memoir girl

or so we have dubbed her, comes in with her makeup done perfectly. her lipstick is dark and painted, her whole face really is like a oil painting. It's not greasy or anything, more like unrealistically perfect. She's snow-white fair, and her rich brunette waves frame her face exquisitely. when she talks, she almost whispers seductively, pulling a conscious smile out of the corner of her lips. i'm not trying to glorify her; that's really just how she looks. She's young, maybe late twenties, and sometimes wears this fancy fur hat when it's really cold to go with her ivory turtleneck. if you can gather anything from this description, hopefully it's this: she kind of thinks she's a bit of a big deal. 

she orders the same thing every time: a large cappuccino with an extra shot, extra, extra sweet with sugar-free vanilla, as well as a large hot water and a large ice water. she smiles coyly at me whenever i predict her order (because it's such a surprise) or know that she likes her hot water without a sleeve and says "thank you, sweetie." 

this is where it gets weird.

she grabs a table against the wall and lays out page after page and an open book and goes to town writing what we think are her memoirs. Though at such a ripe young age, i can't imagine how long that book is going to be. apparently one time, one of my coworker's failed to "keep an eye on her stuff" after she requested a watchful eye while she took a pit-stop, and she flipped out that something could have happened to her irreplaceable writings. 

after she calls it a night, we always gather 'round the table she was at in horror. she leaves the biggest mess. and not only is it a mess, but it's a creepy mess. she leaves cups under the table half-way filled with a mysterious liquid that definitely doesn't resemble a sugar-free vanilla cappuccino. it always seems like she accumulates more cups than she requested, all filled with dark cloudy water or flakes of oatmeal. in addition to cups and ripped up sugar packets, she has, on a few occasions, left rejects from her sacred manuscript. scrawled illegibly on crumpled up notebook paper in brown or green marker (i picture her doing the clichéd crumple-up and toss-over-the-shoulder-in-rejection), they are borderline gibberish. incoherent. 

"Reece is involved ... why so nervous and guilty - soon after or about 6 minutes after VC left -- Reece wrote story for school & got into trouble or called in to see school therapist - ... only reason .... wanted to pressure ...." 

and more about Reece, who apparently is involved in some shenanigans. the other page i found is even more hard to read and therefore ten times more confusing, but "Reece" and "infection" pop up here and there. ive seen her with a few medical books, and someone said she was in fact a medical student. 

either way, she looks pretty harmless. but she's just another one of our nuts. 

la plage

i went to north avenue beach the other evening. it was relatively warm out, meaning low 50s, but coming from over a month of bitter cold winds slapping your face left and right, the cool breeze was more than welcomed. even at work today, everyone seemed be to ordering iced versions of their favorites, and believe it or not-- we did spy someone in shorts. i think the brutal cold sends everyone so far into hibernation that the first hint of a new season calls for celebration. 

so this heat wave prompted johnathan and i to pack up a comforter and head to clark/division on the red line and venture east to the water. 

by the time we got to the shore, the sun had completely set, but it was still pleasant out. despite being right beside lake shore drive, it was strangely quiet on the beach. there was little left of the ice that had previously paved over the sand. i frequently would look out my window to see the ice floes on the lake, just the sight of it chilling me to the bone before i even set foot outside. the sand was damp, the water was dark, deep blue. the moon was high above the water, looking back at its reflection cutting into the navy water.  you could see the ferris wheel from navy pier, completely illuminated.  there were only a few other people who had decided to venture out to the beach like us. it was wonderful. it was as if this wave had come over me and started in my toes and scrambled up my body, twisted around in my stomach, and stretched out my fingertips and out the tips of my hair.  

i return two days later with my other friend and her camera, my own journal in hand hoping to channel the energy from the glistening water into some creativity for my screenwriting class. i lied on my stomach on the blanket, dreading the creeping shadow cast from the quickly-setting sun behind the skyline. before long, i had curled up in the sandy blanket like a big cocoon and fallen asleep. sleeping on the beach is one of those incredible simple things in life, when you forget that there's probably sand maneuvering its way into all your nooks and crannies, and you just pass out on nature's own tempur-pedic. complete & utter bliss. the drool mark on my journal proves it.

being on the beach did spark a few thoughts of mine, some of which stemmed from an old friend in high school and a conversation in my junior year english class. 

has anyone read Sophie's World? 

That will be another post for another day.