diamonds are a girl's best friend
Well, not really, but who wants to argue with the classics? Not me; not this week.
I am floating through ambivalence these days. I have been home for four-plus weeks and have done little more than sit around and watch Mah Stories on ABC Daytime on the weekdays, and tramp through D.C. with friends all night long on the weekends. I am struggling to get up before 2 PM after staying up all night writing nonsense. My job is nonexistent at the moment. I am beyond bored. My East Coast Allergies From Hell are back now that I am, and I am full of snot all the time. It's too hot. Everything's just thrillingly boring, but you know what? I think I needed some boring. I'm ready to do stuff, but I need this boring.
Luckily, my underclassmen friends are abouts and we're having more fun by the day since they just got out a week or so ago. I have a few graduate friends, but none of them appear to be around. I did run into one boy, my best friend from sixth grade who I cut all ties with after he started stalking me when we went to different middle schools and who I almost blew once when I was twelve years old but let's not go there, and he seems to be doing well, rich and in wool sweaters and aimlessly attending Columbia University after years at Swiss boarding schools. Have a hunch that he could be queer, but his huge, honking issues with class, self, money, and people, still visible halfway across the street in the Washington May rainstorms as he yells my name through a throng of cars on Wisconsin Avenue, are still here to stay and far too much for me and I remember why I hung up on him when I was fourteen in the first place. So no. No him for me.
No anyone for me this summer? I don't know. I doubt I'll meet anyone at Work. I doubt I'll meet anyone old enough or mature enough through my friends. I am planning to hitch down to Dupont Circle sometime and see what's around there, but I don't expect to meet anyone there and am not sure I really want to--feels too much like hunting game in the forest with extra-large bait and gun, and all the odds stacked in your favor. It'd be just as well if I didn't meet anyone at all this summer, because I do know I'd have to leave them here, and I do know that it would not last from Santa Fe. But that's okay. Single is good, because you watch other non-singles, and learn, and you see where they fuck up and you say 'how ridiculous, what fuck-ups, I'll never do that.' And then you do. Sigh.
Maybe at Octagon? That would be nice...strange and fleeting, but nice... I don't know. I need to go to Pentagon City more. See what's there. I need a haircut.
See, there I go. Still hopeful, even though I know it's a bad idea. Bad Me. Bad. Badness.
I do want to act again, which shocks me. I'm planning to take acting courses second semester next year, mostly on the kind words thrown at me when I had to play (brace yourselves) a white gangsta kid in a skit in a Film course this spring. Apparently, I did wonderfully, or so everyone says, but all I can remember about that is sighing theatrically, saying 'fuck it,' and hamming it up til I choked. And it reminded me of how much I loved it when I was younger, and then how I just never did it again. I don't know; I guess I'm rediscovering something here. Maybe. Maybe not. Who gives a fuck -- me, possibly -- and then there's theatre boys (but they're all STRAIGHT at csf jason we learned that last fall) oh shut up...
Please don't think all my creative ventures are based on the possibility of my getting men. They're so not. It just bubbles up.
So I wonder what kind of world we're in when Prince announces that he's now a Jehovah's Witness and will be reclaiming his birth name and writing Christian funk from now on. Midlife crisis or true calling? You be the judge. Didn't this happen to Little Richard too? Please, don't think I'm bashing Christianity; that's the last resort of faux hipsters and pseudointellectual high school juniors with slip-on piercings and nothing but flatscreen TVs and lots of weed to occupy their time. It's so 1995 it's sickening. I just wonder what drives a dude like Prince back to God all of a sudden. If anything, it seemed like he already had his own very unique line to God.
And, like, you have to see "Moulin Rouge," because, though it's a bit thin on motivations and skimps on the pacing here and there, it absolutely accomplishes what it set out to do, and that's be a psychotic musical. I love it. I love Nicole Kidman. It's good for you, people.
I went to a pool party in Georgetown with some people last Saturday night that was crawling with underclassmen and was in fact *thrown* by one, and the amount of amazingly attractive, too-young, too-straight junior/sophomore boys there was torturous. I had a good time whispering to my friends about it, but ugh. Gag me with an inner tube, people. I was dying. All they would do was crawl over me to get to my girlfriend, so I tried to just drink my Mountain Dew (no not mountain dew!) and shut up. I think this one little dwarf kid had an idea of what time it was as far as I was concerned, and if anything it just seemed to keep him talking at me, but as said: little dwarf kid. Not my type, and not for me.
I am such a bitch.
Lesson One: Never hold two house parties two nights straight.
Lesson Two: Never use your family's hot tub without knowing EXACTLY how.
I did not abide by either Lesson One or Two this week, and had a party-cum(nothankyou)-sleepover Monday night and Tuesday night. We watched "Sex and the City." We ate junk food. We lounged in the hot tub. Now, we filled the hot tub, unused for many moons, with buckets of water, and did not use the correct, precise pH chemical composition blah blah bullshit to fill it. As a result, several days later and one Dad back from Paris, I open the tub up to find in its place a seething Cesspool of Disease, streaked with shit-tastic mud (no, I have no idea how that got in there) , brackish skank water, and the body oils, salts, and hairs of ten or more partygoing human beings. You know about cleaning your shower when you're done? Try cleaning ten people's. At once. Outdoors. In the scorching D.C. sun. It was the most foul thing I have ever done. There were, like, trilobites and leeches in that motherfucker. Don't be like me, kids. Practice Hot Tub Safety.
Australian Gay Mardi Gras, on mah Bravo Channel t'other day. Strangeness. I don't know why they all have to be leatherguys with beards longer than my carpet, but hey, love is love is love. Actually, once you get past the sadomasochist Rip Van Winkle-esque guys you're kinda doing good--it looked like a lovely time. And let's not get started on the Madonna transgenders. Some of them looked better than her (though the catty might say that's not a difficult feat these days--meow meow).
Jason Hoffman is a bisexual nineteen-year-old Film major and sophomore at the College of Santa Fe in Santa Fe, New Mexico. He originally hails from the bonny gravel and mud of Washington, D.C, or more accurately Chevy Chase (yes, you heard right), Maryland, a suburb just outside the city, which lives up to its reputation as a bourgeoise fascist paradise. He is overly single and hugs his stuffed monster Blinky and girl friends for vicarious comfort. Ask him about Peter Gabriel, Bjork, or Tori Amos and get a kiss. He loves "Buffy," "Angel," "The Exorcist," "Twin Peaks," "Labyrinth," and lots else. Jason is by trade a writer, screenwriter to be exact, but you wouldn't know it from his lack of output. E-mail him (me) at firstname.lastname@example.org.