Because my thesis is due in three weeks, I’ve been spending a lot of my time thinking about absolutely everything else I could have written about and how much better it would have been. For instance: long distance relationships. The other day my phone rang and I didn’t know what it was doing. Usually it makes a short, second long ding sound that alerts me to the fact that I have some kind of incoming message. This sound was longer. Similar to the sound my alarm makes, or when I set a timer for cookies. I realized I didn’t know what my ringtone was.
What would happen if I was in a long distance relationship and my partner tried to call me? On that note, would they try to call me? Would we use the phone, or would we facetime? Would my computer ring? Would I answer my computer?
I remember dialing phones. A very sensual, physical process. You insert your digit into the plastic hole and spin it several times over and over again. These days I just type in “boyfriend” and a series of emoticons into my computer machine until the desired result pops out (usually hugs, or self-affirming emoticons of ducks.)
Speaking of boyfriends, I did a quick calculation, and exactly 100% of the people I’ve dated have been white. This is perhaps influenced by living in a city that does its best to re-assert diversity by making sure everyone has a place to live… but still making sure its “”””safe””””” to live there. We’re in the heat of gentrification.
Some of my friends were talking about their ex-partners.They shared photos detailing an extensive portfolio of ladies and gents. And then I come in, with a pack of Dixon Ticonderogas.
But what do I know about race, or LDRs? What could be really thought-provoking is a piece called The Unbearable Rightness of Being. It would be a fifty page paper written from the perspective of a woman who wakes up one morning, goes to work, says something particularly poignant, and is then asked by a male co-worker “are you sure that’s what you meant to say?”
The rest of the paper being some sort of filibuster. I haven’t figured that part out yet. But basically she just goes on and on and on and everyone just gives up when they realize that this woman has said something really poignant in one sentence that could take up 40 pages worth of dialogue. Ultimately, their minds melt out their ears, down the carpet, into the very fibers of the workspace. She walks out – heels sticking briefly in the goo – and goes to read some Milan Kundera by the fountain. Cut scene.
On a more serious note, thinking about writing a paper this long as really put my blog into perspective. I see a lot of one sentence posts in my future. A writing detox of sorts.
I do what I want.
No word limit.
Recipe for Patriarchal Pie.
How to turn your diploma into a cat toy.
Carving your old jelly dildos into doll furniture.
I give up.
The color my ceiling turned after staring at it for four hours.
Why did I buy so much cheese: A memoir.