Under The Wagon

1. Lack of Enthusiasm

Him 1: Hey, Karla…I don’t know how to tell you this…But, um…I don’t want to see you anymore.
Me: Okay.
Him 1: What?
Me: Okay. You know, it’s cool.
Him 1: That’s it? That’s all you have to say???
Me: Why are you getting upset? You said you didn’t want to see me anymore and I said it’s okay.
Him 1 (sounding upset): I’m not upset! I just didn’t think it’d be that easy.
Me: Yeah, it pretty much is.
Him 1: (indignant silence)
Me: Um…I’m sorry?

2. Lack of Nurturing Instincts

Him 2: Hey, that feels really nice and all, but you’d better stop or I’m gonna want to fuck you.
Me: Well, yeah, that’s kinda the –
Him 2: It’s just that I’m really confused right now, and I just feel so hopeless all the time, you know, like I don’t know what I’m doing with my life and…
Me: Are you crying? Jesus christ.
Him 2 (turning over in bed to face the wall): God, the only way you even qualify as a woman is because you have a vagina!
Me: Holy shit, I can’t believe you’re crying!

3. Lack of Any Common Fucking Sense

Him 3: Hey you wanna do something stupid?
Me: …Yes.*

(Later, sitting naked on the floor amid the wreckage of what used to be my bed)

Him 3: Oh man, sorry about that. Think you can fix it?

(Much later)

Him 3: Well I better go. But like I said, my girlfriend and I on the rocks right now, so it’s okay. I’m probably moving out soon, anyway.
Me: That’s cool.

Really, it’s not the dying alone that bothers me. It’s the 20-30 years between now and then that are gonna be a bitch.

*Note: Karla Pacheco has never answered the question “Wanna do something stupid” with any answer other than “yes.”

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions, Early Wagon Archive: Sex, Drunk, & Rock n' Roll by Karla
Comments Off

The Management hereby announces the penalties for the following statements:

“Deep down, you’re not that tough.” “You only act all hard-bitten to keep people from getting close to you.” “I know that underneath it all you’re a softy.”

Penalty: I stab you in the eye with a fork

“Jesus, you really don’t have any feelings at all, do you?” “You just hate romance and love and anything nice.” “You’re not interested in a normal relationship.”

Penalty: Either a nut-slap or a titty twister, depending on gender.

It’s like this, kids: Yes, that crusty exterior is for real, and no, I’m not just moments away from melting into a little puddle of emotion. I don’t like talking about my feelings. I am a cynical bitch.

But I’m not completely heartless, and like pretty much everybody else in the world I would like to have someone who enjoys being with me on a regular (and periodically naked) basis. But I have different standards and “non-traditional” ways of traversing the horrible train wreck that human relationships can be.

Think of it this way…I’m not a an ice princess, frozen straight through. Nor am I a cherry cordial, with some sickenly sweet gooey center.

I’m nougat, okay? Firm, but flexible. A hard candy coating, and underneath that…Nougat.

Just…Nougat.

Now I want a candy bar.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions by Karla
Comments Off

Some friends and I recently discussed things you do when no one is around to hear/see you.

I never realized how insane my “alone time activities” are.

Of course, my primary solo act is drinking. It may seem sad, but for me, drinking alone is one of the best things I do. If I stay at home with a bottle of gin, I a) save money and b) save face. The only thing I have to worry about is when I start drunk calling people (usually in an attempt to get them to come over and have sex with me). But as long as I hide my phone before I start boozing, I’m good to go.

Oddly, I don’t think of that as strange. But the other things I do when I’m alone…

Like most women, I spend a lot of time in front of the mirror. Practice the pouts and doe-eyed come-hither looks. Yes fellas, women rehearse that shit. It takes a surprising amount of work to perfect that “I’m just an innocent little girl with a slow, sleepy smile and a startlingly sexy glint in her eyes…don’t you wanna buy me a drink?” look.

Other mirror activities include the “Why don’t I pull all my hair up like…This?” the “Blow my stomach out real far to see what I’d look like pregnant,” followed by the “Suck in my gut ’till it almost looks like I have a six pack,” and the “I don’t need a boob job, do I?”

Do guys do this? Just wondering. Anyway, the mirror stuff’s pretty typical for a chick.

But I also dance in my bed. Note: I’m not dancing on my bed, ala 1980’s teen sex romp film. I’m laying down, trying to sleep, listening to music, and I’ll start some weird horizontal twitching. Though if a really good song comes on, I’ll jump up and bounce around in the dark until the song ends or I stub my toe on a pile of shoes.

I like to read Dorothy Parker aloud in a dry, cigarette and scotch soaked voice. I like to act out the “movies in my head”. These can be previously produced movies that I insert myself into, but most of the time, it’s movies that haven’t been made and never will be. I’m usually a hardbitten mercenary swordswoman, a hardbitten spaceship pilot, or a hardbitten killer-for-hire. Sometimes I have magical powers. Sometimes I’m a princess.

I talk to myself (I do this when I’m not alone, as well). I talk to people I know that aren’t actually there, in scenarios that are highly unlikely to ever occur.

When it rains, I run outside and spin around trying to catch raindrops on my tongue.

I pose for artistic and stylish photographs, even though I don’t own a camera. I apply perfume and sniff my wrists. I yell at the television. I pretend I’m in music videos. I imagine meeting somebody famous and having them fall in love with me.

I imagine meeting somebody who’s not famous and having them fall in love with me.

That’s the sort of thing I do when I’m all alone.

But for the most part, I just drink.

Oh, and watch porn.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions by Karla
Comments Off

I don’t ask for my life to be happy, I just want it to be interesting.

I don’t know when I first adopted that philosophy. I have a distinct memory of scribbling it into a small pink journal (with purple hearts in the corners), so I couldn’t have been more than 12. I just remember thinking “Even bad things can be interesting.” And happiness seems so…Arbitrary? I have a hard time not equating contentment with complacency.

So my life has been “interesting”. Sometimes a little too interesting, even for me. But I feel lucky because when a moment of happiness comes along, I recognize it as a gift, enjoy it, then wave goodbye when it’s over. I take my happiness 15 minutes at a time, and I take my bad times like a trooper…Even if I do call in the 12oz reinforcements more than necessary.

I didn’t realize how long it had been since I was happy until today.

It was a goddamn beautiful day. Didn’t start that way. I had a shitty morning at work, an overnight shift of frustration and technical difficulties. Bought myself a book and headed home, I was tired and hadn’t slept for a long time.

But when I stepped off the train…It was just so gorgeous. One of those clear summer days that almost feel like spring. The oppressive humidity of the past week had lifted with last night’s thunderstorms, and the world felt…Clean. Breezy, with an impossibly blue sky. And I felt happy.

Instead of collapsing into bed as soon as I got home, I grabbed a blanket and a new pack of cigarettes, then walked over to the park. I couldn’t stop smiling at people as I looked for a place to set up my blanket and book. And then I heard bagpipes.

My first thought was “Maybe there are Scotsmen over that hill.” I like Scotsmen.

But it was just one tiny, old man in the middle of a field, playing his bagpipes.

I laid down on a soft little hill surrounded by trees, scruffy in overalls and a baseball cap, with a brand new book. I listened to bagpipes. And I was in love with the world. Just laying there, ’til irregular patches of sun stained my arms brown. I felt like my heart would explode. I was golden. I was happy.

I’ve had exactly two other days like this in my life. Once, sitting on a bench at Augustana College in Rock Island, Illinois. Another time on the front steps of my new apartment, arms wrapped around my knees, letting my hair dry in the sun.

Three days where I’ve been completely, and utterly happy.

I’m a pretty lucky person.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions by Karla
Comments Off

I am the Perfect Woman.

I’m fairly attractive, with a pleasing rack. You can tell your friends you’re sleeping with me and expect a thumbs up, rather than a disappointed shake of the head. However, I’m not so drop dead gorgeous that you’ll worry about me leaving you for a Gold Coast day trader, nor will I inspire bar fights. You will never get the shit kicked out of you at 2 in the morning because you feel obliged to defend my honor (and your masculinity) from the 200lb linebacker who grabbed my ass. No, because I am the perfect woman.
[Read more →]

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions by Karla
Comments Off

I was 7 years old when I skinned my knees for the very first time.

That may seem belated for juvenile scrapes and bruises, considering my younger brother was covered in abrasions pretty much from the time he he was 3. He fell out of trees a lot. But I was a quiet and studious child (translation: Unathletic Nerd), and managed to avoid any loss of epidermis until I was 7. I was riding my bike to a nearby doctor’s office for my weekly allergy shot (see: nerd), when I wiped out (see: unathletic). I skidded into what felt like a quarry, putting a magnificent end to an unscathed childhood. The scars remained on my formerly pristine knees for years, finally fading just in time for me to turn:

14 years old. My family moves to a farm in rural Nebraska, four miles from a town consisting of one block of Main street and a Dairy Queen. But hey, it was a hot summer day, and I was itching for an Oreo(tm) Blizzard(tm). So I mounted my hot pink splashed Huffy(tm) mountain bike and started the trek to town. I got halfway there before realizing I was ill prepared for the journey. Mainly because I forgot to bring hydrogen peroxide, bandages, or at least some tweezers to dig the rubble out of my lacerated flesh. Realizing that bikes and unpaved country roads don’t mix, and that bikes and I will never mix, I return home to stow away all shorts for almost a decade. I notice that I don’t bruise often, but I do bruise deep.

I am 21. Another warm summer day and I’m meeting friends at Hooter’s. I smile and wave as I see them sitting on the deck, happily anticipating 25 cent wings and $3 pitchers of beer. I revel in the sun on my shoulders and the gentle breeze ruffling my skirt as I cross the parking lot. I marvel at the stupendous nosedive I take when I don’t notice the concrete parking barrier in my path. Once again, I bid farewell to several inches of flesh. As I wrap my oozing joints in wet naps, I wonder if I actually have skin left at this point, or if my knees consist entirely of scar tissue now.

And this is the reason why, coming home from the bar at 3am last night, I faceplanted into my front steps, horribly abrading my lower extremities. It was destiny. I’m nearly 28, my exterior layers have been trauma free for far too long. It was absolutely unavoidable. Predestination. Such is my fortune and fate.

As for why I then fell into the rosebush…well, that was just because I was drunk.

Tags: Essays, Manifestos, & Unsolicited Opinions by Karla
Comments Off