Say, ten years from now, I have this little girl, and her father’s gone off and had himself killed by a drunk driver, and I happen to have more topak than I do now, complete with episodes of girl-on-girl lurve, well, if that kid would be asked to write an essay about her family, particularly about her topak mother, this could very well be what it would sound like.
Here’s an excerpt from a really long piece, “No Life in Sheep” — it’s this story that this blog’s named after. How conceited of me, yes, how self-promotional. Tss. And oh, and this, and thirty more pages from the same story, as well as another three-pager, will appear in Heights’ Seniors Folio. Or so the editors say, hehe. :}
I’m half-watching Nigella Lawson as I write this. She’s squishing “plump, juicy, shiny-as-jet” blackberries. She’s going on and on about “you have to squish them really well, but be careful, you don’t want to be hit by all the juices.” Yes, Nigella. Thank you for the tip. And then she’s whipping the cream: “…you have to go on and on, you want to be sure that the cream’s thick and yummy.” Yes. I don’t know which is better — giving her my full attention, seeing her face, watching her exhalations, or turning my gaze away, content to listen, to just listen. And imagine.
She could adopt me. I could sit by the kitchen table all day, my chin resting on my hands. I’d just stare and — oh god, she’s separating the yolk from the egg with her bare hands, the white oozing ever-so-slowly between her French-tipped fingers, oh god — and muse about what a lucky gal I am to wake up to that every day.
Nigella is saying, “I like a thick, thick, white covering. What I like about it, is as the cream seeps down, it sets. Like it’s in suspended animation.” Yes, ma’am, noted.
I haven’t had sleep in so long. I’m typing extra slow, confused as I am by prepositions, by tenses, by antecedents. Punctuation marks too. Haven’t been as productive as I hoped. Wrote about 120 pages today — today being the whole consecutive 36 hours or so I’ve spent awake — and I’m nowhere near done. Responsibilities, yech. Crippling ambitions, ugh. And now what? The lawyers all hide on me. What happened to the Turingans next door?
No, Alanis, this is not irony. It’s just plain malas.
Sorry for the gloominess. I need to crash. I really need to crash. And I so badly need a hug. Or a lawyer. Or some plump, juicy, shiny-as-jet blackberries.