Archive for jeans

Phonies.

Posted in Love, Writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 2, 2010 by Sara Lilly

I’m writing in this practically everyday now because the boss is on vacation and there are no manuscripts coming to my desk to read at work. So, I pass the time by playing FreeCell, this donating-rice thing my co-worker sent me a link to, and this. (ADD moment: Holland just took the lead over Brazil! WHA?!)

My friend and I drink tea every Sunday night together like old women. We laugh, we cry–really, we do. I was talking to her about my frustration over the shitty manuscripts I read because some of these “writers” think anyone can write a book. That’s offensive to me and one of my co-workers as writers. It’s like telling a heart surgeon, “Anyone can perform a triple bypass!”  (ADD moment #2: Felipe Melo was just red-carded after having scored an own goal earlier. Shit, the Brazilians are going to kill him.) I told my friend I can’t stand people who try to be what they’re not, who claim to be something deep and yet they’re so empty–

“I know where that feeling started,” she said, “and why you get so worked up about it.”
“What?”
“It started when our friend died and this girl wore jeans and a tank top to his funeral.”

I still vividly remember sitting between two guy friends and looking across the aisle at this girl. She was blonde and had on a red spaghetti strap tank top and blue jeans. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she was pressing away on the keys of her cell phone. I was filled with unbelievable frustration and mostly anger–what the fuck was she doing there? Was she just hanging out for the sake of telling everyone she went? That level of disrespect was such a low blow. It probably sounds so trivial to people reading this but my and my friends entire lives changed forever because one death and here was this girl, in beach clothes, on her cell phone. She probably went to the mall afterwards and said something like, “Oh yeah, I went to the funeral–sad. So you want to get your nails done?”

 My best friend cried every day for a year. I was sitting in therapy four years later. And the girl who showed up to the funeral in jeans went on just fine.

Whenever I see someone doing something shallow or being immature or submitting a shitty manuscript that they think is gold, I think of the girl at his funeral in the red tank top and jeans.