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motherfletchr
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Name: Madelyn
Country: United States
State: Illinois
Metro: Belleville
Birthday: 12/27/1987
Gender: Female
Interests: Backstage spotlighted monologues, intimate public conversations, publicized admiration from afar, and all that psuedo-romantic bullshit.
Expertise: Sob stories.
Industry: Art
Message: message meEmail: email me
AIM:  retrochic91
Member Since:
6/11/2004
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| Dear Xanga,
I have been away for a long time. You knew that, but I think it feels better-- for the both of us, maybe-- if I admit it. So, yes, I have been away. I did not say goodbye. Maybe you saw it coming, though, as I had been rather distant. No matter. I want to say, too, that I apologise for being so abrupt. My apology then was not sincere. I left because I think I needed to; I know I wanted to, so I left without regard for your needs or wants. I am sorry. Frealz.
I have changed a little since I left. I don't know if it's the regular amount of yearly changing, and I wonder if it might be less than normal. I know for sure that now I occasionally say things like "frealz", which act as a substitute for legitimate language. I accept it, and I hope you do, too. My spelling, with the exceptions of the new fake-y language additions, is still fantastic. I promise. It's all I know I can promise, really.
In all honesty, I am probably still just about the same. I know I am still fickle, still difficult, still looking for a lot of things, still mostly messy, and that my mother still gets me unglued. I still cry and yell and laugh and smile, usually for the same things as before. I found lolcats, though, so that's new. And I've encountered bigger problems, and dealt with them with strength. But I still deal with problems from before with fear. I still buckle, and I still feel guilty and ashamed for doing so.
Sometimes, Xanga, I think I feel worse than before because it's been going on for one more year than it had been a year ago. It's funny to resent aging at twenty. But I've spoken to people, a lot of people, who say they couldn't be paid to be my age again. I think it's a little difficult trying to figure things out, especially when I had some of them figured out. Like which job do I look for after I've exhausted my potential employment opportunities? And I keep having people tell me to "go into computers" or "look into being a translator," but I don't want to learn C++ or Arabic or Chinese like they tell me, even if they would turn out to be more lucrative. And those things all require college degrees. I just need a job to get me through college, Xanga. I don't want anyone else's "brilliant ideas."
The truth is, Xanga, I found some really great things while I was away. Maybe they weren't all great, but they were interesting. I got myself into trouble and into places that I may not talk about for a long time. And you can hold that against me, Xanga, but some of these things you won't want to hear about. You'll probably hear them from me anyway, especially if you get drunk with me some time. You know how I love to talk, and, no, that has not changed.
I wanted to write you, not because I know I'll do so much better and make you so happy, but because I knew I should. I needed to write a letter saying that I'm sorry, and that I miss you, even though you don't hear from me. And I am glad you get on fine without me, Xanga, but I secretly sometimes wish you didn't.
It would be nice to say you'd do better with me than without. It would make me feel less lonely when I see you in public. Because, Xanga, I have the gall to write an open letter, but not to call or stop by. That's how much I've changed, if that says anything. I'm still too nervous. Maybe someday, Xanga. Maybe even someday soon.
Until then, I hope you do well, and I keep working up to accepting one of your invitations. Because I think that we have fun together, I think we grow together, and I think that's important.
Love and sincerest regards,
Madelyn
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| MyStatsThis is something I wrote for my Freshman Seminar course, for the unit "Composing A Self." Thanks go out to Paul, who gave me start to the piece, also to Laura, who inspired me to start posting again (maybe this will lead to more writing?), and to Caribou Coffee, for their Dragonwell tea.
What can I say to prove that I’m together? Innermost thoughts, outermost workings? I can be honest, offer you romantic daydreams and tragic stories; establish myself as a living, loving being. More importantly, more relevantly, I can give Facts: - Female. I claim empowerment and liberation.
- Age nineteen. Born 8:31 pm, 27 December, 1987: Capricorn.
- Belleville, Illinois, born and raised. Never strayed.
- Heterosexual. Bi-curious: rate 2 on Kinsey’s 6-point scale.
- College freshman, Columbia College Chicago: Double major in Theatre/Directing and Fiction Writing/Creative Non-Fiction.
- Earn less than $25,000 per year ($13,576.82 in 2006).
- Hispanic-American (Cuban on mother’s side).
- Brunette. Naturally mousey-brown, currently auburn: needs to be re-dyed.
- Brown eyes. Usually wear contacts, occasionally glasses (red ones from Valentino). Prescription -3.00: near-sighted.
- Clinically diagnosed with Depression and Anxiety. Celexa 40 mg per day; Clonazepam .25 mg as needed.
- Parents divorced five years. Technical joint custody; mother acts as full custodian.
- Accused of scamming father out of money; fight literally whenever we talk. Slapped him twice.
- Two brothers, 17 and 12.
- Agnostic. Disgusted by Pat Robertson’s definition “without knowledge of how to form relationship with Christian God”. Not without relationship, just without commitment.
- Favorites: green, dogs, sushi, reading.
- Three serious boyfriends, three short-term relationships, one one-night stand (I cried afterward).
- Molested once.
- Used to kiss girls for attention at parties; wonder what it would be like to mean it.
- Feel guilty about interest in sexual experimentation; What would my mother say if she knew about the biting and blindfolds?
- Left high school two years early; Still source of embarrassment and grief. I was sixteen. Yes, that is early. Yes, I am smart. Stop asking.
- Brooding and sarcastic: the former comes and goes, the latter is a constant.
- Liberal. Registered to vote, no party affiliation.
- Love the words: robust, generic, cunt. Powerful, commanding words. The last to reclaim my womanhood. Stop gasping.
I have a fine enough grasp of vocabulary
To know there are other words I can use.
But I choose.
It is my choice that differs--
That I choose to offend
Rather than sidestepping the issue
And sweeping up nicely,
As my mother asks me to do
In my grandfather’s company.
He’s called me a communist:
“A Liberal Arts School?
Why do you need to learn from Left-Wingers?”
“It’s not about Liberalism,” I tell him,
But he does not listen.
His Cubanism conflicts with my ‘Communism;’
And he will not let me listen to NPR. Which is fine, I suppose,
As the ideas I’ve gotten are mostly corrupt,
From elsewhere than the radio.
Like the Art-School boyfriends,
The angst-ridden acquaintances,
The sexually deviant gay friends,
The theatre,
And the erotica.
When I found it online, I was briefly amused.
Amusement turned to curiosity, and curiosity to interest,
Which eventually led to research;
Kama Sutra became light reading.
Now, when the boyfriend tells me about the last girl--
The one who liked being thrown on the bed,
The one with Betty Page-bangs and band tee-shirts,
The one who liked being choked--
I ask him to show me how me did it,
And it becomes part of the regimen--
The regimen that happens twice in the bathroom while my roommate is sleeping.
I have secured my place in Hell. Not that it wasn’t for sure already.
I am in constant judgment of those around me.
Did you bother to do your hair this morning?
When was the last time you washed those pants?
Do you always look so goddamned calculated?
Because that is what I worry about:
My pants (between sizes; after dropping twenty pounds, still afraid of discarding my ‘fat pants’),
My hair (my roots are showing, the growing-out phase is unflattering, and I’d rather sleep than style).
I own the clothes to “look my best”, but don’t bother before class.
The nerves become sweat becomes scent becomes laundry.
I carry a notebook instead:
If I look frazzled and thought-provoking, you’ll think I’m working;
Too busy, too ensconced for superficialities.
You want the truth?
I am established,
And terrified.
You want the
Facts: - Nineteen.
- Female.
- Chicago.
- Brunette.
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| Wherefore this Angst?And she is blonde and thin and pretty. And it almost feels like the high school experience I never had.
I am not what I expected of myself; Falling into old patterns became too easy. Compare to an everyday beauty with a life of her own, admired by and fantasized over by the common brooding male. She triumphs. I am available, I am flawed, I am pitiful.
There is no artistic disconnect. Unable to create my specialized gorgeous existence, move to next subject-- aloof, indifferent. Her role is a passive one, filling the minutes or hours of spare time wafting through the concious faux-realities, the possibilities out of reach.
I cannot offer daydream. Know my intimacies; They are not what hers could be. Tell me she was a net for a short time of instability. I accept. I quiver, vulnerable again.
When will You be? | | |
| Bootcamp one hour, three days a week, six weeks. I've missed one class already: Wednesday morning I wake up ill and too tired to exercise. I hold little guilt save the knowledge that I wasted ten dollars.
I have noticed several changes in myself since the beginning of my first round:
- More endurance.
- Ability to run.
- Better eating habits.
- Slight weight loss.
- Greater strength in legs.
- Swollen breasts.
I believe the swollen breasts are due to my lack of a supportive sports bra until the last week of class; They have been at least faintly sore very consistently for the past seven weeks. Possibly the pushups have strengthened-- and created-- muscles in my pectorals, causing them to look larger.
Probably it is the former.
I am willing to deal with the soreness if it means the jumping during calisthenics defines the muscles in my legs or helps me lose the extra 25 pounds that has made home (most noticeably) on my stomach, thighs and ass or trims the area between my feet and calves back into an ankle shape. I will deal with the soreness longer if the soreness and swelling come together because I don't mind slightly larger breasts. Slightly larger breasts have a slightly larger chance of controlling their surroundings.
I suppose I need to learn to harness the power of my Slightly Larger Breasts before they work to control anything. At the very least, I assumed boys would be easier to manipulate. Lately, as I encounter little but resistance, indifference and antagonism from the male population, I begin to doubt the power of the Slightly Larger Breasts-- or just my ability to wield them. But these breasts, though slightly larger, are still my breasts. I know them. I govern them. They never mutinied before.
I do not want these Slightly Larger Breasts if their abilities are conditional. I refuse the use of a catchphrase or magic rings to activate their powers. I would like, for once, for these Slightly Larger Breasts to appreciate what I suffer through that makes them larger. The pain grants me nothing but itself. So, either these Slightly Larger Breasts start pulling their own weight, or I go to a specialty store and spend fifty dollars on the Extra-Firm Support Sports Bra for Maximum Activity, size 34C. | | |
| Glass of Water, with IceI stare at my kitchen counter; Mess. Toast crumbs, sticky goblets, the Coca-Cola box has been sitting for two weeks, empty. My mother was right to call me a slob. Papers and phone book and want ads-- Modesto is hiring-- I cannot see my living room floor. So I pick it up, reload the dishwasher, fold the towels on the stool. Still awful.
Still sick, but almost better. He got sick, and I am
Maternal
Caring
Still slipping words I shouldn't.
A girl I work with has a five month old son she nearly aborted because of his deadbeat father. She broke up with the guy and has Amari instead. "I know it sounds like a ghetto name, but I think it's pretty." The only thing better than sex is her 'fat, little monkey.' Silly, but adorable.
A girlfriend and I walk into the photography gallery in Frontenac. In order: Wedding, wedding, collage, bad matchy family, cute matchy family, young siblings together, child portait, family reunion photo... darling little girl, beautiful picture of three small children. I swoon... over again.
There are six children I love. Six only. Three cousins: Leo, Quino, Isa. Three others that have captured my heart: Kameryn, Gabrielle, Eva. Beyond them, I feel no maternal magnetism. Not until the little boy in Forest Park, with his wonderful father that walked him across the banisters and airplane-flew him over the gaps. Since then I wonder whether I am so opposed to childbirth. Motionless after the sex, I wonder what would happen if he hadn't pulled out. If it could work in this time frame, would I bother with even minimal birth control?
I am not the girl who wants a family or a husband or a membership in Oprah's book club. I cannot stiffen or silence through long meetings or conversation. I am adventurous, eclectic, free. Stubborn, petty, dramatic: difficult. Can be a lover. Should not be a long-term commitment (legal or otherwise). I'm fighting the fleeting notion that I can hang on to ideas like this, but then I hear
When you have a daughter...
Our children will...
I remember the possibility. Said of two friends: "Once they get together, they're on the road to marriage, nonstop." There is a life stage happening I often overlook. Changes and actions, ongoing, while I sit thinking, analysing, sighing.
I still hope he echoes me when I'm out of earshot. After the misguided questions and wistful clutches
Still. | | |
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