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nellaluce
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Name: Gabrianna
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Wheaton
Birthday: 10/8/1984
Gender: Female
Interests: jesus, art, life. writing, reading, (over-)thinking, being antisocial, being social, learning new things, changing my mind. working with junior highers. laughing, living in the midwest (if only for the sake of someday escaping from the midwest), being spontaneous, being group-less, loving, staying up to ungodly hours. aspiring. failing. wandering, wondering, avoiding SAGA, avoiding homework, avoiding reality. rambling.
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
AIM:  nellaluce
Member Since:
9/18/2004
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| I get hit on ("May I have the next dance?" on the El platform, "And if you wanna write your number on the back of the receipt..." behind the register). A lot (very pretty blah blah not trying to hit on you or anything really blah blah something something drop dead gorgeous; maybe El guy was influenced by the layer of tulle protruding from my skirt, but I chose the half-smile, "Sorry" route; self-proclaimed Elvis-doppelgänger coos through his nearly-toothless gums "You're pretty" and tries to touch me 'til I persuade him to check if there's any new Elvis DVDs on the sale table [the guy's been dead for decades, whaddya want, and yet he looks multiple times a week]). I get touched (we've not quite yet reached the status of "groped," but it's become increasingly uncomfortable) on the bus and the train (by men and women alike), get asked by foreigners with tripods if I'd mind if they took my picture (as long as your hands stay securely on your Nikon, sure). What a strange world exists at Broadway and Lawrence.
I'm fairly certain an Egyptian in a pink hat cursed my info computer with the aid of the ankh he wore around his neck, spouting gibberish about the Free Masons loudly near Local Interest shortly after informing me that I "went to college and don't even know how to spell." (I probably could have called a manager for back-up, but felt fairly certain I'd crack myself up trying to explain the situation into my headset.) I point to the Metaphysical section in my sleep, see Eckhart's New Earth in my dreams.
I'm determined to someday publish On Love, Loss, and Licentiousness under a pen name. Be on the lookout.
I take refuge in the empty seat next to the grey-haired Indian reading The New York Times, he smiles a smile of understanding as I exit the train at Armitage. I am grateful and stride through the Industrial Corridor with my head held high to the crescent moon.
I'm scared some days (most days), darkness is the source and relief of most of my fears, a co-worker warned me over pepperoni pizza that I'd hate this job soon enough but I'm exactly where I need to be and you know what? That's wonderful. | | |
| Had a "trial day" at a record store yesterday-- am convinced this is in place of an interview solely so the boss has a chance to bash my taste in music while singing along loudly in obnoxious french to whatever indie swedish band I happen to be playing. He will later launch something at me (while I am innocently tagging used CDs) that resembles a throwing star, if not for its being yellow and plastic. "Is this because I was playing Peter Bjorn and John?" "Well, yes." Yes, small boys will ask you if you have any Queen, and n number of people will be confused that all of Will Oldham's music is filed under "Palace"; you'll get the occasional call for Madonna and Britney Spears and whatever album "Glamorous" is on and your boyfriend will inevitably try to embarrass you by feigning as a customer asking (loudly) if you have the new Creed album (but his plan will be foiled when another worker gets to him first and he'll walk awkwardly and silently away and wait meekly until you've finished with your customer). You'll feel silly that you're pretending as a record snob when you can't explain the difference between the four turntables you sell, and you'll answer the "So, I've always wondered what it'd be like to work at a record store"s with an innocent smile and an "Actually, it's my first day." You'll leave for the night with sore calves, strained eyes, $70 cash in your wallet (some compensation, at least) and a hundred great songs running through your head, waiting for the boss to call and say he thinks you'd make a great Barry, or at least a passable Dick.
(I never realized how thrilling "unemployment" could be.) | | |
| Facebook has enabled self-poking.
Really.
I shall die a happy woman.
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| "Need sambody who very experemented outstanding in computer,very serios job in art business. Do not answer by mail,only by phone(312)753-5190 Mishele,and dont call if you not experemented in computer.Thanks Mishele." --craigslist, 7 feb. 2008
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| Is it strange to be on campus and not taking finals? ("I find myself asking... myself" [for those who get the reference, God bless you to the ends of the earth].) And I find the answer: Hardly. After all, I haven't been much of a student since homework done in crayon became unacceptable (excepting my CE classes, this happened around kindergarten).
"You're not exactly studious, are you? Very smart. But not studious." (He knows me so well already.)
And I've been on campus all semester, and the strangest hours were those I spent half-heartedly auditing a class I was (theoretically) terribly interested in. (Maybe "Student of the World" and "Student of the Classroom" are inherently contradictory to one another.)
The February Blues came early this year, came with the first snowfall-- and I can only hope it means they'll be over sooner for that. (Hope against hope.)
"I think you have 'sad.'" Seasonal Affective Disorder? "Well, I meant the emotion, but yes, probably."
There's sleepy rock in my ears and cheese danish in my belly and my eyes are teeming with numbers and sometimes my head concocts dreams I don't (want to) understand. But six days from now is California and another nine promise something new, twenty-one more mark the end of an era. (I guess I'm ready.)
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