Aug. 23, 2003 - 1:26 a.m.
Dear Vincent,
I'm making an earnest effort to stop biting my nails. Typing is aiding and abetting that effort, thinking is working conscientiously against it. You see, as long as I am literally writing this letter it is physically impossible for me to bite my nails. Unless, I suppose I was typing this letter with one hand- unlikely, I haven't the patience for that. Always having been the student in elementary school who left the articles out of my writing and abbreviating anything that could be abbreviated and even things that couldn't be to keep up with what was going through my head... it would be folly to suppose such a girl would take the time to type with one hand. As long as I keep randomly firing away at this letter I'm fine. But it's when I pause to think, to search for a better word or phrase, to consider what I've just written... like just then, that I find I'm biting my nails. I very aware of biting them it's not something I do subconsciously. So as I pause and put my fingers to my lips, or up to tug on my earlobe I reason that biting my nails helps me think better. Which, seems reasonable enough. People seem to excuse my other 'it helps me think' quirks. "It's quiet from one to three in the morning- no one bothers me..." or "I can't be bothered with my legs when I'm writing, so I need to tuck them under me." Albeit, they roll their eyes when they say 'yeh.' But even to me it sounds unbelievable, or slightly skewed when I say, "It helps me think when I chew on my fingers..." If perchance, my letters become rambling and irritating whilst I employ the shotgun method of writing them so my nails remain unbitten, my apologies Vincent. Bad habits die hard.
Here's a paradox for you Vincent: I've recently been reading "Sense and Sensibility" by Jane Austin. I like it but I have to be in the mood for it. The writing is oh so formal and I have to grow instantly accustomed to a world where people 'quit' rooms rather than 'leave' them. Deciding to read for fifteen minutes before heading home from town, I installed myself on a bench in a park yesterday just a breath short of twilight. I had been there naught but a few minutes when several girls, staggered drunkenly by and landed, and I do mean landed, a few feet from my bench. Rending myself from reality I forced myself to ignore their stuttered and bubbling giggling and screeching, determined to get through at least five more pages before the light left, and I 'quitted' the park. "Please understand Miss Dashwood, no offense was intended," I read, "my most sincere apologies." Seemingly harmless lines, but when supplemented with the ravings of several nasty drunks in the back round- it read a bit more like this. "Please understand Miss Dashwood fucking bitch!, no offense whore! was intended dick!, my most friggin' asshole! sincere apologies." Add a slur to certain choice words and there you have it Vincent, Jane Austin at her very finest and most modern.
My path has crossed with that of a guy from my elementary school years. I remember Joe, because Joe in all his infinite wisdom, taught me that there were one hundred pennies in a dollar. I, a capitalist from the first, assumed that one dollar was the equivalent of one penny. I wish he'd have let me go on thinking that because I would feel a great bit better about the economic recession if I thought we'd lost millions of pennies.
Joe tells me I 'still' wear my heart on my sleeve. I told him that it becomes a problem in summer when I go in for tank tops.
Thinking... nope got to stop that.
Okay so. In first grade I was the class kisser. I well remember the first time I kissed a boy. His name was Nick and I kissed him right on the cheek because he was cute and I liked him. He turned twenty shades of bewildered, seventeen shades of panicked and one ugly shade of disgusted. "Mrs. Bordello," he stormed, "Meghan kissed me on my cheek." His eyes sought mine triumphantly, I was going to miss recess. Mrs. Bordello turned her owl eyes on Nick, discerning he was no worse for the wear she placated, "Meghan was just trying to be nice Nick." Nick was not to be put off, "She was trying," he proclaimed theatrically, with a wavering finger pointed in my direction, "to torment me." Mrs. Bordello turned to me wearily and admonished, "Don't do it again Meghan." Incidentally, I really was just trying to be nice.
A tendency: In the morning, when I shower I start off with lukewarm water. As I shower, I inch up the nozzle by the smallest of fractions until the water becomes scalding, at which point, I get out.
My Aunt Ro, a woman of high society in New York is to attend a wedding for a third cousin of mine in somewhere but basically nowhere Illinois. She is the representative being sent from my mother's side of the family from the East Coast this time. Last time it was my Uncle Dean. Woefully, she discussed at length with me via the telephone the duress under which this trip is putting her. At the last wedding of the sister of said third cousin's sister, beer and pretzels were the main course, and the reception held in someone's backyard. Naturally, my Aunt Ro is not used to such things. "A boondoggle." she called it. A boondoggle is defined as a 'wasteful or trivial activity.' I suspect that a wedding can only be termed a boondoggle after a couple has divorced, but she didn't seem in the mood to hear that so I refrained from sharing. Another side note about the potential boondoggle is that the bride is marrying her sister's husband's brother. Which means, that the bride and her groom are not only to be man and wife, but also sister in law and brother in law. Aunt Ro's remark about this feature of the wedding was that this wedding is a "shotgun wedding." Again, I think Aunt Ro's word choice may be slightly off. As a shotgun wedding is one in which typically the man is reluctant to get married so the bride's daddy keeps him at the alter with his shotgun. From what I've heard through the family, the bride and groom seem to have no qualms about their marriage. Alas, I was slighted from the list of invited guests. I should think that a wedding with so much potential to be any of the above would be worth attending. Not only that, but I would so like to see how the floral arrangements are worked about the shotgun if it does come to that.
Scarcely,
Meghan
what they said - what they will say
