December 18th, 2005

(no subject)

Screaming Noosk.

There were screams. That's all there really were--just people screaming when there was no other way to express it. I walked into the pink house on North Winooski with a driveway unplowed and treaturously coverred in snow. I walked into that new legend of Burlington that they call "the Noosk," that place the cops slow down for when they drive by, where beers are always in an overabundance until they're substituted by sheer drunkenness. I walked into that place and there were only screams.

Every room I went into, there were more screams. Nobody was really saying anything at the sight of me, just screaming, which I considered a perfect 802 way of saying "Wow, Hug Me!" so loud that it's inconceivable. So they'd scream and I'd wrap my arms around them, linking my fingers around the other side and feeling the cold of their winter beer cans on the back of my neck. I'd link those fingers and feel these memories starting exactly where they'd left off; as if I'd never left and this was just the nightly welcome for someone they loved this much. I had been away, but like I had promised each and every one of them, I'd come back, and I was ready to stir, ready to grab everyone's volume knob in the depths of their throats and crank it so high the knob would break before the speakers even had a chance to blow. I was ready to pound and ready to fist and ready to scream like them, ready to make these weeks just a momentous as the last, ripping apart my insides with a mentality that more than made up for the hangover.

I walked into the Noosk and there were only screams. That's when I knew I could take Burlington's bookmark and rip it to shreds; these boys would always be here to lead me right back to where I'd left off. That's when I knew it was time to crack a beer, admire its sounds, smells, and tastes, and redirect all my energy and focus from finals stress to having some fucking fun.

Welcome home, Rachel Styles.

(no subject)

Yesterday I traveled. I went from San Francisco to Pheonix to Philadelphia to Burlington. After I got hom, my mother called me and told me she had a story for me.

My mother used to play tennis with a girl named Amanda. Amanda was one of those people that was very dramatic, plagued by depression and often driven by its tendencies. She was a lesbian, but one of those lesbians that was only a lesbian because she'd had too many problems with men. She was overly dramatic and often caused unnecessary conflict because she knew no other way. She was always cool in my book because although she was growing up, she had a very young side to her and often acted much younger than her age. I'm sure that's the reason there were sometimes problems with her friendship with my mother, but nevertheless I considered her one of my favorites of my mother's buddies. She was into tattoos, sex, swearing, drugs, and being unhappy, so I considered her more of a grown teenager than an adult.

Anyway, apparently Amanda recently moved to Phoenix and was travelling yesterday as well. She called my mother last night to tell her that she was at the airport and saw a girl walk by that she remarked looked incredibly like Rachel Severance. I did not notice, as I was just trying to get to my next destination, but Amanda looked at me as I walked by, awed by the similarity I had in looks to her old tennis partner's daughter. Suddenly she got a back view of me, and saw the numbers "802" tattood on the back of my neck, and immediately dialed my mother's cell phone. "I just saw your daughter in Pheonix. I didn't know it was her until I saw the first three digits of everyone's phone number permanently enrgaved in the back of her neck."