It’s teh Luuuurve™
Today we talk about Teh Awesome Power of teh Luuuurve™. I’m sabaw right now, given a steady diet of eggplant and iced tea, so skip usual introduction to five minutes of a potential waste of your time, and let’s get right down to wasting your time. Besides. If I launch into any semblance of intro, you’ll have to witness a rather embarassing tirade on googly-eyed teenage Sasha, the goodly-eyed teenage Sasha no one really talks about because it’s just too humiliating an existence for the world in its entirety. Because, you know, when Sasha talks about Luuuuve™, it’s all Third-Person-Self-References, and the proclivity to quote Barthes, as well as to use words like “proclivity” — so, yeah, no intro. Hah. Ahem. And since I’m not liking the whole narrative shiznit right now, this shall be my first enumerative post for this blog. Transitions can go to hell.
(You may as well know now, if you don’t already, that my inanity can go to legendary extents.)
1 – Def Jam Poetry makes me happy. They’re so slinky, with their hands and their hips, and the occasional puckered lips. Let the high and righteous keep their single beds! growl Rachel McKibbens and Marty McConnell. Because sometimes, Ann Sexton gives you a headache, and after a night of pure sin, you just can’t look Neruda in the eye with all his Ooh foam OMG APPLES I love you darling poetry. Oh, Pablo, it’s just not the time to write the saddest lines — it’s the time for wanting “a naughty little stepbrother to crawl up into the attic with.”
2 – This was supposed to be the part where I write about the sparkliest asshat ever: Edward Cullen. But then the draft resulted in a thousand-word treatise on the vampire, so never mind. Let’s keep this short. Or shorter than a thousand words.
I read Twilight, as well as the three other books in the series, as well as the first couple of chapters that tells the entire story from Edward’s POV. I crawled out of my rock when the fourth book, Breaking Dawn sent everyone else’s hormones into a frenzy. I was curious, I admit. After all, some of my more loved books involve quarterbacks and conquistadores and monarchs in disguise and men in kilts and whathaveyou. Fabio, hello. You know, Edward Cullen. (Mostly that he’d be played by Robert Pattinson in the movie, and Robert Pattinson = Cedric Diggory. Seriously. Cedric over Victor Krum forever.) I was aware of him in the manner of a half-asleep person knows that there is an ant crawling up his leg. I knew about his marble perfection (yes, we get it, Meyer—the guy’s perfect, get on with it already), and his warm amber gaze (that only reminds me of how a bottle of beer looks at me after I’ve downed six of its cousins). God save me, but one of the first things I knew about him was that he sparkled. Like diamonds. That that’s one of the main reasons why vampires can’t live a normal light out in the sunlight – they’re fucking prisms throwing rainbows all over the goddamned place. Gah. I knew how Roadrunners his way out of the forest with nary a Beep! Beep! And of course I knew about how this undead spies on unsuspecting virgins while they sleep, the rascal. Meyer created the perfected Adonis, a seventeen-year-old shapely lump of Man-Roar. So this guy Eddie, supposedly a good guy, “the sad, masochistic lion” was the Mormon version.
I am all about the giddy. Never mind that Edward Cullen is technically an asshat, what with his I’m All-Powerful and I’ll give you food, and Oh crap you smell so good I’m a 108-year-old virgin, and god do you smell so good. Do I want one of my own? Someone who’ll watch me sleep because he doesn’t sleep anyway? Someone who, despite being rich and old and hello, vampire stays in high school? Someone who says things like, “And the lion fell in love with the lamb”?
HELL YES, haha. I am all about the giddy.
Oh, and if you’re asking, I saw the movie about four times. It’s Pancho’s fault–he bought the DVD. The first time we did, I think I gave the man bruises on his upper arm–you know us All-About-the-Giddy kids: when the Giddy comes on, we have this overwhelming urge to hit something. That’s creepy, yes, but what can you do?
3 – A couple of days ago, I experience the best ever Excruciating Moment in Romance, with me bawling over Laura Lee Guhrke’s His Every Kiss. Because, man, there’s only so much love and angst you can take, and there’s a tipping point to all the pain radiating to the tips of your fingers, to that awful awful awful numbing in your chest when Dylan lets Grace go because he realizes he can’t make her love him the way she loved her first husband, and when Dylan tells himself later on that fuck it he doesn’t care he loves Grace screw dead artist-first husbands, and when Dylan is so tangentially trying to get Grace back, and Grace is telling him, swayed but needing to make it clear, that Dude, that love was teh crazy, and I love you and it’s crazier because I’m still my own person and you goddamn jerk you gave me a house on a friggin’ cliff! I love my romance novels, yes, yes I do.
4 – As I watched the epic battle of Pacquiao and Hatton, one thought slinked itself into my brain — I do not want to be a Mrs. Pacquiao or a Mrs. Hatton. And nearly three years ago, Steph Castillo thought so too:
I could never have a boxer as a boyfriend. Boxers are like musicians–they have their girlfriends attend their gigs, cheer at the sidelines, and hope for the best. Except when you are a boxer on a bad night, you exit the stage swathed in bandages instead of just boos. I don’t know how Mrs. Pacquiao and Mrs. Morales and all the other Mrs. Boxer Wives out there can stand it. I could never ever EVER in a million years watch in a crowd of hysterical fans as my man got himself pulverized to smithereens of flesh and bone by some foreign hotshot with a flag on his ass. Two pairs of frozen eyes, two mouths aflame, four machine-gun gloves like red bullets, and fifteen thousand frenzied people screaming for the blood of one or the other. No thank you. I think I would rather be in love with a librarian.
I’m proud as HELL of Manny Pacquiao, but did you see Morales’ face after the final knockout? He looked so helpless, like everything he loved had just vanished into thin air. I guess it did.
And so when someone sends me a link to pictures of the utter anguish on Jennifer Dooley’s face when her man Hatton lay — just friggin’ lay — on the canvas for three minutes, it just makes me want to hug her and her orange-ness. And even my subconscious is giving an A-yup: last night I dreamt that I was this white dude’s wife and he was on the boxing ring, and he was down, he fell like BAM and I screamed so loud, and tried scrambled to the ring but everyone was holding me back and the Vice President was there, and I was just heartbroken man, he looked like he was never going to wake up, and everyone was cheering and all I could think of was that the man I love looks dead you goddamn idiots. Yes. I dreamt that the Vice President was there.
5 – Maybe, maybe, you way up North, me here down South — maybe you ride through NLEX with the windows down, a cigarette lit, maybe I ride a train and get jostled by pregnant women — maybe we meet halfway, in the middle of a garden in the middle of a city, or in the middle of a smoke-infested smoking lounge — and maybe, you know, maybe we just hug. And then we go back to our lives — you way up North fretting and talking to turtles, me here down South melting and playing tag with children less than half my size.
Hey, bub, I miss you.