Myspace and Kitchens

I'm looking through some of the old stuff I have saved on my external hard drive today. If I remember correctly, when I had a myspace, I'd get some pretty funny messages from creepers. Here was a particularly good one, in quotes, that I apparently felt the need to tear apart. I don't think I ever sent this back to the guy, but it would have been funny if I did. So, here it is:

"hay sexy wuts good wit i dam u r soo sexy can we talk"

1. It's "hey," not "hay." Hay is the yellow stringy shit that horses eat.
2. Wuts? = What's?
3. You need a comma after sexy, I assume it's direct address.
4. "Wit" = "With" Wit is something you have none of.
5. I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that "i" is supposed to be "u"
6. Which brings me to "u" = "you"
7. You need a question mark after the supposed "u"
8. "Dam" = "damn" Beavers build dams.
9. once again "u" = "you"
10. "r" = "are" We have vowels for a reason, use them.
11. I appreciate the extra "o" in "soo" but you're a fucking moron.
12. You need a comma after sexy
13. You need a question mark after talk


On the bright side, you can spell "sexy," "can" and "talk." Also, you have an apparent understanding of how a keyboard and myspace messaging are supposed to work. While it worries me that you have a gun, you are making my case for the extermination of stupid people more and more plausible.

Thank you, douchebag. Try laying off the crackpipe.

Love,
Kelsey



There are probably more things wrong with it, but those were the ones I found at the time. Too funny. The gun reference came into play because he was showing off some handgun in his profile pic. I think I deleted my myspace shortly after receiving this. I mean honestly, no etiquette at all.




Also, I was looking though some of the older creative stuff I've written. This one was an assignment. I had to describe a kitchen in a way that it told a story:

Oranges are mixed right in with the apples in a wicker bowl that mom bought a million years ago, from a sale at some dead person's house. The bowl is leaning, lopsided on a stove stained by the last batch of potato pancakes it will ever make. An explosion of something has formed tiny dots of brown crust on the bottom of the oven fan. Those oranges are turning that familiar ugly shade of gray with a bruise of green in the middle. Oranges were her favorite. Their decay tells the apples that they need to become mushy. Towels with sauce stains are shoved over the broken handle of the oven. Broken, because mom always leaned on it when she talked on the phone.

The Mr. Coffee is the only thing without a layer of scum covering it. It's the only appliance bought within the last ten years, and it hasn't stopped making coffee for four days straight, because I'm here, the oldest of four, so she's my responsibility. Mr. Coffee stands alone on the sticky counter, next to the kissing Dutch salt and pepper shakers, faded with age, right near the pegs on the wall balancing mugs by their handles. One had a picture of a snarling bulldog. Another has something written in big block letters, in German. Their bright colors collide with the walls, doused in mousy tans.

In the sink, dishes are piled high. The only thing keeping the whole tower from falling is the mushy leftovers cementing them together. The dishwasher lets its empty mouth hang open, begging for something to clean. She always kept a clean house. She would murder me for this.

In the refrigerator is a forest. Someone, not me, thought to preserve the flowers that strangers bought. Harsh yellows, pinks, and reds jut out from behind pans and bowl and dishes covered with blue Saran wrap. It is all stranger-made food, and it turns to sand in my mouth. Something toppled, spilled and dried, lining the bottom, near the fruit drawers. Old, putrid milk is stinking up the whole fridge, making the meat loaf absorb its rancid taste. Under the fridge, black ants are marching toward a meal. Close it, that's better.

Faces and tiny to-do lists plaster the yellowed face of the fridge, supported by magnets that tell the history of the family. Tiny to-do's in my mother's handwriting, telling me all of the things she wanted to do, but didn't get the chance to. In the pictures, kids are smiling with their newly missing teeth, with their arms around each other, with that "mom said I have to" look. Hannah is wearing a soccer uniform, with grass stains at the knees, with a crooked smile taking over her face. She's my daughter, her grandma's favorite. Someone is smirking, wearing high red shorts with a white stripe, circa 1972. Turned on its side, a Polaroid frames mom and dad sitting on the brown scratchy couch, the one with the buttons in awkward places. Mom is peeling an orange.




I don't know. It needs cleaned up a bit, but I still kinda like it. It's almost like flash fiction. I'm going to try sleep now.