story: The Perfect Marriage

Title: The Perfect Marriage 
Category: Character Study (sort of), Romance (sort of) 
Rating: G 
Word Count: ~150 
Summary: Written because I was wondering what a 'perfect marriage' would be. You can decide if I mean it earnestly or not. 


I see him at breakfast. 


We sit together in the early morning hours, he on his side of the table and me on mine. We drink tea together, sometimes coffee, and watch the sunlight through the window. We eat toast with jam and fresh fruit. 


We speak to each other quietly. He tells me his business and I tell him mine. We decide to buy this piece of furniture, call that plumber. We pay the bills in soft words. 


Afterward we clear up, putting everything in its proper place. The dishes are gleaming in their cabinets and we lean over the kitchen counter to give each other soft kisses on the cheek. He smiles at me. I smile back. 


He pulls on his jacket, pats my hand, and leaves the kitchen. He goes to his job and I go to mine. I will not see him for the rest of the day.

story: Better in the End

Title: Better in the End
Category: Fairy Tale, Humor, Happy Ending
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~800
Summary: The ending of the Cinderella story, rewritten. What if the shoe had fit one of Cinderella's stepsisters?

The Universe is Trying to Kill Me

I know what you're thinking.

“Haha,” you think, “Kira is making another 'funny joke.' The universe is trying to kill her. How droll.”

No. I'm fucking serious.

I don't know what I did in a former life to deserve it, but I swear to Spock that someone or something has a grudge and is trying to kill me.

Reasons that I know this:

1. Every time my friend tosses something to me, in inevitably hits me in the face.

2. I'm allergic to everything. Okay, not everything, but all those things normal people take for granted? No can has.

   1. Wheat? I'm gluten sensitive.

   2. Dairy? I'm lactose intolerant.

   3. Grass? Allergic.

   4. Certain soaps? I'm allergic to at least two, that I know of.

   5. Pets? The dander makes my eyes itch.

   6. Nature? I live in terror of pollen. It makes me cry. Literally.

   7. Nickel? Gives me hives. And did you know that nickel is in practically every piece of jewelry ever? It is.

3. I fall down stairs. A lot.

4. I fall up stairs. A lot.

5. I have three younger siblings. If that's not revenge of some sort, I'll eat my pants.

Damning evidence in my favor, isn't it?

“But... Kira,” you say, “Couldn't this all be explained by heredity, happenstance, and your own clumsiness?”

God, you're such a smartass. And sure. Maybe it's all just a coincidence, trumped up by my own ego and paranoia.

But then how do you explain THIS LETTER?!

Dear Kira,

I hate you. I'm going to make you die.

Love,

The Universe

I rest my case.

Review: The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

Review: in which I whine like a little girl about a very naughty book

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

by Stieg Larsson

2/5 stars.

I did not like this book.

I found it interesting. And I couldn't let it go. I finished it, which I suppose is some sort of victory for the author.

But let me make this absolutely clear: the only reason I finished this book is because I am a very, very stubborn girl. Once I start a book, I have to finish it. Because, you see, I can't let it win. I know it's not particularly well-reasoned, and that really I'm only torturing myself (and the people I bitch to about the books), but it's the way I am. That's not the point, though.

The point is that I hated this book. I had a bloody, knock-down, drag-out fight with this book for six months because I just could not let it go. I couldn't let it win.

And here is the fruit of my labor.

The short, spoiler-free version:

Things you should know about GwtDT:

1.Stylistically speaking, the writing is superb. The prose is obviously well thought out and put together well.

2.As may be expected of a crime novel, certain events that many find triggering were described in stark detail.

2.The characterization is quite good, and I was left feeling that each and every character, even minor ones, were actual people I could run into in the street.

Things that frustrated me:

1.The writing is quite dense.

2.The book is stupidly long, for no reason that I can fathom. The first third of the book could, and should have been condensed into a fraction of what it was.

3.The pacing upset me. The first half nearly put me to sleep. The next quarter was halfway interesting. The next sixth was heart-pounding and riveting. The last part of the book was back to merely being halfway interesting. Why couldn't the entire book be riveting?!

4.There are quite a few cultural references that I suspect only Swedish citizens would understand. I had to look up the dollar to kronor exchange rate so that I could understand monetary references.

5.The ending is shit. At least it is, character-wise. I can't tell you why without spoilers, but I can tell you unequivocally that I hated it.

And now for the spoilery bits.

Mikael Blomkvist. I hate him. He has a relationship with his best friend, Erika, that is basically friends-with-benefits. He describes himself as not being able to stay away from her, even after she got married. Fine. Whatever. I think that's bullshit, but I suppose I can accept that. Then he gets married. ...Fine. The wife knew what she was getting into, in regards to Erika, and decided to marry him anyway. Okay. Then they had a daughter. Then Mikael continued to cheat on his wife with Erika, and his wife realized that no, she actually couldn't deal with it, and divorced him. I understand that too.

From that point on, he becomes basically uninvolved in his daughter's life. He only visits sporadically, and doesn't devote any time to getting to know his daughter and keeping up with her life. He gives no good reason for this besides slight shame, apathy, and what I think is laziness. This is when I realized that I hate Mikael Blomkvist, and it was within the first fifty pages of a six-hundred-page book. First of all, you don't bring a kid into the kind of fucked-up relationship he has with women. Second, I refuse to allow him any leeway in the effective abandonment of his only child. He was a successful journalist and half-decent human being for most of her childhood; he had the means and opportunity to do better. He should have been there. No excuses.

Lisbeth Salander. I love her. She's the only thing that made this book tolerable for me. She has cool tattoos and piercings, is sarcastic and antisocial, and a tech-literate bisexual. Also she has a motorcycle. I liked her instantly. I found her character multi-layered, complex, and immensely interesting (as opposed to Mikael, who I thought rather shallow). I liked reading about her reactions and choices.

I was extremely incensed by something the author did to her, particularly because of the context. You see, Lisbeth is brutally raped. Perhaps I could have accepted this event as a necessity of exploring and growing her character. But. Remember how I told you how Mikael just can't keep his hands off women? Well, within twenty pages of Lisbeth's rape, Mikael gains a new amour. This upset me. Throughout the novel, Mikael remains a static and frustrating character who enjoys success and overall good luck. This event, in this context within the novel, made me feel as if perhaps Mikael is only a thinly-veiled stand-in for the author, so that Larsson could live out a charmed and interesting life through his character. It made me question his attitude towards women. It made me dislike this book, and Mikael, even more.

As I said before, I found the first half of the book unforgivably boring. The plot crawls at a snail's pace and at times seems nearly dead. Nothing interesting happens. There's a great deal of financial journalism and Swedish politics, but all that did was serve to irritate me. Nothing that was important to the plot and character development could not have been written in a third of the first half. I found a fraction of the book honestly attention-grabbing and adrenaline-inducing, the way I expect a crime novel to be. The quality of prose in no way makes up for this.

The tone the author took during the novel was surprisingly apathetic, especially for a crime novel. I never felt real emotion in the language, except in the climax, and that was, again, but a fraction of the entire novel. I found that frustrating. When I read a book, I want to be engaged. I do not want to feel apathy from the author in his own work. That's boring, and frankly I consider it to be bad writing.

The ending is shit. Lisbeth realizes that she's in love with Blomkvist. I hold none of the same affection for him, and I think that she could do much better, but I understand and the author did a good job of making me believe it. Lisbeth decides to confess her feelings, because to do otherwise would drive her crazy. She buys a gift, a thoughtful one, something she's not known for, as an excuse to see him and tell him. Cool. She goes. She sees him going home with Erika, obviously to have sex. Her heart is broken. She throws away the sign. She goes back home without telling him. Her already fragile self-confidence takes yet another beating, and she thinks to herself that no one could love a freak like her. The book ends.

KIRA RAGE. Not about Lisbeth's reaction, nor her feelings. I believe those and understand. What I don't understand is the author's choice to end with some kind of namby-pamby so-called 'literary' ending. It's a shit ending. I don't give a fuck about 'literary' endings or endings fraught with 'meaning.' I could care less that the author is attempting to create a poignant moment or some shit like that. Pointless angst does not a good ending make. I am not left with a positive feeling about this book when you beat up on my favorite character yet again, Stieg Larsson. It makes me angry. Is this ending supposed to provide further depth for Lisbeth's character? Bullshit. Depth can be found in happiness. Complexity is found in joy. You sir, are just not that good of a writer. You leave Lisbeth in the dust, as Mikael literally walks into the sunset of his success, as static and anger-making as ever.

May this book forever reside in the special hell.

So...

I may have gotten a livejournal account.

But blogspot, baby, it's not because I don't love you! I do! You just... you don't have all the cool people. That is to say, all the nerds who post fanfic and stories on livejournal. And it's not like I won't visit anymore! I will!

You're still special to me, blogspot. We'll just be... seeing other people. You always said you wanted me to be more open in our relationship, right? Now we'll be super open.

Cracktastic Hemingway & Carver Style Vignette

The man in the chicken suit sat down in the cafe and ordered a hot chocolate. Minutes later, a young woman came jogging up to the table. She collapsed to her knees next to the table.

“Why did you steal my pants,” she said.

“For the same reason you do not love me anymore,” said the chicken.

“That’s crazy. I don’t even know you,” she said.

“Do you not,” he said.

“I don’t. Please give me back my pants,” said the young lady.

“I am sorry,” said the chicken, “I no longer have them.”

“What? But you’re holding them right there,” she said. Both young lady and chicken man looked down to see, indeed, a pair of pants in the man’s hands.

“Ah,” said the man. “Would you like them back?”

“No. No, that’s fine. Keep them,” she said. She took the seat across from the chicken. A giant butterfly flew into the room, exploded, and shattered into pieces of blue glass. Neither chicken nor young lady took notice.

“Would you like a hot chocolate?” asked the chicken. The girl nodded, and the chicken man summoned a young barrista. “Mi amiga quiere un chocolate caliente.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” said the barrista.

“No, I changed my mind. I would like a gin and tonic,” said the young lady.

“We don’t serve alcohol here,” said the barrista.

“Ah, I see. You’re racist,” said the chicken. The barrista gave up and left. Young woman and chicken man were silent. A mime walked in and attempted to order via sign language. Chicken and girl watched as the barrista broke down in tears. They returned to their conversation.

“I hear it’s nice in Prague this time of year,” said the girl. The man nodded.

“You never take me there anymore,” said the chicken.

“Mmhm,” said the girl. She watched as a man took a bowling ball, swallowed it, then promptly regurgitated it. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Indeed.”

“I can keep a bowling ball down much longer than that.”

“I once held a shoe for longer than seventeen seconds.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You never do.”

“I don’t even know you,” said the young lady.

“Exactly,” said the chicken. The girl looked at the chicken for a long moment.

“My legs are cold.”

A man in a skintight gold leotard walked in and stopped next to the chicken man.

“Isn’t there homework you’re supposed to be doing?”

The girl ignored the man in gold and started coloring a napkin with a purple sharpie. She drew a pair of pants and a shirt. As an afterthought, she drew a pair of underwear. She looked out the window. A bucket was beeping at the top of its lungs.

“I should be going. I have things to do,” she said. She stood and walked out of the cafe. The man in the chicken suit and the man in gold watched her go.

“She has very nice accoutrements.”

“It is a bit nippy out.”

“Goodbye.”

It's winter.

Dear Mother Nature,

Look, on an intellectual level, I recognize that yes, it is winter. That means that things such as snow and sniffles and random ice patches just happen. I know this. I do.

Proof that I know winter when I see it.

But, just I can't seem to help the cycle of 'what the hell' that I go through every week. It goes like this:

Sunday: Sleep in. Do not leave house. Spend time doing silly things like reading fanfiction and taking twelve different naps. Generally a day of contentment. Completely ignore ridiculous phenomena such as "weather."

Monday: Wake up, unhappy because I'm awake before the sun. Take one step outside. Realize it's fucking freezing. Wonder, "WHY?" Realize: It's February. Damn.

Tuesday: Snow has had time to melt. I'm happier, because that means I can wear my comfiest shoes. Only, it starts snowing halfway through the day, and by the time I'm leaving school, my footwear and outfit are no longer okay, and in fact anything short of some sort of fur-lined parka monstrosity will leave me cold. Double damn.

Wednesday: Take one step out door. Fall on ass. Curse creatively.

Thursday: Fuck, I hate winter.

Friday: Oh thank god it's Friday. ... maybe winter isn't so bad? ... Nah.

Saturday: Burrow into blankets and conveniently located warm bodies. Forget about this whole goddamn season. Winter? What winter?

This cycle has been repeating itself since about January. By March I will be some sort of rabid beast that roams the land in search of sunlight and dry ground.

So consider this my formally lodged complaint. I object to the existence of winter past the month of December. I object to the freezing cold, the biting wind, the slippery ice, the sniffles, the nosebleeds, and the cabin fever. I'm done.

Best Regards,

Kira

P.S. - I have strep right now, which I totally blame on winter. If I sound cranky, or spiteful, or incoherent, blame it on the fact that I can't swallow a single fucking thing without feeling like I'm shoving a hedgehog down my throat. Ta.