It was just a few posts ago that I made a promise to myself to post like everyday. And yup, look how that turned out. But in my defense I had finals.
In the time that has lapsed since my other posts, I have gotten into two of my colleges. And that is all I am going to say about that.
It seems like I am never going to pass that 500 word mark.
I miss... I not sure what I miss, but I am missing something. I just feel oddly empty and all those Emo stereotypes.
I need a hug.
Hmmm, what to type what to type, That Is The Question
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Once upon a November in a small town in the middle of here and there, it snowed. Now this is not at all out of the ordinary. This small town was incredibly ordinary. Even its name was ordinary. The town was called Casper Lake after the lake that resides to the west of it. The town was small with one main road that had all the three shops and four restaurants, three schools one elementary one middle school one high school, and a small factory that made tissue boxes and another that made salsa. Most of the residents of the town worked either in the factories or in the city that was two hours north of the town."Oh, dearest God of mine, what is this crap that I am writing" howled the insane looking human who was now ripping up a piece of paper that was just in the typewriter. This somewhat less then balanced human was actually a girl, something you would not be able to tell if you were to look at her from a distance. With her hair that was at some parts right below her chin and at others above her ears, her sweatpants three sizes to big with the crotch near her knees, her oversized jumper that looked comfy in that covered in stains filled with holes very lived in way. What gave away her gender was her face, it was to feminine to belong to a man. This girls name was Matti. As a child she aspired to be an astronaut, but when she realized that meant long years in an Engineering school she decided to be an artist. She was a surprisingly good artist or at least that is what the art critics say, the critics find her art deep and full of strong and subtle emotions. Her mother says otherwise, her mother feels like all Matti does is haphazardly throw paint at a canvas. This is in truth what Matti does but Matti feels that if someone would like to believe that she actually thinks about what she is painting, let them. People are more willing to pay higher prices for art that has backstory.
It was three days ago that Matti decided to start writing. She was on her way back from a showing of her latest works with the knowledge that two of her paintings had been bought for the combined intake of nine-thousand six-hundred and forty-three dollars, she was also slightly high, someone had put some lit weed in every single air vent, when she saw a puke green typewriter sitting in the display window of a greasy looking pawnshop. Matti knew at that moment what she wanted to do with the rest of her life: sit at a desk next to an open window overlooking the Eiffel Tower, while sipping coffee and typing on this very typewriter.
The shop was closed so Matti vowed to herself to come back the next day to buy the first step of her happiness. When she woke up at three twenty-four P.M., she took a shower, ate, changed into clothes that did not reek of smoke and wine, and watched the clock strike five oh five and then decided it was a good time to go to the pawnshop. It was only after five blocks of walking did Matti realize that she could not remember where the shop was located. Matti went back to her apartment.
The first thing she did was turn on the laptop she had bought two years earlier, it was a chunky looking black thing with a few missing keys from the keyboard and a few flicks of paint in the screen that would just not come off, Matti had bought it with the money that she got from selling a photograph of a shoe that she had stuck Hello Kitty stickers on. She then proceeded to go on Ebay using the internet she stole from the apartment below her and proceeded to buy the first typewriter on the list that indicated that the seller agrees to let you buy immediately. Matti also paid for overnight shipping. The total cost was around three-hundred dollars, the shipping cost nearly double that of the typewriter itself.
When Matti got her typewriter the next day, she placed it on the makeshift desk she had fashioned the day before out of slabs of wood, paint cans and cardboard boxes. She then poured herself a glass of cheap red wine she had bought yesterday into an old plastic cup that comes with kid's meals in chain restaurants and lit three huge candles that had no bases that were destined to drip wax and leave a mess. Matti did not open her window; the air outside smelt of garbage, and she decided on wine instead of coffee because it made her feel French. To make her feel even more French, Matti had opera playing from the old boom box that played both tapes and CDs. Matti did not realize that she was listening to Italian opera, not that she would have cared if she did know.
Matti took a small sip of her wine, it tasted so retched it made her feel extremely sophisticated even though she was not sipping it from a glass, and placed her hands on the keys of the typewriter. The typewriter she had bought could not hold a flame to the beautifully ugly sickly green one she saw in the pawnshop, this on was shiny blue with an engraved name on the back that read Michel, it was much to nice for Matti's taste but Matti plans to paint it or at least cover it in old scratch and sniff stickers after she finishes her first great novel. Sadly, her hovering fingers stay that way, hovering. It seems unlike painting where she could fake emotion, writing did not allow her to do that. And she could not think of anything to write. She then decided to write about the most wonderfully boring town that she could imagine. Matti wanted to retire to a boring town with rundown houses made of wood.
The fictional town that Matti dreamt of and was sure that is was real, would be surrounded by either a small forrest or of just miles and miles of nothing. It would be full of teenagers dreaming of escaping and old washed-out has-beens who wished they could have escaped. It would be the type of town that would give Matti a warm welcome when they hear that she would move there even though no one will know of any of Matti's work, they will just know that she is a rich eccentric artist coming from the big city, and she would be the town celebrity. That was until they find out that Matti talks very little, but they will confuse her quiet demeanor with conceitedness and they will soon all turn on Matti. The town's people that once flaunted her would slowly start spreading lies of her rudeness and how she believed herself better than them. She would be like a nice female Mr. Darcy. Sadly, Matti did not have the ability to transfer these ideas onto paper. This lead to hands covered in black ink from her ripping of still wet sheets of paper into small pieces.
For someone so relaxed with life, Matti is very passionate about books. Her apartment is filled with stacks of old paperbacks, used hardcovers, and a few books that she rescued from dumpsters. Matti knew what good writing was, and what she was writing was an example of everything she hated. When It came to writing, Matti demanded perfection and she was not producing that. The way Hemingway's words flow so easily and the way Pamuk uses imagery was something that Matti could not do. When all the wine had either been drunk or poured down the drain and the stack of papers Matti bought just for her novel had started to finish, Matti decided to realize that she had no hope for being a writer. This thought brought tears to her eyes, but Matti ignored her sight as it got blurry and chose to blowout the candles that had made great waxy puddles on her floor.
