invitan: (Default)
With a question, Mister split his class into two. In the instant Armine joined the people who raised their hands, her eyes flirted with Mister's and she knew that he was one of them too.

He had asked, "Who among you knew exactly how much your parents earned?"
Combing her faux mohawk with two fingers, Armine flashed a beam of sunshine for the waitress who said here was her sundae, please enjoy, and by the way did she know she looked like Ruby Rose. She had not known for about twenty five times.

The sundae though was a piece of impressionist art, but with more flat candidness than swirling fluidity (so Manet, not Monet). She felt triggered, wondering why on earth was there no warning for the graphicness of salted caramel munching on whipped cream carpet.

Suddenly a spoon. Hey, Armine protested the assaulting scoop from the other side of the table.

Rion licked her weapon, purring. "It's really good. I like it."

Armine gaped at the four-year-older woman-child.

"You're doubting me now, but it's delicious."

Armine's curled her left fist, leaving only the middle finger.

"Do you know what is more irresistible than ice cream though?" Rion's right eye was blinded with blistering love. Armine did not want to know.

"Mary's vagina," Rion began nibbling the caramel off her ring fingers. "With candle wax and Armenian wines as topping, of course. But even without them, it's still the sweetest I've ever had."

Armine was eighteen and thus a kid who just had her ice cream stolen. That was what she told herself when she knocked on Rion's head and heart, spilling that Mary was heteroromantic homosexual. 
The first piece of herself that she gave Mister was a number that she scribbled onto the back flap of his notebook while he relieved himself in the washroom. He returned to his office to find his student replaced with a lover.

That night, Armine listened to his breaths in between ear nibbles and neck kisses. Her chest rose and fell as she bit her already bruised lips. "I want to do you like I do my daughter," he communicated without words. Back forming the Arc de Triomphe, she curled his right hand and guided it up her thigh.

Rion told her once that fisting desensitized. She told Rion to try punching herself sometimes.
Armine came out of the make-under looking like an old person.

Old-er, the computerized voice reminded her from behind the camera. In her case, as old as her own number of years alive. Nose rings off; tiger jackets swapped with a blue dress suit that dove strategically down her collar, covering just enough to conceal the bites; black extensions caressing her round cheeks. We finally saw her cheeks, exclaimed the computer.

She giggled at the notion that a computer could see, knowing that the showrunner would edit the footage to make it seem like she was giggling at her own empowered womanhood.

To give them credit, she looked ready to conquer the White House. 1995 White House that was, when Bill ran the interns.
"Before the make-under, ninety six percent of the public wanted to avoid you – notably one bloke said he would egg you on the street," the computer ran its data analysis. The production assistant signaled her to react with his own forced grin. She swung her hips dramatically and struck her best Kardashian pose.

"After the make-under, twenty two percent of the public wanted to marry you, and, wait for it," the computer raised its voice, injecting as much attitude as a machine could. "Seventy eight percent said they would happily fertilize your sweet egg."
She blew a kiss at the direction that the "public" would be placed on the screen after post production, thankful that she would not have to spend her negative savings on attire for the Monday job interview.
The next piece of herself was a painting. "I want you to see how I see you," she stared into Mister's soul as she unveiled the digital portrait she created by tracing a brooding photo his wife took on Instagram.

He winced at the face. She winced at the face too, so she deselected the skin layer on Photoshop, plastering the cobalt sky across his eyeballs.

"Now it looks like you," she smiled sweetly at the hollowness on his face.

Armine lay down the broken twin bed that had not been hers for five years. As horrific visions of puberty escaped her memory reserve, she stretched her arms trying to seize them but failed. The sensation of hands against skin, instead, invoked a kind of distant familiarity that was akin to an out-of-body experience.

She examined the latest discolored patch of skin below her chin. She nudged the crease of her stomach fat, and then – putting her hand into her own pants – the nook of her pubic bone. She kneaded up her inner thighs and closed her eyes, burying her head into the pillow.

"Today I will be gentle with my heart," she whispered to no one. "And today I will be gentle with my clit."
invitan: (Default)
In fear of interrupting the snore of my roommate and in avoidance of clichés, I whisper to no one the number of pot-bellied pigs crossing the street. I drink some water. I caress the cover of Mankiw’s “Principles of Economics, Kindle Edition.” I slow-read its chapter on globalizing forces that leaves me questions on the GPA of your politicians. I gulp down a bleached caplet that promises to suppress stomach riots. I venture out the room to turn off the corridor light.

I drift to the kitchen, armed with a Tasty recipe with 3574 likes. I cherry-pick the brownest egg from the dozen of grade-A-jumbo-non-organic bargains from Family Dollars. I spin it and will my body to take its lackluster rotation as an inspiration. Since my body fails to submit, I crack the shell instead. I slap together my very first French toast dipped in caramel and mustard. On second thought, I fix another for Fiona and leave it on the counter. On third thought, I consume both and hand-write an apology card, explaining that I am better at judging than cooking my colonizers’ food.

On the way back, I subtract three and a sixth from seven to find the amount of time I have to disable Fiona’s alarm, a loop of twenty seconds of “Moves Like Jagger.”

Instead, I turn off my own alarm. Already on the phone, I gleefully bypass the Times’ paywall by reading it in incognito mode. I thumb-type a three-inch furious Facebook commentary on the legal obstacle course foreign workers leap through to come here. I hit refresh five times. I delete the post and ask Siri to schedule reposting at noon. I still send it to my ex anyway.

Tip-toeing to bed, I google the time of sunrise to solve the mystery of my dark window. I close my eyes.

I surrender to Adam Levine’s subjugation of my auditory nerve fifty-four seconds later. I listen to the world’s awakening as my eyelids glare back at me. I mumble, “Five more minutes,” and “Morning,” and “Yup I’ve seen the news,” and wave goodbye and lie very very still.

In the comfort of my visual cortex theater, I watch a giant citrus fruit doodling your country with gold flakes and red dust. In response, I scrub marble floors and wipe frosted windows and cement glass ceilings and ask everyone to come together and march for the freedom of your society in the protection of our bubbles and I-

I am jolted alive by the call from Pakistan. I kiss him goodbye and melt into my pillow, this time really sleeping.


28/3/09 18:41
invitan: (Hikaru - Become stronger)


The Oracle of Apollo at Delphi dates back to 1400 BC. Julian the Apostate (331/332– - 26 June 363), a Roman emperor, tried to revive classical Greek culture in the mid 4-th century AD. He is said to have consulted the Oracle of Delphi. The Pythia responded with the following oracle: 


"Go tell the King, the well-wrought hall has fallen in the dust;
Phoebus Apollo no longer has a home or laurel, or a murmuring spring.
Even the talkative spring has dried up and is no more"

This was probably the last advice from the Oracle of Delphi. The Oracle said that the time to revive classical Greek culture has passed, Apollo is dead.



On to the story )