Below are the 9 most recent journal entries recorded in Alyssa's LiveJournal:

Tuesday, August 27th, 2002
11:38 pm	Something about family Something about Family:Bobby came into the kitchen carrying the biggest toad you could ever see in your whole life. "Jesus Christ Bobby, I tolds you not to bring in no toads no more! Not in my clean kitchen! Now Missy I told you that skirt is not appropriate to wear unless you's is wear pants undernieth it!" Alice hated mornings...Two kids...A caffeine addiction she was attempting to rid...Bobby placed the toad in a stonecast iron pot and proceded to fill it with water while Missy scoffed and reminded him that "stupid toads don't live in water and you're going to get fat warts Bobby Burham!" Alice sighed and continued frying up bacon, keeping her ear out for the Jones' to pull up and take the kids to school. "Bobby you are filthy, go change your pants, you here?" Frustrated, she stuck a fork into the pan and deliberately folded an almost cooked slice of bacon into her mouth. Ms Jones brown chevy pulled into the driveway and before the horn sounded a third time, a series of doors slammed and the kids were on their way to school. Alice placed the bacon on paper towels and then on one of the plates her mother had given her for her wedding. She walked slowly up the stairs, body aching for coffee, carrying the bacon in one hand and clutching the railing for support with the other. "Fred, you awake?" She asked that everymorning before entering the room, but he never was. She would sit there by him for a moment, placing his breakfast on the bedstool, and let her mind drift back to the times he held her close. She turned their wedding picture away towards the window and picked up the frog pan left in the hallway on her way down the stairs. (Comment on this)
Saturday, January 12th, 2002
10:27 pm	Bee Exams ended. Four girls, cruisin down I-95 to the Cape in Jane's red coupe- Laughing, singing the radio into sunshine microphones dropped down through the open sunroof. The two in the back see it first. Laughter becomes panic. The car veers into the right lane, a soccer mom minivan honks out fearful reprimand. A distracted Jane jerks the wheel left. Too fast, too hard- 85MPH-the red car takes flight accross the grass median, The truck couldn't react in time 5 tons of cargo, 12 tires to brake- Impossible! sir Newton would say. The coupe lands under the barge, soon still. A finished puzzle. No one knew what happened, between exit 3 and 4. The explanation buzzes out the smashed rear window because there are no flowers here- -not yet. (Comment on this)
Thursday, December 13th, 2001
6:53 pm	Holiday On your mark, get set, shop- Open at 6! Close at midnight! A gift for her! A gift for him! When in doubt. . . the popcorn tin will do. O Holy Night, the stars are..., Speakers belt out Bing Crosby while two adults fight for that hot toy of the year- They blame Hello my name is Amanda, a thin and pale embodiment of 'overtime' who "had" Santa for lunch: And the children, they cry when mama puts them on his lap, made right by white beard and red suit. Under no other occasion would Daddy allow his little girl to sit on the man that fucked the toy store girl on his milk and cookies break. Hear all the bells, shoplifter bells, overtired yells, old ankles swell Deck the malls with frantic people, falalalala..la,lalala Bags times ten under arms...under eyes. Gift: $8.75 Gift Bag for Gift: $5.00 Four ounces of egg nog equals four pounds of fat. The typical guy just wed, blushing his way into Victoria's secret with a little piece of paper crinkled in his right front pocket. "36-B" Buy, buy, buy...for who? who cares? How much? Wrap it here, wrap it home, don't forget tags- Uncle Steve doesn't want bath soaps. Mom has no use for novelty golf balls. O, holy shit..the time is fast decli-ining.. beneith the world, capital is born. (Comment on this)
Thursday, December 6th, 2001
11:52 pm	He picked up the phone on the second ring and answered "Hullo?" with an element of unhappiness that she recognized right away. His voice was toneless and discontent. "Hey baby," she half-sighed into the phone."I'm sorry I didn't call you earlier, there was an emergency with a horse and he had to be rushed to the clinic for surgery. I don't think he's going to make it." She explained to him in a few brief words what the evening had been like. "I hate my parents," he answered to her unworded question. She offered support but lacked strength to really mean it. And he knew this. They talked for a bit, just to fill time but soon the already petty conversation became no more than yawns, "wow, I'm really tired"'s and the kind of I love you's and I miss you's that indicate it's about time to say goodbye. (Comment on this)
Thursday, November 29th, 2001
2:11 pm	November, a new mood There comes a necessity for words to be swept out of my mind and onto the page in order to further concentrate on the rest of the days work. Damned if I should have a nice hot woodstove to sit by and a cup of hot cocoa in hand. Forced to abandon the ideals of an afternoon word splurge (couch complete with ottoman, fireplace, hot soup, dog at foot, pencil and notepad) I settle with a pellety keyboard and a down throw, in a mood no better or no worse than your own at the moment. I am feeling rather 'November' thank you very much, dark humored, finicky, indecisively warm and cold, and bleak. An emotional cameleon, not unlike a mood ring-if fingers were months. How quaint that I once compared my love to the tree outside the window. (Once colorfully adorned with crimson, gold, and green leaves, the tree that I so fondly compared you to now sports three brown leaves, all that the emaciated branches manage to hold.) We shall not look into this too deeply. After all, a collection of words is just good brain spit. Worry not, you are still loved. Faced with a day that might as well be scrap film reel from "Schindler's List", I find it much more difficult to produce upbeat, light hearted wit. It's cold, it's wet, it's gray, it's dark. Creativity? gone. Imagination? "A giant sheet swept through the linens department, horrifying those who fell into its path. Henry giggled, hidden among the "bed in a bags", a remote control in hand." Weak, but still there. Motivation and attention span? Check if present: _____ (Comment on this)
Saturday, October 27th, 2001
4:01 pm	The girl next door It was a drizzly saturday afternoon, condusive to tomato soup, a wool knit sweater, and perhaps a nap. I sat on my bed and picked out the non burnt pieces of popcorn from the bowl, mixing each white handful with a single candy corn. My indulgance to be justified as observation of the season's holiday, Halloween. I began to feel oversugared and ill and wondered to myself when college kids are supposed to go to the dentist. I hastily placed the candy corn and burnt remains of popcorn at the far end of my extra long bed. Noise outside my door distracted me from my present task of writing a film review. The parental units of the girl next door had arrived. The boyfriend was long gone and the room was clear of any college truths well before the arrival of Mom and Daddy, who had probably traveled an obsene distance to see their little girl play her violin in her orchestra concert that evening. Boxes and bags were plentiful, filled with the essentials that only Wal*Mart can provide. The reunited family could be heard exchanging hugs and obligatory warmth towards each other. It was clearly quite an ordeal for all of them. The parents had made the appearantly long trip up from who knows where, and then stumbled through the Schnenectady Wal*Mart, asking apathetic salespeople where to find eye drops, lithium batteries, and other oddities that the girl pleaded she could no go without. The girl, who engaged in the usual ritual of fighting with and then fucking her boyfriend was also slightly on edge. She had forgotten the precise time Mom and Daddy would be arriving on this fine day so at 8 am, she screamed at the boy to get up and beat it. He was appearantly given no time to primp himself for proper social exposure, because I could here his pants being pulled on and jacket being zipped outside my door between footsteps towards the stairs. Little do they know. I almost sympathize with the parents, and might even eliminate the almost if they had not been so naive in the first place. If they only knew that their little girl had settled for a guy who refers to her as "bitch." That he allows her to become sufficiently drunk before guiding her back to her single dorm room and laying her out on the bed in front of him. (On a separate note, I await the day they thicken the walls between each dorm room.) Upon exposure of her parents, I drew the conclusion that her family was what one might call "vocal" in all respects. A little girl instinct pryed at me to go tattle on the behavior of the girl next door, but I stayed put and watched the last green leaves die. The happy family left the building, perhaps for lunch at one of the cafes on Broadway. For the first time I felt sorry for the girl next door. I felt a pang of guilt for using her ignorance and naivity as material to make an online conversation more unique. I pictured that family at Christmas and at birthday parties. I pictured their house in a neighborhood of uniquely similar houses. I come to the conclusion that the girl next door as the smiling, blonde child who draws her own picture with chalk on the sidewalk is a better suited image to the muted minds of absensed parents than that image which I see and hear each night. (Comment on this)
Monday, October 22nd, 2001
2:24 pm	1st chapter of NORMAL Miles was an observer. You must not confuse him with being shy; many had and he took great offense to this. Miles was only ten years old when he first noticed that he could tell quite a bit about a person by just listening to them talk to others and watching their gestures and movements for a period of time. Miles entered Framingham High and was immediately labeled as the quiet kid. He tried to change this, disturbed by this person whom he had come to be defined by. Miles played on the basketball team and ran track although he could never dribble with his left hand and his legs only carried him so fast no matter how many sprints he did around the track. When he auditioned for the school play, the director asked why? This discouraged him and he vowed to maintain a negative prejudice towards theater people from then on. He graduated from high school somewhere in the upper middle of his class. By the end of his first year, he realized that there was more to learn than the superficial lectures and work given by his teachers. Miles appointed himself his own teacher, skeptical of the unqualified middle age men and women who could not decide on a major in college, therefore deciding to teach high school english, or geometry, or history. Yes, that was me in high school and a little of me still today. Thirty years later, the same guy but with more hair on his chest. You probably are wondering what happened to such a boring character. I'm not offended. I was indeed what the average person would call boring in high school. Girls drove me crazy with their codependent cliques and "I'm so fat" tangents. Guys frusterated me as they tried their first joint and with all the confidence in the world, blew out white smoke. I spent my weekends in Waltham with my Dad, but he was always busy with something and later on, someone. So I took the T into the city and sat in public garden with a pencil and notepad. One of those, you may say. Before furthering my story I will advise you to refrain from grouping me in with the "I'm such a complex soul and therefor must document all observations and inspiration in writing to better understand myself." I'm sorry to disapoint you but I'm not complex in the least. I'm thirty two years old. I live on a second floor appartment in Brighton above an old man who is always trying to sell me his recipe for moonshine. I have a cat called "Cat" and I work at Bread and Circus. Other than my third nipple, which is debatable, I am just your average white guy. I developed an addiction for observing behavior from a very young age, but refused to go to school for psychology or anything of that sort. I challenge you to raise a hand and stop me right now if you have ever met a psychologist that was not somewhat shall we say "fucked up" themselves. This did not discourage me from college. I did my time at three different colleges and universities which I will forgo in mentioning so as not to bias your opinion of me. (1 Comment |Comment on this)
Thursday, October 18th, 2001
2:51 pm	Spying "Shhh!" Tom hissed at me, irritated and a little spooked by the old pine board that creaked under my left foot. We proceeded slowly and tiptoed up the stairs of the old farmhouse. At the top of the staircase we heard someone peeing in the bathroom. we took to our knees and crawled quickly into the first room on the left before someone made the fatal mistake of letting the first giggle escape. I bit my lip so hard and thought about Hank, my old cat. Poor Hank got hit by Grandma's big old white car when she was trying to back out of our driveway last Thanksgiving. Grandma can't see or hear very well and neither could Hank. I remembered how sad I was that day and made it into Tom's parents room without uttering a peep. We heard the toilet flush and footsteps clunked down the stairs. Tom let out a little chirp. And that was that. I giggled and soon we both were covering our mouths up with both hands. My cheeks puffed up like balloons and Tom's nose turned bright tomato. It was the hardest thing since long division, keeping quiet right then but somehow we got ourselves under control and proceeded with our mission. We slid ourselves accross the wood floor towards the iron vent. You see, it's shaped like a pinwheel and you can move the iron so that air comes up from the room below. "Let me look," Tom said and peered down through to the kitchen. "I see your Mom and my Dad." "Let me see, Tom" I whispered and pushed on his shoulder. I peered through the vent and listened to all the grownups in the classic kitchen chatter. We were listening for four things: Tom's name, my name, a swear, or anything else that grownups are not supposed to say when we are around. Tom's family and relatives have been friends with my parents for a long, long time. They come up to the old farmhouse every summer. The whole group of grownups sit in the kitchen and talk about the Red Sox and president Reagan and how it used to be like before they settled down. "They're not sayin anything good," Tom grumbled. I don't know what tempted me right there and then, but I did something that I never thought I would do. I lowered my face down to the vent, breathed in three seconds of air and yelled "Fuck!" down below. Whoa boy! Suddenly the chatter stopped and it didn't matter anymore that Roger Clemens would sit out the next two games. Tom sat at my side like a hair plucked Barbie, delightfully horrified by what he had just heard. The world stopped dead that moment and suddenly all attention was focused towards the vent. "What do we do?" I was kinda getting scared now. Tom shook his head with his mouth opened and pointed his finger at me. The deadbrick silence was broken by footsteps, angry footsteps, footsteps that said 'you just try to talk yourself out of this one.' I grabbed Tom by the hood of his sweatshirt and said, "Come on!" We were both horrified now as the footsteps began to climb the stairs, each board creaking trouble. We slipped through the door as fast as we could and ran to the end of the hall. We had that old glass window up faster than the statue of liberty and just as my mother opened the door of Tom's parents' room, we were hanging by our fingertips off of the far side of the house. "One, two, three...jump!" Tom said and we both dropped down on to the shed. We climbed down and ducked through the barb wire fence into the cow pasture and before mom had even checked under each bed in Tom's room, we were off like rockets into the cow field. At that time, it did not register to either one of us that we would eventually have to go back and eat dinner! (Comment on this)
Wednesday, October 17th, 2001
10:37 pm	Oral Salvation Clean up your mind and read it again to see that there is nothing sexual involved in this phrase, nor is it something your dentist prescribes to you along with a new Oral B and some floss. So what? Well, basically I'm just getting a feel for all this...a mic check if you will...testing, one..two...three... All gears clicking and ready to turn. Till then be thinking about this odd concept. Salvation, the preservation from destruction, evil, or difficulty....Oral, pertaining to the mouth or that which is spoken rather than written. Take it from there. (Comment on this)