bekah brunstetter
Bekah Brunstetter I care deeply. About a lot of things. Like really, really deep. Ow
playwright in brooklyn, NY

Ewww

October 10th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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We don’t like this one

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Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. I guess I’ll go eat worms. And stuff.

I guess I cannot be everyone’s cup of tea.

Posted in sucking, the writing of drama plays, whining | No Comments »

also, HALLOWEEN!

September 16th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

I dedicate these images to Becky Castoria, chubby candy guts, pumpkin bread,  vampirites, and odd attire.

SOON!

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eeeeeee

Posted in factual smarts, holidays, sucking | No Comments »

Romance

August 27th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Some Thoughts on; by Bekah.

Anything;

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Anything.

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Point being, ladies and gentlemen, there is no set way to woo. There is no formula, though the dry champagne and fresh snickerdoodles and the Bubble Bath are definite contenders; attributes of a thorough seduction. But a seduction is not Romance, even. Romance itself is practically not even Romance. Romance is delicate. Intanglible, unpredictable. Unplanned. It could be a clever juxtaposition of place, air temperature and consumables, even.  It could be a Milky Way, as opposed to The. It could be hot and in your hand after he split it in half, giving you the bigger piece. It could be the joke thereafter when you’ve managed to get it in your hair.

It’s the unplanned way in which hands are held, getting lost. Tripping over wet newspapers and falling into seemingly unwilling arms: Romance. It just happens.  Try and grab it, make it, you will laugh. It will be a laughable version of a thing you once saw on TV that your mind told your lips was love. It’s in your blood, even, and when it boils, want/need/yay, you know it’s there.  We should all kiss more illogically.

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Child-Rearing at its Best

August 23rd, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Dear Motherhood,

I’m stoked. I think I have pre-maturely figured you out via through sitting on of Babies. And by Babies, I mean one really stellar near-eight year old girl in particular. Her name is Kate.

Step one: Give the Kate at least two hours to dance it out to High School Musical Two. The REMIX, even.

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Allow time for costume changes and impromptu moving of furniture. Freak out when she does cartwheels in her socks.

Step two: Cookie Shop, and how. Take the Kate with you to purchase the ingredients. She likes this. Let her convince you to use white chocolate chips, because those are her favorite, and her parents both like dark so she never gets to have it. Also let her convince you to buy a giant overpriced can of organic whipped cream that you will later forget you bought, and most likely use in un-child rearing activities.

Step three: Cookie bake. Let Kate do most of it herself, as hard as it is to let go. Let her eat big dough balls off the spoon.

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During cookiethon, allow her to the tell the story of Where All her Teeth Went. Allow Kate to ball the dough childishly onto the tray, like so:

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Let go. Let her do it. Letting go is hard. It looks like this:

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Finally, Step Four: while they are baking,  paper doll it all to hell.  Dig through your personals, grab your construction paper and sticker collection. Go to Town.

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Make a girl doll and a boy doll. Force them to make out.

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Wonder why Kate prompts this, and knows what it means.

In summation: Bring it, motherhood. I welcome your letting-go challenges, and your butteryburnt cookies.

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Eh?

August 13th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

images.jpg Because I can.

Eh? Aw.

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aHa. fig000-1.jpg

b803236.jpg Ewe. fatkid.jpgEek

giant-inflatable-sausage.jpg …eeee…

punkin_1.gif ….Eh.

Posted in Uncategorized, sucking | No Comments »

alanis gayisette

August 10th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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Okay, hombres. I don’t know about you, but: Jagged Little Pill was my first CD, ever. Words cannot capture the joy of locking myself in my room, popping that little fucker into my player (littered with glowy stickers and yin yangs) and listen to her whiney pretty’s from beginning to end.

Peoples, I felt understood. Didn’t you? My inner monologue: dude: She knows. She KNOWS.

But: flash forward, some 10 years later: last night, a pimpass SUV pulled through my neighborhood – blasting- and I do mean Le BLASTING – Jagged Little Pill’s Secret Song. You remember. Last track – you had to wait two minutes of dead air before the melacholy began.

Lyrics are:

I went to your house
Walked up the stairs
I opened your door without ringing a bell
I walked down the hall
Into your room
Where I could smell you

And I
Shouldn’t be here
Without Permission
Shouldn’t be here
Would you forgive me love
If I danced in your shower
Would you forgive me love
If I laid in your bed
Would you forgive me love
If I stay all afternoon oh…

I took off my clothes
Put on your robe
Went through your drawers and I found your cologne
Went down to the den
Found your CD’s
And I played your Johnny

And I
Shouldn’t stay long
You might be home soon
I Shouldn’t stay long
Would you forgive me love
If I danced in your shower
Would you forgive me love
If I laid in your bed
Would you forgive me love
If I stay all afternoon oh…

I burned your incense
I ran a bath
I noticed a letter that sat on your desk
It said hello love
I love you so love
Meet me at midnight
And no
It wasn’t my writing
I better go soon
It wasn’t my writing

So forgive me love
If I cry in your shower
So forgive me love
For the salt in your bed
So forgive me love
If I cry all afternoon oh…

Oh, Oh Oh. People, when I used to listen to this song, it was TRAGIC. Imagining what is like to find some love letter, to cry in showers, to put on said man robes – tragic. Granted, I had no idea who ‘Johnny’ was or what it REALLY meant – yet – to love or loose – these words made me cry.

But last night, this song felt nostalgic – but dead. In retrospect? What the F is she whining about, anywhoo?

Tragedy, ‘Tragedy.’ There’s genocide in Darfur. Perspective, people. Take two minutes to cry in the shower, lay in your bed, and oh Oh Oh and whatnot – then boot strap it up, I think.

As for Alanis, her and her new haircut:

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have been frequenting the likes of Sex and the City and Curb your Own Enthusiasm: (making out with Sara foot face J Parker, and sharing tepid secrets with Larry David) and avoiding this dude:

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Like the plague.

Posted in music, sucking, whining | No Comments »

‘work’

August 9th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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Adoring fanbase persons, I’d like to take this opportunity to announce that August 15th will be my last day at Cellfish Media, where I have resided as production assistant intern person who wears grandma dresses since May of 2007.

Cellfish media does stuff like this: img5.jpgAnd this: barriomobiletones-sm.gif.

During my time at Cellfish Media, I have gained massively vast amounts of skills including (but not limited to) excessive Snapple consumption, excessive pee break taking, online copywriting, harddrive organizing, eyeball stabbing out-ing with assorted office instruments, script writing, shoots-assisting, bagel and meat grabbing, wooing, blogging, starring, chewing, and retarded amounts of iphoto booth taking.

Goodbye, the first ‘real’ job. So long, fellar. Meet me in St. Louis. Or actually, maybe – don’t.

Fansfolk, what I mean to say is: as of August 15th, I will be unemployed. Terrifying, invigorating. I’ve been sending off assloads of resumes, perusing craig’s list like a little Bear. I just can’t seem to decided WHAT it is exactly I should do. For ‘money.’ ‘Money’ for rent, loans, iced coffee, cheap wine, goodwill, assorted aspirations for travelling, life-living, movie-watching, gift-buying, plane tickets, Target, meaty biscuits, um, and maybe a sweet little Titten named Captain Rolando Baby Monster, Inc.

So – I’m taking suggestions/ nuggets of inspiration. Basically, I just want to do something I CARE about. I don’t know what that is. Ideally, yes, 100%, I could just write for a living, and F all else. That would be amazing. My own schedule, my own terms, living off my words like all writers should be able to do.

Ideas thusfar:

Wine bar/coffee maker person, because I can seriously do this like a bitch in an apron:

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Or maybe a foot fetish party person. These lasses make like a grand a night, yo. And as my debt sky-rockets, my ethics plummet, and because my feet are hot. If my feet were  a lady person, they would be this lady person:

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Except with like – even a MORE widely opened facehole. Pedicure: $35. Cab fare home: $18.57. An investment banker jizzing on your pinky toes: priceless.

I jest.

Finally – maybe – I will just seek an hourly wage  as a professional Patient Person. Tired of waiting? I will wait for you. I am so patient I will wait for the train forever. The train could never come, and this is fine. I am so patient I am like this:

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But sweatier and with less Jesus up my skivey’s. As a professional Patient Person, I will charge 1/4 my student loans per hour, and will wait for anything.

Any other suggestions? Heh? Anyone?

I await them. Patiently.

Posted in i am scared, sucking, whining | No Comments »

travel

August 8th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Today, these things, in no particular order, can suck my metaphorical balls.

First, dear the airplane: suck my metaphorical balls. You are big, stinky, uncomfortable, and late. You are a fat old lady mid-menopause. You stink and suck.

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Next up, the airline. Dear the airline: suck my lady balls. You communicate horribly. You make me wait. Your peanuts are stale. Your beer costs too much. Your stewardesses have panty lines. You make me wait for no reason for something I’m not even that stoked about doing. You make me chew on my shirt.

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But on a positive note – there are a few things, as my angst and I sit in this stupid chair, looking out into a vast lack of airplanes, that do NOT need to suck my balls. Today, they are:

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I don’t know about that ‘peanut’ thing, I do enjoy the ‘nut.’ Also not sucking are liberating thoughts of thoughts of happy one day travels.

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Cuba, Si! Vamanos!

Posted in sucking, where i want to live, whining | No Comments »

I watch You for Titles

July 17th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

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I thought it fair to warn all Eleven of you to watch what you say and do. I am sweet little sponge, stealing your words and cataloguing them in my brain for later usage. Namely, for titles. I never start something until I know what it’s called. It’s natural to want to name things, even things that don’t require names, like Snails and Bikes and um, Sandwiches.

But the problem I get myself into – is that I start with this beautiful group or pair of words in my head that feels to me to be the most profound thing ever- and then I find a story within it. The whole time I’m writing the thing, I refer to it by this title – this random group of words that feels profound. But by the time I’m done with the play – it no longer merits the title. The play has come so far since its nugget of inspiration that the title no longer makes any sense at all – and I don’t want to be one of those writers with irksomely ambiguous titles. Like in college, I had this play ‘Exit Plato.’ What? It was about this ghost woman named Grace haunting her family. I just liked the sound of the words – then made up this story about how the title referred to the fact that ‘all characters are like – driving down this highway – of like life -and like – they see this like exit and like – it doesn’t make any sense -’…..Profundity, at its best.

My recent failed titles include ‘Torch Number Two,’ ‘I Used to Write on Walls,’ and ‘You May Go Now: A marriage Play.’ I am much more into the titles of my one acts like ‘I Have it’ and ‘Happy Birthday/I’m Dead’ and ‘The Doughnut Emergency.’

But on the flipside, I kind of don’t care, because titles make me really really happy. I wish that I could make a living naming things. What is that? I don’t mean things without names like New Plants and Diseases. I mean people’s art, I think.

Sometimes they punch me in the face like seven at a time, and I walk home in a trance thinking about them. I walk into things and drop my Metrocard and take wrong turns and miss Important Stops.

Titles on the Horizon include (but are not limited to) Snails without Homes, First Dates Forever, The Things I (Unselfishly) Want for Myself, and Falling in Love on the Internet.

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Posted in boys, sucking, the writing of drama plays | No Comments »

Say Something

July 15th, 2007 by Bekah Brunstetter

Anything; Anything.

Something

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