You danced it around the roof of your mouth as he snuck out the back door. Yes, I watched; I sighed. You swiped one of Mrs. Thank God I offered my girlish neck to the sword to avoid such horror! I admit, however, that I part company with Sister Edith on the sex issue. I used to tell girls that if they could find a seventeen-year-old with a vasectomy, have at it! Protection, protection, and more protection was my motto. Some girls had sex and considered it a marvelous, oddly wholesome adventure.
But others felt cheapened and lonely, and wept over the phone to their friends until gray morning filtered through their bedroom shades.
Astonished to see Aram still standing, Fred gave him a boxed set of jazz records as thanks for his help. Photo taken with permission, while biking through Central square. After he doesn't respond within the next 12 seconds I didn't really expect him to, but I was pissed , I trek over to the UPS store and get my tracking and proof of delivery, come back and send it to him and paypal. Not to mention the one where you claimed to be an alien mindreader. How many refugees might one Cool Lab employ? He smells of fresh pine, a forest of green stuff. Weighing you down with secrets untold.
I paced their bedrooms all night, silently admonishing myself for giving overly general advice, instead of tailoring my sex talks to the emotional needs of each girl. With my human girlhood cut short by fervent devotion, was I trying to relive my lost youth through these girls? Who was I, anyway? A girl who knew the great spiritual love of Jesus Christ, a girl who martyred herself for sexual purity.
An unvanquished saint.
And that was before the advent of AIDS and potent new strains of other sexually transmitted diseases. Now what advice do I have for you?
My stupidity fills me with self-loathing, and the only cure for that is to eat five spools of cotton candy and take a nap. Through the haze of celestial sleep I hear other saints bad-mouth me as they flutter past my open window.
As if! Even in her youth, Sister Edith would not have been one to offer counsel on attracting male admirers. And is this really something to aspire to? Is this a topic of great concern for you girls? I see a couple of you who like other girls romantically starting to nod off. You may have to fight ignorance and prejudice during your time on earth humans can certainly be tedious , but as only the spirit ascends to heaven, we are not the boy-girl fanatics they would have you believe.
But with a boy, the whole world is different. Wendy Charbonneau, look at you glaring at me. I know your sister Cindy and her best friend, Gayla, were killed in a car accident driving home from the Weston Mall, where they spent their last hours trying on platform clogs, shoplifting a lipstick sample from the Chanel counter, and drinking Pineapple Julius. Benson and Hedges rule! Do bring your brothers, Winston and Chesterfield.
I mean — Jesus! The Chanel saleswoman passed you over to help a woman who was looking for a tube of Vamp.
Absolutely not, I assure you. It would be a pretty crappy God indeed who would kill two girls over a trendy lipstick. You edged away from the Chanel counter with salt tears dripping into the comers of your mouth, and raced through the maze-like cosmetics department, where suddenly the customers had all turned into absolute imbeciles, inquiring about retro lip gloss, youth-infusion serum, and seven-day-miracle masks.
You will never wear that hallowed lipstick down to a dark nub, never even try it on; you will keep it always.
She wants you to tell her story endlessly, until the boy starts to miss her, too. She wants you to zone out in class and daydream about lost joy. Cindy is a great girl, and you are quite naturally despondent in her absence. But she watches over you. You are entertaining the angels, unawares.
But I see anger smoldering through your flinty smiles. And Caroline Kelly is wondering where ethereal Agnes was when old Uncle Frank stuck his hand down her pants at the family reunion. And you, Stacey Ramos, think I must have been off running tra-la-la through a heavenly field of flowers when your cousin Julie slit her wrists clean open with a boning knife after being dumped by her boyfriend, Henry.
Oh, Stacey, you have every right to hate me. I should have appeared to your cousin in the bathroom, as she sat naked on the cold edge of the pink bathtub, balancing the knife on a creamy seashell soap and staring down at the interlocking sea horses in the ivory linoleum.
But please, girls, forgive me for my errant ways, my deadbeat saintliness. Take pity on me, for I cannot bear to gaze down upon the theater of life for very long: the snap-decision suicides, the crashing cars, the tumbling bridges, the flaming houses, the dreaded hospitals where weary humans have their hearts and brains opened and undergo the torments of skin grafts and chemotherapy.
Why are souls so hearty, so defiantly everlasting, while physical bodies — skin and bones and blood and unreliable, disease-prone organs — are so very delicate?
Life on earth is but a breath of eternity; why must it so often be spent in anguish? I ponder this question with other saints, but fly off the handle when they bring up the book of Genesis. See Jesus re human delicacy filters through all my thoughts, a haunting procrastination. Yes, I have failed you, but understand that I am a low-ranking and rather temperamental saint. My earth years and good works were few; my title is mostly honorary. Though canonized for blind devotion to Our Lord Jesus Christ, I was not particularly holy; I martyred myself in a crazed moment of girlish passion.
And my devotion was not even pure. I fostered romantic inclinations toward a boy, Johnny. My brain shattered into kaleidoscopes of shimmering, bewildered neurons. On that spring day when I martyred myself on the knoll, I spotted Johnny in the crowd, and was glad to be wearing the dove gray dress that made my eyes glow, though I suffered slightly for him to see me with my hair chopped off. As the executioner brought the sword to my neck, my heart sang for Jesus, but an unchristian thought crossed my mind: Now Johnny will truly see how different I am from all the other girls. I thought Johnny might gallantly offer to duel the executioner, or at least scream in protest, but it was only my friend Melissa who cried out for me.
Knowing the less-honorable truth, you girls might look on me as a heavenly lightweight, but I am trying to mature into the kind of saint who would fill your hearts with love and protect you from all evil. What responsibility! I often wish I could give up my saintly status and just loll around like a regular heavenly girl. I, too, enjoy the everlasting company of my earthly family and friends.
And many saints are dear to me: Jude is kind, but busy sorting through his mile-high stack of newspaper novenas. Melissa and I go out for cappuccino all the time. Just now, Cindy, Gayla, and Julie have taken off their ice skates. Perfect layers of Vamp coat their lips. They sit on a split-log bench, drinking mocha lattes and smoking; in heaven, everybody smokes. When you arrive, you go to your favorite earth house, which exists here, room for room.
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Your dad sorts through his scratched LPs, sold at a rummage sale after his death, but now returned to their rightful place in the Silvertone console. Then boundless joy triumphs, as you realize everyone will get to spend eternity together in the Kingdom of God.
Still, there are things to get used to. On earth you used to worry about your weight, but now, when you step on the old bathroom scale, that creaking purveyor of doom, you weigh exactly zero pounds; you are truly a spirit. Open the medicine cabinet and you find the pillboxes and amber prescription bottles filled with gum.
In heaven, you will never, ever see anyone dear to you standing at the sink, gulping down pills. Imagine the beauty of a world without illness or death, a world without end, amen. And thank goodness. Tonight was fetish night. We got in mostly free with some flyers heather had picked up on thayer a couple days ago. Definitely a weird night. It was like a potpouri of nightcrawlers. The music was totally random.. Definitely not the usual Club Hell crowd. At any unix shell, type: cal That'll give you a nicely formatted calendar for the year The cool thing about it is the month of september.
Posted 16 years, 9 months ago on January 4, So I got bored last week and was browsing the personals on craigslist and was curious about what kind of guys responded to the personals. So I put up an advertisement as a woman seeking a man, and directed the responses to some random hotmail account. To my chagrin, more than a fourth of the responses I got were from MIT graduate students. According to the census, the Middlesex and Suffolk counties my geographic area have approximately , people between the ages of There are 5, graduate students at MIT, most of whom are male.
Or are we just really desperate as a whole? My words exactly.