. Her standup is the saddest. She has a joke (literally! I am going to say literally a lot in this post because without saying it I don’t know how to talk about Chelsea Handler!) about how hard it is to divide numbers by twelve. Like, who can DO that? She also has a joke about how some babies are assholes, which sounds like it could be funny except that is the whole joke, beginning, middle, and end included: “Some babies are assholes.” She has another joke (I could do this all day, I hope somebody stops me soon) that goes “I pooped in my boyfriend’s bathroom, and it smelled.” If I had the power to read minds, I would never read Chelsea Handler’s because that shit would put me to SLEEP. I might wake up in the middle of sleeping and think, “Why don’t you learn some simple mental math tricks, Chelsea?!” but I would fall back asleep almost immediately.

I am happy (sort of) that Chelsea Handler is able to support herself, despite her chronically boring reflections on the human condition/her own poop, but her face does not belong on clothing. She is not on that level. Also, she is alive, and face clothing status is mostly reserved for dead people (and Reba. I like Reba! She seems very friendly!).

]]> http://mae1023.wordpress.com/2011/06/26/face-shirts/feed/ 0 mae1023 tupacshirt http://mae1023.wordpress.com/2011/06/19/new-york-i-love-you-but-i-dont-love-the-g-train/ http://mae1023.wordpress.com/2011/06/19/new-york-i-love-you-but-i-dont-love-the-g-train/#comments Sun, 19 Jun 2011 21:52:00 +0000 mae1023 http://mae1023.wordpress.com/?p=961 ]]> I moved to New York! At least for the summer, and maybe for longer. So far, everything has worked out perfectly, and I am living in a nice apartment I found on Craigslist (where you can find everything nice, and also serial killers!). People keep hating on my living sitch, though, for two reasons:

1) It is near the worst train ever, the G train. This is the main way I have made friends so far. People talk about trains all the time here (I don’t know why… I overheard a couple arguing for so long about the relative merits of uptown routes that I thought they were going to BREAK UP and then MURDER EACH OTHER and then GO UPTOWN ON THE 1 AND 2 RESPECTIVELY but as ghosts) and so when I meet someone new I try to weave into the conversation that I take the G to work. You think no one in New York has maternal impulses, because they are coldhearted city slickers, but that is just because YOU commute on the A. I have never gotten more pity. It’s pretty deserved, though–the G is always getting rerouted so that like, instead of a bunch of stops, there is just one stop. And the one stop is like,  jail. Automatic 20-life sentence! Do not pass go! Do not collect $200! Thanks for taking the G train!

2) My immediate neighborhood is very nice. There are a lot of bodegas, where you can buy many, many different kinds of meat. In bulk! Marcy Houses is in my less immediate neighborhood, though, which makes some of my friends think I am going to die immediately. On the other hand, it makes my dad very happy. He called me after he Googled my neighborhood, and he said it looked a littttttle shady.

“Then again,” he said, “it can’t be that bad. Jay-Z is from right around there!”

This comment raises a lot of questions, the main one being: How does my dad know where Jay-Z grew up? Is he secretly young? Does he have a Twitter account that he keeps on the DL? Does he know what FUPA means? You should ask him, because I don’t want to…

1) Getting them workshopped. This was especially hard in my current fiction class, because you are not allowed to speak while the class discusses your story. So if someone had said, “Mae seems like a pervert,” I would have just had to sit there like a mute while everyone shook their heads sadly. Not that that happened. On the other hand, no one was like, “Mae really doesn’t seem like a pervert.”

2)  Actually writing them. There are a lot of words I want to exist that just aren’t in the English language. For example, if you want to talk about a penis, “penis” is pretty clinical; “dick” is pretty British street urchin-y, and also the name of my childhood piano teacher; “wang” just makes you sound like a wang (the boomerang of penis vocabulary!)… etc. I went with dick but didn’t feel great about it.

3) Related to (2), but there are also a bunch of words you can’t use because of romance novels, like “ravish” and “throbbing” and “member” (ughhhhh it makes me never want to join a club again… because then I will be a member! Badum chhhhh) and “yearn.” No one should yearn for a ravishing member to throb over to their house. You know? But then it’s like Fabio stole half your vocabulary. (In India, one of the beach shacks had a lot of romance novels, and I read one called The Billionaire’s Step-Daughter’s Love Child’s Lover. Or something. That is why I know about this. Also, I read Twilight, although that was more a “liquid eyes”/”bronze hair”/”no sex” situation.)

4) My parents are really supportive about how I like to write, so they asked to see my story. And I was like, “Well… no” and they were like, “Why? It’s okay if it’s bad… we’ve read a lot of other bad stuff you’ve written.” (Which they really have.)

So then I had to be like, “You know how all my friends got consulting jobs? Well, I’m sort of like them. Except instead of doing consulting for money, I write porn. For free.”