October 03, 2007
Lil' Wenchie's First Blog
I didn't really keep a diary growing up. I started a few, but it was too hard to think of something to write every single day. I just wrote the occassional horrible poem. No incriminating names -- just vague angst.
I still have them all. God knows why, they're all terrible. But it's 8:34, and I'm totally strapped for a decent blog topic, so I turn to my old poetry.
Reading through them, trying to find one that makes me cringe slightly less than the rest, I came across what can only be... A Blog
Entry. Written September 11, 1986:
All That Way For Nothing
I imagine that, from the air, we must have looked like thousands of ants swarming to our little hill, but to me, the traffic on the Kennedy looked like a huge parking lot.
"Take the L," Mom said. "Traffic will be busy."
"On a Saturday?" I asked, rolling my eyes.
"It'll be busy," Mom repeated her warning.
But being the teenagers we are, we drove -- and got stuck in traffic.
We crawled nearer to the city, and I caught the stifling, sour smell of industry. The buildings grew in size as we were gradually consumed by Chicago.
After driving the wrong way down several one-way streets, Cara and I finally opted to park the car and walk. It was decidedly safer.
"Ever hear of one-way sidewalks?" Cara joked.
One step and we were quickly drawn into the shuffling crowd of women in blazers, skirts and tennis shoes; smart-looking yuppies with yellow ties and tassled, leather loafers; and black men reeking of cologne with orange feathers in their white hats. Despite our own funky dress, it was impossible for us to stand out.
Soon, we came across two huge, glass doors bearing the famous Gucci symbol. Cara appraised the building, then stared at me. I easily recognized the obnoxious look in her eyes.
"You wanna?" she asked, grinning.
"No. Absolutely not. No way. It's out of the question."
We went in.
A fake-looking woman sniffed in our direction, then briskly walked away, not smelling money. Under the suspicious eye of a bulky security guard, we surveyed the wares in a proud display case.
"A hundred and forty dollars for a watch?" Cara screeched.
With my face aflame, I dragged my giggling friend out of the store.
All the commotion made us hungry, and after examining the meager contents of our purses, we stopped at McDonald's.
"Welcometomcdonaldsmayitakeyourorder," babbled the dazed-looking woman behind the register.
Fifteen minutes later, with undigestable lumps in our stomaches, we were once again swept up by the crowd, our destination in sight: The Art Institute.
In front, a woman unsuccessfully fried to take a picture of her leering little boy on one of the massive lions as passers-by unknowingly drifted in front of her. I pitied her for a second, then paid my money and was given a little, pink clip so I could walk freely around the museum.
After the first room of paintings, we didn't even bother to pick up our feet as we walked. All the youthful energy that had posessed us earlier that morning evaporated, leaving us with fifty more rooms and no desire to see them. Then we thought of the five hard-earned we had spent to get in there.
We toured the fifty rooms. We laughed, had a good time, but I can only remember three things we saw: a giant carving of a hand that looked like it would make a great couch; a photograph of a bald man covered with bees; and a realy scummy-looking guy with purple hair and four earring staring at a totally black painting. I wondered what such a person could get out of a dark screen.
We began out trek back with a sense of dread. My numbed legs moved at their own pace. I could neighter speed them up nor slow them down. Only my nose was alive, with the different food smells wafting out of each restaurant we passed. I distracted my hunger-headache by concentrating on identifying each one: pizza, french fries, gyros, soft pretzels.
I was never so happy to see Cara's faded red heap of junk. I collapses on the vinyl and slept all the way home.
The End
Oh my God, that was so boring.
However, I am proud that, at sixteen, I knew to write "passers-by" and not "passer-bys."
You gotta take your victories where you can.
Comments
"neighter"? Did you really write "neighter", or was that just a typo as you were posting this?
Either way, it's my new favorite word. Makes me think of horses studying, pulling an "all-neighter."
Posted by: Marty at October 4, 2007 09:22 AM