A rainy juxtaposition

Lightning flashes. Rain hits my window, creating rivulets that slide down slow as molasses.

A peek at some raindrops.
A peek at some raindrops.

I’m safe in my room. My hotel room. My own bathroom in the back, my own king-sized bed in the front facing the window. I turn off the TV and my bedside table lamp to make it lighter outside, but sky blue sheer curtains interrupt my view slightly. The air conditioner hums to remind me I can’t open my window to smell the rain.

I’m under the covers, picking at the acne between my eyebrows and trying to string together the web of raindrops on my window to make something work. Anything work.

My parents and brothers have roofs over their heads, even though it isn’t raining where any of them are right now. There’s just one storm cloud over the palace –– yes, palace ––  I call “home.”

I can’t help but think about the man with the sign. He stands at several intersections around here. Yellow light.

Red light.

I have two bicycles, a car and a family that loves me, but no sir, I cannot spare any change.

I’m too busy buying myself smoothies, that extra bicycle, lunch and $100 worth of clothing I don’t even need. I have enough articles of clothing to last me a laundry-less month, for Christ’s sake, not to mention a backup computer just in case the one in my lap fails right now. And then a smartphone when both fail. (They won’t.)

But I won’t even look or read your sign when I pull up right next to you at that red light. There’s a $20 bill in my wallet that I don’t need, but it sure will come in handy when I want an overpriced sandwich later. Or panini. Or salted caramel ice cream from my favorite ice cream shop in town (that I’ve already been to seven times since moving back here five weeks ago). Whatever.

I’ll bop around to Katy Perry’s newest CD on one of the four iPods I own and pretend to be really interested in the license plate on the car in front of me. But I’m not.

My face gets hot, my cheeks turn red. I try to look at you using my peripherals. I want you to notice the rough condition the paint on my car’s hood is in. I want you to know that I have bills to pay, tuition to scramble around for and that I work hard for my money.

I tuck a lock of hair I paid $120 to get cut, colored and styled behind my diamond-earringed ear.

My parents don’t give me money; I provide for myself… but I can’t help but wonder who was supposed to provide for you.

You, bearded, homeless; swallowing enough pride to beg, beg for help. Admitting you need it. Not caring about the judgments and the little redheaded bitch in her Volkswagen Bug who drives by you nearly every. Single. Day.

 

Green light.

I’m safe in my room. My hotel room. My own bathroom in the back, my own king-sized bed in the front facing the window. But I wonder where you are tonight and hope you’re dry. I hope you’re safe. I hope I get the gall to hold out a couple dollars or even a coffee. Get everyone to do it. Start a chain reaction with the BMWs, Cadillacs and Audis around me.

But for now I’m just ashamed of myself. Ashamed of my ignorance. Ashamed because you deserve some respect, just like everyone else.

Cowboy Casanova

I like country music, not going to lie. Carrie Underwood is one of my favorite artists. My best friend Katie is a country music addict and a real farm girl, and she sort of made me see the light when it comes to twangy country music. I don’t like all of it, but quite a bit of it is okay. All of the songs have meaning to them. Not every genre can say that.

So, for our school’s talent show (known as G-Town Showdown), Katie and my other friend Alex were stuck on having me sing Carrie Underwood’s “Cowboy Casanova” and they were planning on making up a dance to do in the background. I never thought we would put it together. A week before G-Town tryouts, I had them up to my house and we tried to figure out how it could work. In the end, we decided we needed some other people to join our gang. We needed boys.

So, our hunt began for a cowboy. We originally only wanted one. We bugged quite a few people, but none of them wanted to do it. So, we tried out with their dance and my singing and told our principal (who had to oversee the tryouts) that we were planning on adding a couple of cowboys into the act for the show. He had no problem with that.

We managed to nab one guy to be a cowboy (our friend Jarred). Then, our friend Cody wanted in, and we figured we could use another cowboy and that would be fine. Then, we realized that we each would need one or we would only be able to have two (none of us wanted to be the one without the cowboy if there could only be two). At the last minute, before the rehearsal for the talent show the day before, we added in our last cowboy (Marcus) and they learned the dance right before we were to go onstage for the rehearsal.

The next day at school, our cowboys showed up decked out in cowboy gear; they seriously went all out and we were pleased that they were so into it.

We performed. I wore my favorite dress (slinky black with a zipper down the front. Yes, the front).

The audience loved it. Many of them know I can write, but not very many of them knew that I could sing. I gained the respect of even more people.

We didn’t win (only got Honorable Mention, whatever the hell that means).

So many people told us afterward that we should have won. I agree with those people.

Here’s the performance (wait for the introduction of our group known as “EKA” [Emily, Katie, Alex – fyi we didn’t come up with that name – the hosts did]):

No, Miley. I don’t ever wish to be a “Fly On The Wall”

I feel like ranting. Hope you’re ready for this.

I just viewed Miley Cyrus’s video for “Fly On The Wall.” Now, I didn’t mean to watch it, I was perfectly happy with the 3OH!3 video that was before it, but I cannot control the playlist on Playlist. Though I wish I could, sadly I cannot.

She is so annoying. I hate all of these pop artists that think they are hot shit and stuff. They think that absolutely everyone loves them, even though quite a few people obviously don’t. Another example is Beyonce’s “Irreplaceable.” Now, I respect Beyonce more than Miley, but the whole “I could have another you in a minute” really cheesed me off. Yes, Beyonce, now we know that you are a whore and like it. Good for you! Now shut up.

Anyway, back to Miley.

It just feels like the perfect time to rant about her again. Remember my post from over the summer? Ha… well, here’s more.

I didn’t mind her when she first appeared out of nowhere. I watched Hannah Montana every once in awhile and kind of liked it. After some time, she definitely didn’t grow on me. SpongeBob did, but she didn’t. After the whole Vanity Fair fiasco all I remember thinking is “ew.” I never was a fan of hers, but after the magazine thing, I didn’t care for her at all. Here she is, this role model on Disney Channel for all of these young kids that love and adore her, and then she has to do something like that. Gross.

Her voice is awful, I don’t think she’s that pretty, and her chipmunk teeth annoy the hell out of me. The part in the music video when the “paparazzis” start dancing really got to me. She’s just standing there with her mouth part way open and her teeth sticking out. Very attractive. She’s obviously trying to break free of “cute little Miley” and trying to be “bad ass Miley.” It’s not working. All of these Disney people seem to think they have to prove that they aren’t as “goody goody” as they seem. It’s starting to get a little annoying, to tell you the truth.

I feel bad for all of the young kids that look up to this Miley character. Pretty soon they’ll be wearing really tight jeans and throwing their hair about in an attempt to be like Miley, who tries to be sexy. She’s a little older than I am, but she is acting like she’s in her twenties. If being a “Fly On The Wall” means having to listen to stupid gossip and hair products and clothes and shoes, well, I hope they see me and swat me. Or…I could buzz around her head and annoy the hell out of her. Yes, that sounds much better. In the meantime, I’ll stick with only ONE “Fly On The Wall.” Instead of watching Miley’s horrible video, go read the book Fly On The Wall by e. lockhart. It’s far better than any song Miley will ever sing. (Attempt to sing…)