pinklikewhoa

Thu, 01 Jan 2004 05:59:15 GMT

Chapter two.

Monday, September 16, 2003:

7:07 am. Another day, another pimple, split end, blackhead, love handle, insult.

12:13 am. Oh god, I am not looking forward to Math today. What kind of emotional wreck will I be when they’re done with me. I feel like every time I walk into that classroom I’m a virgin and every time I walk out I always feel like I just got gangraped or something.

6:30 pm. I just made friends with a razorblade.

Monday, September 16, 2003:

1:44. am. Something really weird just happened. I think I made a friend.

In Bio today, our teacher, Mr. Vello, assigned us this crap project where we had to take these slivers of beets and put a strange substance on them and then chronicle what grew on them. I was partnered with this chick who I had noticed but never said anything to in fear of, well, rejection. Surprise, surprise. Anyway, we got partnered together and she somehow managed to make beet slivers almost as exiting as witnessing a rocket landing on Mars.

“What do you want to put on these guys?” First sentence she ever said to me, and I had no idea what she was talking about. I quickly learned that she always refers to inanimate objects as “guys.” Now that’s my kind of woman.

I asked what she had, expecting her to pull out some soda, but she took this as an invitation to dump the entire contents of her bag onto the table. She had a videotape (“its my favorite episode of my favorite show in case I need a quick fix”), a pair of socks, (“what if I step in a puddle?”), a roll of duct tape, (“this will come in handy if I’m ever stuck on a deserted island”), and a toothbrush, (“you never know”.)

“Um… do you have any school supplies? Like, notebooks or something?”

“No, man. School is lame. Viva la Einstein.”

“No offence, but what the fuck does Einstein have to do with beets?”

“Nothing. But doesn’t he seem like the kind of person that would have eaten them?”

I had to laugh at this. “Never thought about it. So… do you have anything we can put on the beets?”

“Um, I have some eyeshadow.” She smiled. “Its Raging Lilac,” which she said, for some reason that to this day I don’t know, in a southern accent. “And we can get some dirt from one of the plants over there. We don’t need a third substance ‘cause Mr. V. wants us to use the third sliver as a verifiable.”

“You mean variable?”

“Yeah, that guy.”

I was almost in tears at that point. Not only because I was laughing so hard, but also because it was the first time in my life that I felt like I had connected with someone.

“OK, put the stuff on the beets.” Then she looked me right in the eye and said, “Why don’t you do the honors?”

I guess that’s another good thing about being ugly. Because no one is really intimidated by my overwhelming gorgeousness, I can see people for who they really are. People aren’t afraid to be who they are in front of me, because I have no friends in high places to tell. I could send some of the things that have happened in my presence to America’s Funniest Home Videos.

Once I put the shadow and the dirt on our beets, she said confidently, “They need names.”

“What?”

“The beets. They need names. How about ‘Mimi’ for the one with the eyeshadow, after that chick on Drew Carey who wears all the make-up.”

“OK,” I said, trying not to sound amused.

“What about the one with the dirt. How about…”

“Stinky!” I didn’t mean to say that, it just came out. She laughed and said, “you know, only true friends can finish each other’s sentences.” I didn’t yet know what was meant by that statement, but much later the secret of Us would come to me.

“And the naked one?”

“You mean the one with no substance?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s boring and common. What’s a boring and common name?”

“Smith.” I was surprised with myself. I’d never talked to anyone like this before. I’d never been able to state what was on my mind, but with her, there was something about her. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew we had a connection.

“How about Mr. Smith, just to jazz it up a bit.”

I laughed. “Fine by me.”

I can honestly say that at that moment, I actually regretted hearing the bell ring for the end of class. Usually, I would gather my stuff and walk out quickly, in order to avoid getting hassled or jeered, but today was different. Today, I walked out with the girl who would eventually become my best friend.

“You know what I just realized?” She asked.

“That you’re wearing a striped shirt with a pleated skirt?” I couldn’t believe myself. But instead of scoffing, it was her turn to laugh.

“Quite the fasionista, aren’t we? No, I just realized that I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” I paused, remembering what I had thought about at lunch the previous day. “Its… Quasimoto.”

“Can I call you Quazz?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. OK, if you’re Quasimoto, then I’m Elvis!”

“OK then, see you Elvis.”

“See ya round, Quazz.”

And I walked away, for the first time in my life, not feeling irked at all.

Tuesday, September 17, 2003:

8:10 “Boo”

“Elvis! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Whoops. Remind me to write an apology letter to the janitor.”

“That’s a nice image to wake up to.”

“Whoops again. Here, try this.” She handed me her Dunkin Donuts coffee.

“Oh my god, how much sugar did you put into this thing?”

“It’s a little sweet, I know.”

“Sweet? You could feed the entire continent of Africa for a year with the amount of sugar!”

“Fine. You’ve lost coffee privileges.”

“My cholesterol thanks you.”

She looked at her flowery Barbie watch and said with a kind of disappointment in her voice that I’ve never heard when a person was talking to me before, “Time for class. See you in Bio, Quazz!”

I had to smile.

1:30 pm.

Sat next to Elvis at lunch today. She never ceases to astound me.

The Three Stooges where there. A boy was quietly meditating, not bothering anyone. Bad combination. Of course, the Stooges needed to do something between their strenuous task of doing nothing, so they decided to throw things at said boy. My mind flashed back to summer, when I worked at a camp for young children, because they where a lot like these kids, only more mature.

Even though the boy looked unaffected by the aforementioned delinquents, It’s apparently against Elvis’s nature to ignore these kinds of situations. Even though she knew the consequences, even though they would probably just shift the jeering of the kid to the jeering of her clothing in our Bio class, she devised a plan anyway.

“You know, I’ve been a victim of their unforgiving ways…”

With that, she walked right up to them.

“Leave. Him. Alone,” she stated boldly, immaculate in her mismatched clothes. My mind raced as I prepared for the worst.

“Yeah, well, you’re… fat and ugly!”

“That‘s the best comeback they could think of?” A pause. “Well, it actually explains a lot. If I’m fat, no wonder the country is slipping to obesity.”

I held in my laughter as she pushed out a final “Anything you say or do can and will be used against you when you’re pumping my gas.”

And as she walked away, I became empowered.

After they had gotten over the initial shock of hearing something intelligent, she walked away, towards my table, back to make-shift safety.

“Do you think I did the right thing?” I was surprised that she doubted herself.

“I mean, what if the kid was on the edge of suicide and… what if I hadn’t stood up for him?”

“El… can I call you El?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. Think about it, El. Would you have been able to live with yourself if you had left the kid to stand alone?”

“No… but: is a year of being a scapegoat worth a few minutes of grandiosity?”

“Is a year of knowing that you could have helped someone but you didn’t worth hearing the stupid things that they probably would have said anyway? El?”

“Do I look for trouble?”

“I dunno. Maybe it just… comes to you.”

“Because everywhere I go,”

“It seems to be.”

1:40 pm. It barely bothered me that the Three Stooges where singing “if you’re ugly and you know it…”

7:15 pm. Elvis called. Lucky I picked up, I’m not sure how my mom would have taken it if someone asked for “Quazz.”

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, Elv. Can I call you Elv?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. I just ate like a cow, Elv.”

“Speak in a British accent and act angry, then at least you could be a mad cow.”

“A mad, fat cow. I could serve all of Ronald McDonald’s charity cases and then some.”

“Shut up. Anyway, can I sleepover your house this weekend?”

“Sure.”

Chapter Three

Thursday, October 23, 2003.

2:13 pm. “Write them a letter”

“What?”

“Write them a letter. Give them a letter for every lame joke they’ve ever berated you with. Give them a word for every time they’ve told you that you don’t need to dress up for Halloween.”

“Ok.”

“Give it to me in the morning.”

“Elvis.”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

Friday, October 24, 2003.

7:30 am. “I wrote it.”

“Let me see it.”

I watched with anticipation. “Hannah’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

__________________________________________________________________

The next day, I got a call from Elvis.

“Hannah?”

“Yeah, its me.”

“I’m in the hospital.”

Part one ends there, but the next part is told in the voice of Elvis.

-Any advice/critique/feedback you have is appreciated.
-Feel free to be brutally honest.
-If you have any questions, ask away.

The First chapter

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 00:26:10 GMT

Chaper One of PlaqueLikeMe.

Drumroll please:

Chapter Two:

Monday, September 16, 2003:

7:00 am. Another day, another pimple, split end, blackhead, love handle, insult.

12:00 am. Oh god, I am not looking forward to Math today. What kind of emotional wreck will I be when they’re done with me. I feel like every time I walk into that classroom I’m a virgin and every time I walk out I always feel like I just got gangraped or something.

6:30 pm. I just made friends with a razorblade.

Monday, September 16, 2003:

1:45. Something really weird just happened. I think I made a friend. And good news: this one isn't made of metal!

“Um… do you have any school supplies? Like, notebooks or something?”

“No, man. School is lame. Viva la Einstein.”

“No offence, but what the fuck does Einstein have to do with beets?”

“Nothing. But doesn’t he seem like the kind of person that would have eaten them?”

I had to laugh at this. “Never thought about it. So… do you have anything we can put on the beets?”

“You mean variable?”

“Yeah, that guy.”

I was almost in tears at that point. Not only because I was laughing so hard, but also because it was the first time in my life that I felt like I had connected with someone.

“OK, put the stuff on the beets.” Then she looked me right in the eye and said, “Why don’t you do the honors?”

Once I put the shadow and the dirt on our beets, she said confidently, “They need names.”

“What?”

“The beets. They need names. How about ‘Mimi’ for the one with the eyeshadow, after that chick on Drew Carey who wears all the make-up.”

“OK,” I said, trying not to sound amused.

“What about the one with the dirt. How about…”

“Stinky!” I didn’t mean to say that, it just came out. She laughed.

“And the naked one?”

“You mean the one with no substance?”

“Yeah, that one. He’s boring and common. What’s a boring and common name?”

“How about Mr. Smith, just to jazz it up a bit.”

I laughed. “Fine by me.”

I can honestly say that I actually regretted hearing the bell ring for the end of class. Usually, I would gather my stuff and walk out quickly, in order to avoid getting hassled or jeered, but today was different. Today, I walked out with the girl who would eventually become my best friend.

“You know what I just realized?” She asked.

“That you’re wearing a striped shirt with a pleated skirt?” I couldn’t believe myself. Finally, someone is nice to me and I'm a defensive smartass back. But instead of scoffing, it was her turn to laugh.

“Quite the fasionista, aren’t we? No, I just realized that I don’t know your name.”

“Oh.” I paused, remembering what I had thought about at lunch the previous day. “Its… Quasimoto.”

“Can I call you Quazz?”

“No.”

“Fair enough. OK, if you’re Quasimoto, then I’m Elvis!”

“OK then, see you Elvis.”

“See ya round, Quazz.”

And I walked away, for the first time in my life, not feeling irked at all.

-Any advice/critique/feedback you have is appreciated.
-Feel free to be brutally honest.
-If you have any questions, ask away.
<3

Wed, 31 Dec 2003 00:16:24 GMT

Plaque Like Me

~a memoir.

There are words for people like me, though they wouldn’t exactly be described as terms of endearment. So far, my top three (out of a long list) have been “ogre,” “curd face,” or my personal favorite, “genetically… disadvantaged.” Oh yeah, I can hear you talking about me as I round the corner. I am the face in the yearbook that my classmates look at after a bad date specifically to think, “at least I don’t look like her.” I am the girl who would have been a circus freak had I been fortunate enough to live in those times; I am the girl who wouldn’t get fucked even if her abductor downed a bottle of Viagra; I am the girl destined to become the Loony Aunt of the family, only fit to couple with someone like The Elephant Man.

I guess those metaphors aren’t really enough to let you know how feel every second, hour, day, week, year and so on. I guess the best example I can give you is this: you know how when you go to the DMV or to the Y to get an ID picture taken how it always turns out to be horrible? Lets face (no pun intended) it: even if you look like Cindy fuckin’ Crawford, this picture will still be horrible. OK now, concentrate. I want you to think about the feeling you get when you give it to a bouncer or a cashier. Think about the embarrassment: How you cringe, waiting for his reaction, only to watch him look up at you and breath a sigh of relief as he realizes that it was just a bad picture.

Well, my life is kind of like that, only I never get that sigh.

So here it is: PlaqueLikeMe. Feel free to become enlightened. And if not, hey, at least I gave you something to do for a few hours.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003.

7:03 am. I always dread the first day of school. I wonder how much money has been bet on my impending nose job. Or am I being paranoid?

Thursday, September 11, 2003.

9:11 am. Everyone’s all up in arms about the whole anniversary of September 11. Big deal, right! Wrong. There’s nothing worse than pseudo-patriots coming together because they’re too lame to admit that they feel the need to become part of something bigger. What makes it even lamer is that this “thing” that they are part of is corrupt, immoral, and downright bullshit.

12:00 am. You think that maybe, possibly all this sitting alone has hardened my heart? Naw..

1:34 am. They act like I can’t feel the stares burning into my neck. They sit back with their feet on the desks and their cigarettes strategically placed behind their ears, swinging their asses as if they ooze suave, as if they are the epitome of cool. But this really gets to me, you know? When they go out of their way like that.

Picture this: three kids. Names are Chucky (!), Sam, and George. I’m sitting there, minding my own goddam business when are look over to see the Three Stooges holding up their graphic calculators towards me. Now, these are the high tech kind of calculators that are so advanced they’ll cause any person over 50 to immediately start talking about “the good ol’ days.” These calculators you can write messages on, but most young people use this power for evil.

I can see it in their eyes that they aren’t (as if they could anyway) doing math. I look closer, trying not to make it obvious that I’m reading what they’re saying.

And there it is. I can’t even explain the immense pain that I feel right now. Had I been blessed with a generous amount of melanin I’m sure that it would have melted off my face at this moment. I am pale. Not only because this is another painful reminder about how ugly I am, but I am equally baffled how on earth someone could muster up the balls and the apathy to do something so horrible.

On the screen, written in my metaphoric blood, was one word: rhinoplasty.

9:30 pm. My nose takes up 50% of my face. How’s that for math?

Friday, September 12, 2003.

7:00. I can wake up later. Its because I don’t bother to take the time to make myself presentable. What’s the use? I have a face that not even Kevyn Aucoin could fix, even in his finest hour. The way I see it is: there’s no need for the mandatory session teenagers go through every morning consisting of 5 minutes wondering am I or am I not good looking? Oh yeah, that ship sailed long ago for me. It came and went with my diapers and booties. So what I do is wake up with just enough time to slip into something (doesn’t matter what, its not like clothes will help) to brush my teeth, feed my dog, eat breakfast, etc. The thing is, if I do happen to be late for the bus, (side note: I take the bus to school. Hurrah!) would the driver not even bother to wait up for me? Ugh, I just had my breakfast, he’d think. Or am I being paranoid?

God, I wish I had a lipstick for every song that won’t be written for me. At best, I could look like a cheap whore.

7:50. Would it be cliché to ask why I even bother getting up? Good. Maybe I am just a poser. But, like, not a pretty one, like.

8:21. God, I hate classes. I hate school. I hate trying and miserably failing at making new friends. I hate not knowing how to take advantage of the clean slate the starting of a new school year brings. And most of all, I hate that I have no confidence whatsoever and that what’s in my head is completely cancelled out by what’s on my face. In English, we where having a Socratic Seminar: one of those things where half the class sits around in a circle and discusses a question that the teacher presents while the other half watches and critiques what they say. I always have a lot to say, but no one ever really bothers to ask. The wonder ball goes round and round, but everyone knows where its going to stop: at the one with the long black hair. Always.

The question was: what is the most horrible thing one person can do to another? Everyone said something like, “the, um, worst thing to do to a person is, um, to like, kill a family member or something.” Trés original, captain obvious and his trusty sidekick(s.) I wanted to scream out what I thought: no, the worst thing you can do to a person is to take away their freedom. To rape them, to enslave them, because freedom is a god given right. A death you can get over, but nostalgia lasts forever!

But I didn’t say that. I started to, but I didn’t. I wanted to scream out my words like an ex-mute would after finding her vocal cords, believe me I did. I didn’t, though, because I was unsure of the response that I’d get. I can tell you one thing: it sure as hell wouldn’t be the same if I had blue (not shit brown) eyes.

It happened with the next topic too. It always happens, and no amount of makeup or piercing will ever change that. The question was: what do you think is the most unfortunate position for someone to be in? I was so tempted to shout: missionary! but everyone would have scratched their heads and looked at me like I had just grown a testicle on my forehead. God, they are so thick. They always head straight towards the most obvious answer. The most unfortunate position for a person to be in is in a box or on the streets, they say. I think the contrary.

See, if you have a great life on the outside: perfect parents and the white picket fence and all that shit, no one will try to get in. No one will give you a chance because no one will understand that your feelings are valid. Why do you think so many rich kids turn out to be junkies? But I sit in my chair staring at the clock. Hey, anything is betting than looking at my dull, mousy, greasy grayish brownish hair.

But matter over mind, I guess.

12:10: Again with the lunch line hassling! Why do people think they can cut me? I’m certainly not invisible. Is there something about the arrangement of molecules that states that its ok to push someone around? Damn. Where’s Aretha when you need her?

Again with the lunch time. Maybe that’s another thing I don’t have to worry about. I don’t care about my weight. I’m already ugly, and I’m going to be ugly weather I’m 50 or 300 pounds. I scoff at the stereotypical cheerleader types who pull peas apart and savor them like they’ve been in the Sahara desert for forty years. The problem is, I scoff alone.

I laugh to myself as I think about how much I’d like to be pretty for one day. I feel like Quasimoto… is that how you spell it? That’s what I am! Quasimoto. No one knows my name yet anyway, so why not? I can imagine it now:

Distant relative: (thinking, why couldn’t she have gotten her mothers nose?) Hey, I’m your Aunt Bertha! Gimmie a hug.

Me: Hi, I’m Quasimoto. Fuck off.

DR: Quasi… what-o..?

Ha. I kill myself. Not literally though. Yet.

Friday, September 13, 2003

7:50 am. Why am I so afraid? What on earth could go wrong if I just stated my opinion? I know I’m interesting, I can tell by the way I write and by the way I make myself laugh, so why can I not seem to form an interesting, coherent sentence. You know, I think I’ve told about 30 people who my teachers are and what blocks I have when and how people make fun of me, but I’ve never once told someone how much I hate the president. Or how when I was in the third grade I called my teacher a hypocrite and refused to apologize. So why is it that whenever I open my mouth to say something creative, a generic “how are you?” comes out. Dammit.

9:50 pm. Hey, I just realized that its Friday the 13^th. Maybe if I wish real hard something weird will happen and I’ll wake up perfect. Or maybe I’ll just spend another weekend alone.

Any advice/critique/feedback you have is appreciated.
Feel free to be brutally honest.
If you have any questions, ask away.
<3

Sat, 27 Dec 2003 23:11:02 GMT

Hey, I posted a first draft of my newest book. This is a very revised version. Feel free to totally rip me up, diss me, tell me I suck, etc. This is crossposted to like a million communities so if I clogged your friend's page tell me and I'll delete a few <3

Ugly Like Me

~a memoir.

There are words for people like me, though they wouldn’t exactly be described as terms of endearment. So far, my top three have been “ogre,” “curd face,” or my personal favorite, “genetically… disadvantaged.” Oh yeah, I can hear you talking about me as I round the corner. I am the face in the yearbook that my classmates look at after a bad date specifically to think, “at least I don’t look like her.” I am the girl who would have been a circus freak had I been fortunate enough to live back then; I am the girl who wouldn’t get fucked even if her abductor downed a bottle of Viagra; I am the girl destined to become the Loony Aunt of the family.

Well, my life is kind of like that, only I never get that sigh.

So here it is: Ugly Like Me. Feel free to become enlightened. And if not, hey, at least I gave you something to do for a few hours.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003.

7:03 am. I always dread the first day of school. I wonder how much money has been bet on my impending nose job. Or am I being paranoid?

Thursday, September 11, 2003.

12:00 am. You think that maybe, possibly all this sitting alone has hardened my heart? Naw..

Picture this: three kids. Names are Chuckie (!), Sam, and George. I’m sitting there, minding my own goddam business when are look over to see the Three Stooges holding up their graphic calculators towards me. Now, these are the high tech kind of calculators that are so advanced they’ll cause any person over 50 to immediately start talking about “the good ol’ days.” These calculators you can write messages on, but most young people use this power for evil.

I can see it in their eyes that they aren’t (as if they could anyway) doing math. I look closer, trying not to make it obvious that I’m reading what they’re saying.

On the screen, written in my metaphoric blood, was one word: rhinoplasty.

9:30 pm. My nose takes up 50% of my face. How’s that for math?

Friday, September 12, 2003.

God, I wish I had a lipstick for every song that won’t be written for me. At best, I could look like a cheap whore.

7:50. Would it be cliché to ask why I even bother getting up? Good. Maybe I am just a poser. But, like, not a pretty one, like.

But matter over mind, I guess.

Distant relative: (thinking, why couldn’t she have gotten her mothers nose?) Hey, I’m your Aunt Bertha! Gimmie a hug.

Me: Hi, I’m Quasimoto. Fuck off.

DR: Quasi… what-o..?

Ha. I kill myself. Not literally though. Yet.

Friday, September 13, 2003

9:50 pm. Hey, I just realized that its Friday the 13^th. Maybe if I wish real hard something weird will happen an I’ll wake up perfect. Or maybe I’ll just spend another weekend alone.

+Any help is much appreciated

+Remember, I can handle honesty :)