True Fact: Writing a blog requires writing.
It should also require creativity and interesting topics.
Currently I have neither.
When I was a young girl growing up in the middle of nowhere New York I dreamed of things that seemed out of my reach. I wrote poems about loneliness and gruesome death. (I was very into Anne Rice) Through college all I did was write. Short stories, poems, a notebook full of things that were currently bothering me. I wrote more than I studied, my grades would reflect that.
As I reached 30 I ran out of ideas. I ran out of the ability to think. Now I sit at a desk, fearing how boring the next meeting I am forced to attend will be. I think of ways of harming my mortal enemy which never really would work out. I think of harming myself just to get out of here. Mostly I can't think at all. It's as if all intelligence has left my brain and all I have is mush to replace it.
You can't write a blog based on mush. At least not the blog I was intending to write.
I was going to write a blog about being 30. I still might continue to, only I have nothing to say about the topic. Everyday is the same. 30 is the same as every year before it.
Feeling good is only a theory until you buy into it. Like religion or sex. It seems lately I am out of money.
Out of ideas and not ragin' it,
Melissa
Monday, April 26, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Story of the Day
Milk Crates
She began stacking milk crates at the age of ten. At first it was a hobby, the crates were free from the local supermarket and she didn't have many friends. She liked the lines of the crates, the squareness of their shape, the solidness of the plastic. They were light enough for her to lift and easy enough to stack. With some duck tape and Elmer's glue she found she could connect the crates and build things greater in size than she was. Her first project was a bench. The projects only got bigger after that.
Six years later and her crate house was complete. It was three bedrooms two baths with a porch and an eat in kitchen. She said she would live there if only the roof didn't leak, but that is the problem with crates, they aren't completely solid. The house was to be her crowning moment and it would have been but near the end of the completion she had run out of free crates from the supermarket and had to find other sources to supply her with materials.
The stealing began on a Thursday. She was walking home from school and saw a truck parked outside a warehouse loading milk crates onto the back. She nearly walked past, but her fingers began to twitch, her legs started to walk backwards, her eyes bulged as her pulse quickened. Then her feet quickened and she grabbed the first crate throwing the milk on the floor. Eight block later when she knew she was safe she promised herself she would never steal again because it was wrong. The only thing wrong was her posture was starting to bend, she could no longer stand completely straight.
It happened gradually. Since the age of ten her body was slowly bending its way into crate form. Her arms now hit the ground when she walked. She could no longer stack crates, her body wouldn't let her. At the age of twenty she was now a fixture in her own crate house. She stood bent over on the porch while people came to take pictures of the town's new attraction. People would sit on her as her new form made her into a chair. They would take pictures and bring them home to make scrapbooks. Eventually when she died, her skin hardened to plastic and she became the thing she most loved, a milk crate.
30 and wishing to rage it,
Melissa
She began stacking milk crates at the age of ten. At first it was a hobby, the crates were free from the local supermarket and she didn't have many friends. She liked the lines of the crates, the squareness of their shape, the solidness of the plastic. They were light enough for her to lift and easy enough to stack. With some duck tape and Elmer's glue she found she could connect the crates and build things greater in size than she was. Her first project was a bench. The projects only got bigger after that.
Six years later and her crate house was complete. It was three bedrooms two baths with a porch and an eat in kitchen. She said she would live there if only the roof didn't leak, but that is the problem with crates, they aren't completely solid. The house was to be her crowning moment and it would have been but near the end of the completion she had run out of free crates from the supermarket and had to find other sources to supply her with materials.
The stealing began on a Thursday. She was walking home from school and saw a truck parked outside a warehouse loading milk crates onto the back. She nearly walked past, but her fingers began to twitch, her legs started to walk backwards, her eyes bulged as her pulse quickened. Then her feet quickened and she grabbed the first crate throwing the milk on the floor. Eight block later when she knew she was safe she promised herself she would never steal again because it was wrong. The only thing wrong was her posture was starting to bend, she could no longer stand completely straight.
It happened gradually. Since the age of ten her body was slowly bending its way into crate form. Her arms now hit the ground when she walked. She could no longer stack crates, her body wouldn't let her. At the age of twenty she was now a fixture in her own crate house. She stood bent over on the porch while people came to take pictures of the town's new attraction. People would sit on her as her new form made her into a chair. They would take pictures and bring them home to make scrapbooks. Eventually when she died, her skin hardened to plastic and she became the thing she most loved, a milk crate.
30 and wishing to rage it,
Melissa
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