This is my first sentence, and I think it’s pretty fucking spicy. This line has influenced my writing since I was eighteen when I realized that a thoughtfully executed curse word is really all it takes to feign better prose. I crafted the twelve word wonder sometime during my first year of college, and it has since been the stand-in first sentence in every piece I have composed since. Swear. From email to ballads, TIMFSAITIPFS has preceded the transcriptions of my heart. Of course, the deleting spree begins once a truer first sentence realizes itself, taking the place of the hearty F bomb hors d’oeuvre. I quash the blank page blues, I am DTW, and my reader is none the wiser. The sentence has served me well and has been at the forefront of my most inspired work.
A list of sloppy seconds:
“Today I sat in a red chair while waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles.” (Genius!)
“On my dangerous quest to become more latina, I often find myself in places with people who must feel sorry for my overwhelming wannabe syndrome.” (Still rings true)
“I am spending Valentine’s Day with Avis.” (Deep tracks)
“Juxtaposing works that span centuries and artistic movements, “Unraveled: Images of Women in a Modern World” will illuminate the connections between different representations of women and how their gender in an evolving modern society has ultimately defined their identity.” (Yuck. College kids ought to be banned from using the word juxtapose…and for that matter, banned from attempts at profoundness.)
“Even though it happened to me just now, today will NOT be the day I fell off the toilet.” (…..)
When I read over my writing, I usually become annoyed and often roll my eyes at my own lines. Cheesy and cliche. But in my defense, I am a corny person. And I don’t mean that in a self deprecating way. It’s who I be. As some of you may know, I cannot resist listening to Dean Martin whilst cooking. I bake things for people I like. I am moved to tears by things like happy endings, sunsets, and competitive singing shows. I like the idea of romance. My internal dialogue is spoken in the language of bumper stickers, and that can’t be the worst thing in the world, right? Some people don’t even recycle. Let’s hate them instead. My life is like a mischievous wandering eye, seldom faithful on its beloved present moment. We left it at a dot dot dot, to paraphrase the reigning Bachelorette. [K, I’d like to ammend my former statement: Both college kids and the Bachelorette should be banned from profoundness.] I guess I think of my life in question form, much like the great, loosely defined, hip hop lyricists of our time. I, too, am perplexed by the following concerns:
How could you say they live their life wrong/when you never fuck with the lights on?
What ya gonna do with all that junk/All that junk inside that trunk?
Who let the dogs out?/Who? Who? WHO?
Or perhaps the best question of all posed by the late, great Ass Dan.
Fuckin blankets/how do they work?
At some point you have to stop asking and start answering the big questions. Why are we here? What is the meaning of life? Wait, a black dude is President? My brothers and sisters, our time is now. Well, it’s my time at least. I am physically and spiritually moving on. I’ve ruined too many lives and cakes with my ill executed attempts at spice. Gotta iron this life shit out.
I have decided to discontinue my blog writing as well. It has served as an incredible outlet for my boring days spent alone in the desert and has been a comfort to read the progression of my perspective over time. And a lot of things have changed for me. I have graduated from gimlets to bloody marys, from a cold heart to a lukewarm heart, from latinos to, umm, slightly more anglo looking latinos. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Of course I will remain an active Tumblrer follower/lurker. I mean a girl can’t just pretend that the Rock-n-Rollsen blog dedicated to all things Mary Kate and Ashley no longer exists, now can she?
Enough with the questions.
This is my last sentence, and I think it’s pretty fucking spicy.
Steph
