Emily Burroughs's Weblog

Born Ruffians (thanks Brian!)

Electra bikes, specifically the Amsterdam models

WWII propaganda from England, a reproduction, of course.

Fay disappointed, big time (knock on wood, because you know as soon as I get cocky, that bastard is going to gain strength in the Atlantic and hit us with full force) but instead of checking out the higher than usual surf or driving my car through would-be flooded streets displaying “NO WAKE!” signs…then blissfully ignoring the signage at 45mph, I watched Beauty & The Beast followed by Fatal Attraction. Somehow before and after my movie marathon, I tried to get my bedroom organization on point to some degree of success but I was distracted by my cat, Blacky…because he’s so darn cute.

Tomorrow will be a new day without Fay threats for the time being.

The A.M.: Run around the park, mail out my business
The P.M.: Attempt memorizing the location of Africa’s capitals, see half of the original line-up for the Smashing Pumpkins perform in Clearwater

I would be more excited if I weren’t so tired.

When he traveled time
For the future of mankind
Nobody wants him
He just stares at the world.” – Black Sabbath

I am the worst person I know. Not that I’m particularly abhorrent or contemptuous, just that my personality (only sometimes) will drop to the pit of my stomach and a chill settles in my brain just as cold and invisible as I am.

Going to the ophthalmologist (yeah, I definitely had to use spell-check), Dr. Hall puts his hands in various positions on my forehead and cheek as to adjust how my lid lays on my clouded right eye. Going to the orthopaedist, Dr. Bramlet yanks my leg out from under me and contorts it as to verify the solidity of my bones.

These are the only times I am touched, save the final goodbye at the end of some outings with friends. The hug is all too familiar and a foreign hand or arm typically lands on the same familiar spots. It is expected and returned with less enthusiasm. For any reason (be it from someone of an irregular height or just general clumsiness), this other hand or arm strays on lesser traveled territory, it strikes something within me close to the feeling of watching Pulp Fiction on cable. Every missed curse word, every cut scene sours my mood. The feeling is not very strong, only to express a sigh and a look of annoyance.

It’s been so long since I’ve been touched, I no longer recognize the motion as welcoming, let alone serving any kind of gratification that it might be the reason why I’m so damn excited to start school. I get to be in very close proximity to the words that will tell me all about the human race and I will be tested of what I know and how I know it. The other seats around me with those other bodies which fill them will just float away from me.

It’s as if I were a ‘bot nee human who will always enjoy a playground’s swings.

But also, those Cord Bank commercials freak me out. Give me death or destruction but I don’t want to see an advertisement for growing and harvesting organs. It’s just in bad taste.

With a gyro dripping from too many condiments in one hand and imported cider-beer already making it’s way down my intestinal tract at 2 a.m… somehow, I always find myself in front of Malindy Elene. No matter where I need to be as I make my way further downtown, I pass by the petite and bright bridal shoppe. Two dresses are on either side of the white double doors and a few rolling racks of other dresses looking almost hopeful that they’ll be next in line to be on either dress form. It’s not about the income one might have to purchase anything in this shop, more so how much clean and white can exist in front of dirty, silly, sullen, drunken me. It’s my Breakfast At Tiffany’s moment. I feel like I’m playing a bizarre version of Barbie, imagining what young hopeful will don one of those dresses and that she should have a canary yellow engagement ring to really bring out such unique beading (erm…or the other way around). I see a yacht and a house with the same warm, bright light in her future.

I see greasy cellophane paper and another beer in mine.

Of course, this is my immediate future and I’ve never been very good at predicting my own somewhat distant life.

“You’re secretly afraid you’ll never have kids or get married. That’s what that dream means.” This is the interpretation that is handed to me when I finally get to dreaming again. Perhaps, I always say, though I could never really see myself as a beautiful housewife, dinner-on-the-table-by-five kind of gal. That kind of way of living is completely lost on me. Though I do love making things pretty and I love being creative, but I really love popping-off. I’m the kind of girl that openly curses around children, calls any baby an “it”, and then will burp without excusing herself. I don’t want to change and damn those romantic comedies piled on with Disney-like “enchanted” flights of whimsy for trying to tell me living a beautiful life means a boy must always cure my distress. I don’t find it comforting having my fate lie in anyone’s hands but my own. That’s what marriage is isn’t it? A sharing of fate? How idyllic.

The cellophane has found a new home in the trash bin and instead of grabbing that fourth beer, I head for home on my own two very capable feet firmly connecting with the pavement. They will never expect something to sweep them from it.

Not entirely true. I can totally see myself being swept up onto stretcher again.