Sylvia Plath Punched Me in the Brain

I can't write anymore.


Ever since I started rereading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, I've fallen into some sort of haze that consists of staying in bed for as long as possible, eating Spagettio's, and filling out Myspace surveys. A pretty pathetic existance. I'm used to writing intricate poems and essays all the time, but lately the most creative I've gotten with words is by sending text messages to my best friend about Project Runway.

So what gives?

Well, I'm not Sylvia Plath, for one. All other writers' work inspires me to write, but for some reason Sylvia Plath's work makes me want to curl up under a rock. And I suppose that is a sign of a really powerful writer, that she can transport the reader to her personal hell. What am I gonna do, transport my best friend into the mindset of Heidi Klum as she judges a haute couture trench coat? Through text messages? Nobody could ever convey an emotion as convincingly as Sylvia Plath. And so I guess I am trying to rid myself of emotions through bland, mind-numbing activities so that I never have to compete with her ghost.

Christian Siriano from Project Runway: The source of my poetic inspiration

Which is ridiculous, really. There are plenty of good writers that aren't, well, insane. And I've written plenty of good poems that weren't drenched in emotion or psychosis. But for now, I'll stick to my Myspace bulletins and silly blogs. Because, well...I'm lazy.

Rest In Peace, Chicken Wings Dipped in Sweet Potato Casserole...

Another fond remnant of my childhood is gone. Ryan's Steakhouse in Lafayette has shut down. I don't know what it says about my childhood that it was partly defined by a dimly-lit buffet, but I am really mourning over this Paradise Lost. You see, Ryan's was like Britney Spears, if Britney Spears was covered in dark chocolate fudge. It's fascinating in a totally sick way, chaotic, trashy, and absolutely delicious. I'm sure I've mentioned this before, but one time my brother got a plate full of butter and dived in thinking it was mashed potatos.

So in honor of Ryan's passing, I'm going on a hunger strike.

Kidding!

Tomorrow is my 18th birthday, and I'm going to pound down some General Tso's chicken from a Ryan's-level-of-seediness Chinese place like there's no tomorrow, and wash it down with a cute ice cream cake. Ah, gluttony has always been my favorite sin.

Oh, how I will miss thee

Ci Ci's Pizza: I Hate That I Love You

Buffets shouldn't make me as excited as they do. But, seeing as they combine awesome people watching and Food (with a capital "F" because buffet food is so glorious), I just can't swerve away from the comforting, warm glow of neon signs boasting a $9.00 all-you-can-eat meal. Undoubtably, the best buffet is Ryan's Steakhouse-their warm tortillas with luxurious nacho cheese make me weep. And one time my brother got a huge heap of butter and dived in, thinking it was mashed potatos--that's how excited and dopey you can get there.



But in terms of people watching, Ci Ci's Pizza is a shining beacon of wonder. If you've never been to a Ci Ci's, here's what it pretty much is: imagine a Roman vomitorium, filled with orb-like figures of humans waddling about in pure bliss, basking in the aromas and tastes of all you can eat pizza, pasta, salad, and dessert for $4.99. FOUR DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS. And you can request (shall I say, demand?) ANY pizza you want-macaroni and cheese, popcorn, bobcat-anything. The food isn't THAT spectacular, but the sheer amount of everyone's go-to-fat-kid-meal (pizza) is.

Ci'Ci's Pizza: The pinnacle of human civilization

But the last time that I visited this tasty carnival, I was disappointed.


My boyfriend (the one who introduced me to Ci Ci's-the old manager there knows him by name) and I went there on a whim last Friday, even though we're supposed to be dieting together ("It's Friday," I reasoned to my thighs). When we walked in I immediately got a pit-of-terror-feeling in my stomach. There he was. Sitting and smiling, holding a bright green weiner dog in his hand-the balloon guy was there. Nights with the balloon guy are always rough. Balloons=kids, and kids=screaming, crying, running, and spilling sizzling marinara all over my legs. But I soldiered on to the salad section of the buffet, while my boyfriend skipped (literally, I'm guessing) straight for the pizza.


When I finished my vegan wonder of iceberg lettuce, ranch dressing, and bacon bits, I heard a worker yell that bar-b-q pizza was out on the buffet. Ci Ci's bar-b-q pizza makes me want to die because when I eat it, I know nothing in life will ever reach that level of awesomeness. Unfortunately, about half of the buffet beasts also feel that way. So I ran up to get the last two pieces. My mouth watered as I neared the buffet, patiently waiting in line, eyes widened. And right when I'm about to reach for it, woosh-two little scavanger kids run up and take the last two pieces. Before I got a chance to strike down my mighty fist of anger onto their little toadheads, they were off-like bandits in the night! I walked back to our table in a daze of weariness and gloom, and mournfully ate my spinach pizza.

But my sad tale shouldn't sway your decision to visit Ci Ci's. Because, could a buffet get more awesome than this?: It's across the hallway from International Sports Center. You can eat 87 pieces of pizza while staring at people on elliptical machines. And, really, that's all that probably matters in this life or any other one.

Damn You, Meg White.

Heroes are for suckers.

Or at least that's what one of my own heroes, gonzo music journalist Lester Bangs, once said. After my own personal savior and hero, Jack White (of the White Stripes), ruined all of my hopes and dreams (slight exaggeration) this past fall, I can see where Lester is coming from. Kind of. My irritated, brazen, beligerant side can anyway.

So what happened to make me turn my back for nearly two weeks on the pinnacle of genius of modern music that is Jack White?

His bandmate and big sister Meg broke the myth.

You see, the White Stripes are all about screen porches, lemonade, broken guitars, and old record players. At least in my pathetic fantasy they are. They are immune to these scary modern times of "invisible music" as Jack puts it (mp3s and the age of the download), Britney Spears meltdowns, and T-Mobile Sidekicks. Their music creates a cocoon of childlike wonderment and old-man wisdom. They truely are timeless. But during their tour to promote Icky Thump this year, Meg started to have panic attacks so severe that she couldn't travel. Panic brought on by the hecticness of jet planes and press releases (and maybe drugs, who knows). She broke that old world persona of the White Stripes. And she broke my dreams of going to an open admission White Stripes show in Chicago, being right up at the front, and being asked to sing "St. James Infirmary" with her and Jack, and then obviously being whisked away to their old time 1800s cottage in Nashville where I would hang out with Loretta Lynn and become a taxidermist. Because THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED if Meg hadn't gotten afraid of planes or whatever.

After I saw the news in a White Stripes bulletin on Myspace (the irony is killing me), I wept. And I couldn't listen to them for two weeks. Which is an un-Godly amount of time for me. I listen to them daily, and all of a sudden I couldn't hear a cut from their new record without slamming a fist through a wall. I still can't listen to their live concert stuff out of grief of not seeing them this fall (I've seen them twice before but I just KNEW this would be the concert where Jack would let me join the band).

Thinking about it, I realize it isn't Jack's fault. He didn't cancel the tour. I'm sure he would think I was the most beautiful little snowflake if I did get to see them. And in my mind he's always represented "the White Stripes myth" better than Meg anyways. So I've gone on to surely disappoint Lester Bangs and hero-ize the White Stripes. But it still kind of ruined my life.