A truck load of shit

Having been back home in Seattle since the 20th I have done almost and actually pretty accurately nothing. After meditating and sitting around/ domesticating for the past week and a half I have decided to commemorate it with a list of my former "interests" and a survey I pulled from James on Myspace. Oh the Holliday Season...

Dogs, Fun+Friendship, Seattle, tacos, roofs, the middle space of everything, headphones, calling coke a cola "pepsi", 6:30-10:30 at night, August, September, mixes, mixed drinks, beer that costs more than two dollars, poker, porn, walks, high fives, dancing, watching people do what they're good at, nostalgia, car trips, train trips, hippie parties, theme parties, grown up summer camp, bbqs, overalls, countryside, humans, funny neuroses, nail bitting, spandex, the harpsichord, Iceland, sparkles, waking up early, staying up for the good parts. .............ADDITIONALLY.......................dogs with underbites and crooked jaws, rose oil, life-like-movie-soundtracks, writing crooked, thesaureses, riding horses (Western only, forget English), Timigun, rain at 4:00, note writing, bike riding (RIP Little Pink Bike), ballads for 40 year olds, other people's Karaoke, day trips, spooning, stand-up comedy to fall asleep to, school busses, puddles, girls who draw on their jeans, all the Security Guards, card games, family functions, motor homes, lakes, maps, Jolt soda, sitting at dinner, anticipation, hanging out with cows, rednecks, cities like Balitmore in October, Halloween, friendly bees, photographs from the turn of the millenium, late night talks, good plays, Sam Sheppard, still moments, tin can telephones, Hemmingway, scarves, modern mix tapes, organization (so new), growing out the lesbian hair, the truth, eloquence, hands, mamas, girls with boy underwear, places I used to live, smoking, fake hikes, Dawson's Creek, putting all the little peices together to make a Charles Wysoki puzzle my grandmother will help me build. Bravery. Ice skating on frozen lakes. ferris wheels. NOVEMBER LIKES: Turkeys, Thanksgiving (never forget), Twin Cities, boots, other people's families, young boys, holding hands, Kevin's Drawings, accessorizing shit, "the Cat", snow, finding a place to live, pit bulls, breakfast, jump roping, laying in bed for as much of the day as possible, invisible tattoos, big words I don't know the meaning to, Florida in 1998, Los Feliz, learing how to pack for Thanksgiving vacations.


How do you take your steak?
Well done, with ketchup, like grandma used to make.

Who was the last person to call you?
My Man

To text you?
Kevvie

To send you a Myspace message?
Err...Brent. Yes, Brent.

Do you still talk to your ex?
sometimes

Last person you rode in a car with?
Jeremy...and bomb burritoes

Have you ever been to Oregon?
I lived in Portland, and drove through the rest of it.

What is the last type of shampoo you used?
Seriously? Umm...Garnier I think, or some organic thing my mom has that smells like cardboard.

Do you have Cingular?
No, I have Verizon which is almost as reliable as a donkey speaking Portuguiese.

Last person's house you were in?
...My...mom's? Otherwise, oh God, umm, I think the Juggernaut...a week and a half ago.

What is your dad's middle name?
Technically Orville, but don't tell anyone.

Are you wearing makeup?
I didn't even get dressed today.

Last person you sent a text message to?
Kev

Last movie watched?
Ohhh, well, I saw this thing on Lifetime, but before that I guess it would have been Me You and Everyone We Know, which was....

Do you like to ski?
Do I like to eat it?

Ever met anyone famous?
Local famous or global famous? Yes, I guess so. Psst...famous people seem a lot more normal in person. Unless they're dicks.

What instant messaging service do you use?
None, biatch.

Last person to call you just to chat?
Kevie.

Where is your dad?
Tacoma.

When did you last cry?
Two days ago I believe, but we've had some close calls while watching Scrubs, or thinking of flights to Mineappolis.


Are you wearing pajamas?
Sweat pants? Funny Shirts? Shit yeah.

Have you ever been to Hawaii? If so, which parts?
No.

Who is your 5th contact in your cell phone?
What does that mean?

What is your favorite number?
I always thought it was 24, like my birtday and Ken Griffey Jr, but you, know, what are numbers anyway?

Most hated food?
Oysters? For real, I puked.

How many animals did you pet today?
2, but one was a cat and the only one who really matters is my she-dog. She's a lump. We spoon.

Who was your favorite teacher when you were a freshman?
In...high school? Ms. Smith. Drama, giant hair, possible addictions, what can you do.

What are you worried about?
more things than I would like.

Have you ever had a panic attack?
Yes.

Last beverage you drank?
wine.

What do you smell like right now?
probably my dog and...and pizza? I'm a real catch.

How old are your siblings?
18 and amazing

The Only Living Boy In New York

I'm graduated and in New York.
Playing a 12 year old boy.
If you didn't see the reading on Friday and have any desire to see it, you can, tomorrow, Tuesday. The play is The History of Invulnerability, it's at 8, at the Public, and it's free. Come early to get on the wait list since "allegedly" it's sold out. The play is amazing. Additionally, god only knows it may be the only time I get to preform in New York. But I digress...

I have barely been able to stop and breathe in the past week, and as a result dinking beer and eating a Turkey sandwich last night with friends felt pretty amazing. Also, as a result, I am now sleeping waaaay too much.

But. I'm graduated. And in New York.

Dear Avoidance

After staying awake until 6:30 in the morning and writing all day I have come to the conclusion that I have to embrace and accept the fact that for the next little while, I will, on no uncertain terms, slightly loose my mind. The future is wide open, the sky is the limit, Tom Petty is a stoner, and I am going to be tired, confused, emotional, and weird until I have a job and a place to live in January. Hence-therefore, I'm filling out this pointless survey I copied from Airin on myspace because I cannot, by any means, make more play-making at this juncture.

24 random questions and 24 random answers

1. I've come to realize: that I don't, in fact have the answers to most of the questions/problems I try and convince myself that I do, and that my need for control is actually a lot stronger than I had originally thought.

2. I am listening to: my fan. And the loud, incessant clicking of the keyboard, which is one of the last functional aspects of my computer.

3. I talk: a lot of game? No, I talk not enough about what I am really thinking and far too much about what I think other people would like to think I am thinking. Think about it.

4. I love: laying in a good bed, courage, the Sea, Neverland (the place, not this blog), car trips, kissing, all dogs, Dustin Hoffman, make believe, tacos & burritos, humans, and love (had to go there).

5. My best friend(s): are my family in which there is no divorce.

6. My first real kiss: was forced on me by Joey in the back seat of Ashley Brown's car.

7. I hate it when people: are unnecessarily rude, chew with their mouth open, don't try, throw other people's feelings around like they don't matter, say the word "like" too much.

8. Love is: Ha-Hah. Love is...One giant idiom.

9. Marriage is: not as respected as it should be.

10. Somewhere, someone is thinking: was she joking or was that serious?

11. I'll always: get emotional in embarrassing moments, and make perverted jokes that kill the conversation, and do funny dances, and have hope. Seriously? I will always have hope. And belch inappropriately. I will probably also do that.

12. I have a secret crush on: Secret? Define secret. Crush? Define crush. The only real life "crush" I have is not a secret. But oh, um, I guess maybe that guy who works at that new-ish "hip" bar on Capitol hill, that bar, you know, the one where all the apathetic 20somethings go to throw peanut shells on the ground and judge each other? What's it called--the Elkhead or the Buckanner or the Pinewood--no, no, Redwood, yeah, the guy that works at the Redwood and has the really hot girlfriend. Yeah, him.

13.(A) The last time I cried was: this morning before I fell asleep.

13.(B). because: where I want there to exist black and white options there is only a bunch of grey shit that I seem to only add to as time goes on despite my severely dedicated struggles at making things good. I was especially good at this, and alienating someone I wished not to alienate, last night.

14. My cell phone: has fallen from various high surfaces and when it vibrates it sounds like Katharine Hepburn having a seizure.

15. When I wake up in the morning: I stuff my phone under my pillow and go back to dreaming about World War III.

16. Before I go to sleep at night: I walk through the next day and wish it wasn't so lonely going to sleep.

17. Right now I am thinking about: well, now I'm just thinking about this. Before I think I was thinking about Caddyshack (and more specifically Bill Murray), and spooning, and why my leg hair grows the way it does, and why I keep having bad dreams about the end of the (my) world, and what would be the perfect sound for me to fall asleep to. And the truth is, I just don't know yet.

18. Babies are: too often made to fix things, tater tots that grow up to be dysfunctional adults, like dogs except, as previously stated, they grow up to be emotionally fucked up adults where as dogs, well, they just remain dogs.

19. I get on MySpace: and continually see the same "new event invitation" slash "new birthdays" announcement that never goes away. And I wonder if Rupert Murdoch is watching me.

20. Today I: woke up from nightmares, drank ginger ale, wrote for about a million and a half years, apologized, wrastled with Kevin for about a million and a half years, roasted a marshmallow, looked around at the people in my house and almost cried over the love I felt for them (yeah, I know, it's like constant period time), danced to songs from great contemporary artists like Matchbox 20, hung out in the Security Booth, avoided making business related choices, almost spit on my computer because everything in it is shutting down, looked for nostalgic things on eBay that I will never buy, researched tourettes, got interviewed about lying, ate copious amounts of taco related foods, wore ear muffs, rolled cigarettes, thought about my future and wanted to pee myself, thought about calling my friends, realized I have to wake up in 4 hours.

21. Tonight I will: stop doing this and think about my day tomorrow and try not to panic and cuddle my purple penguin.

22. Tomorrow I will: More of the same from today, but with a lot less avoiding things. And I will finish my play and try, try to nap.

23. I really want: help, a job, to be spooned, more faith (not in the world around me but in myself), more clothes (thought I'd throw that in there)

24. The person who most likely to repost this is: Sarah McLaughlin. Please let it be her.

Goodnight Moon.

Dear take that

I'm about to go into something bigger. If you had any sence you would come back and be here now. My mom says I'm something special--something like Sigfried and Roy but without the tigers. Something like James Taylor but without the fan base, but with all the metaphors of tools and mountains...

DEAR LOOMING DECEMBER

"Come to South Carolina," she said, "and I'll teach you how to talk to the tigers." And I was in love.

Yes. I still hold onto that bass I can't play. I will try and play it anytime.

I got nothin'. Nothin' that's good anyway. I gots lots of other things if you're intersted...

Dear Modern Dance Imposter

1. AWESOME. Let's keep on not dealing with this and see what happens.

2. The thought of getting a menial job in New York City is about as appealing as crawling inside an Elk carcas and playing tackle football.

3. Boring people should be told more often that they are boring so they have time to change their ways.

4. T minus 2.5 weeks until the "rest of my life" wraps itself in a tacky package and stuffs itself underneath my Christmas tree.

5. "Couldn't Be Better" is the new "This Is Great" which used to be the new "I'm Having Fun".

6. Enjoy your fall.

I wore my good underwear for this?

John Cusack movies are not real life. Molly Ringwald movies are not real life. Hugh Grant movies are not real life. Julia Roberts movies are not real life (thank god). There will be no boomboxes playing special songs outside of bedroom windows, there will be no special kisses over surprise birthday cakes, there will be no standing-atop-the-table-in-the-restaurant-to-declare-something-importance, there will be no endings where anyone kisses Julia Roberts (thank god).

Real life is unnecessarily drawn out or pre-embeddable cut short without a discernible climax. Real life is not Boomboxes.

My mom says I'm something really special. My feet look a little orange, my room smells like heater and moldy fruit, and my eye sockets look like prunes.

I used to could stay up all night. I am too old now. I have lost control of most rational thinking and I pee every nine minutes like clockwork.

Let's do the dance again where one of us sits on the bed and one of us on the chair, and then we rotate 180 degrees but never occupy the same space at the same time. Let's talk about Coldplay and San Francisco and other important subjects. Let's not go to bed late, let's just talk about going to bed early. Let's play pretend. Just let's not play boomboxes.

You can't write a play about biting penises off and drowning the one you love in 20 pages. I just don't think it can be done.

I think I'll build a homemade canoe so that I can forge the waters that fill the ever increasing divide between the brain and the mouth. I'll paddle just like Pocahontas. I'll look once more, just around the river bend.

I split the sole of my foot open last night, and I have to dance in the big space on Thursday--the modern dancing--in front of people and I am not a dancer, and I wish there were more women around like Carol King, and I wish you would come back so I could say the right thing--A right thing, and I only have three weeks left in the nest and I'm not thinking about it, and bad beer can be just as good as good beer if you're tired and you close your eyes, and decidedly leopard print is not my print of choice, and I am over my fear of death by motorcycle, and I am so tired I could very well fall over on my way to the bathroom and just stay there but my bed seems so bitterly big for being so small and the coils have for the first time started to wage war on my back, and I have this memory of my father playing "Your Song" by Elton John on the piano--he was singing and crying and I wish I had been old enough to appreciate it for everything it was, and next time there is a Thanksgiving I know I have to be surrounded by McManus's playing cards and drinking and eating ambrosia salads and breaking out the family song books, and I like the wind from the fan and the noise it makes equally, and Emma and I have a pretty sweet thing going, and I think Tito Puente would be a really good name for a little dog, and I would like someone to build me a figurative cradle, and I should get to penpaling all the people I mentally penpal everyday, and Three Men and a Baby I think was probably a really good movie, and sometimes not talking is just as alright as talking or better, and the thing about people is that they are complicated and they don't become less complicated if you push them away, and the thing about movies about horses is that they make you cry, and the thing about sleepless talks is that they make you cry if you're me, and the thing about Rod Stewart is that he'll make you cry if you stop thinking about it and just focus on the feeling of being "forever young", and the thing about now is now is the time for bad bed coils and unending dreams of world war three, like it or not. Because there are plays about oral castration to be written and girl friendships to be emblazoned and peeing to be done and bad thoughts not to believe and memories to be, how do you say, made.

Making memories in secret underpants.

It Snowed in Seattle This Sunday

In the end, we will put our tennis rackets down, and march so proudly off the court...

I need a Thanksgiving from my Thanksgiving.

I will never live in a house with fluorescant lighting.

Panic.

Need a Thanksgiving.

Dear Florida

I remember you.

Disneyworld. A rip off. A long plane ride. A Whoppi Goldberg movie about being a man. Grilled cheese sandwiches with onions and tomatoes. The incomprable gift shop. Zorro. Italian restaraunts in conveniant alleys. Beautiful women wrapped up in the drapperies, not yet ready to come out. Getting stung by bad jellyfish in a premature scantily-clad butterfly bikini. It was the first time--it was the last time. Thinking the beach was for old people just as much as it was for young people in tiny things. Buying pink shirts in cool shops where I left my family and acted like I really finally knew what I was doing on my own. Listening to a Discman with a soundtrack that dictated all actions, and all moments, including the one from the hotel to Dsney-univerese, when I looked out and saw beyond everything into the season and how much my parents were paying. I remember how important the waterslides felt over the anxiety attacks my mother had. And I saw where the Golden Girls lived. And I wore authentic shell necklaces. And I fell asleep with stuffed animals because I was then so easy to please. And I listened only to:


The Romeo and Juliet Soundtrack
Jewel, Peices of You.

And I thought I was grown up. But I was not yet. I was still 13.

Funny that I'm still not grown up. and it has been a decade. Haven't been to Florida since that one time that changed my life. But you know, Jewel was never that great a singer anyway...Except that one time...when I was invincible...

Dear Slowing it Down,

I would like to take this opportunity to thank everything that has made me into someone incapable of being calm for long periods of time. Charming.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank high school journals.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank myself for periodically having no skill at dissemination or those from-the-heart-impulse moments they always have on Seventh Heaven.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank hot dogs.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank jokes, because they always have a way of helping you out of saying important things.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank people who don't do what they really want because they're affraid. Thanks for making the rest of us look like assholes. Thanks also, for frusterating those around you.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Halloween. Thanks, Halloween.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank nail bitting. Sleep overs. Jerzy Grotowski. The mess in my room. Plan day. Possibly sentimental grey areas. Alt-country. Running around in circles. Snoring. Uncommitted gestures of kindness. Cartoons. That weird girl outside my window who is squatting on the lawn holding some sort of giant staff. Hippis on blankets. Bugs on hippis on blankets. The long warm hours of the afternoon. Better to be good for something than nothing.

Dear god, what do you think you're doing

It's 8:30. But let's specify. It's 8:30 in the morning. And it's Sunday. Why, why am I awake? Why was 7:45 the time that I 'naturally' 'decided' to get up? I am tired, awake, and confused. It might just not be so bad. At least I have a breakfast date with a pro tennis instructor. This is when church people wake up, right? I should call my grandma. "Hey, Nanny, just wanted to call and let you know I got shit-canned at a Halloween party last night and started incoherently but charmingly demmaning things before I passed out at two in the morning--which, by the way, is the earliest I have gone to bed on a Saturday probably in years--and somehow woke myself up early. Since you're awake for church and all, I thought I'd share this expereience with you." Yeah. That sounds good. Naps. There will be a great many naps today.

Dear Lesbian Haircut,

Still can't roll cigarettes. Rolled a good one last night. Smoked it to celebrate. Celebration.

Don't really understand what it is that makes people walk away from conversations when they don't actually want to be left alone. Most people don't pick up and follow.

Sometimes I remember everything at once, and sometimes I'm just as tired as I am wide awake, and sometimes I try to say what I mean and wish I hadn't, and sometimes I don't say anything at all and wish I could speak, and sometimes I wish I was surrounded by dogs, and probably then sometimes I wish I was a dog, and sometimes it's hard to tell if there's someone knocking on my door because the wind knocks it around in the frame so I wind up sitting in my room saying "come in" to no one which is pathetic if you read it the right way, and sometimes I forget that Dolly Parton has had a husband all these years and I wonder who the hell that guy is anyway, and sometimes I want to build a giant looming tent in the badlands and drink dusty water out of mason jars, and sometimes Halloween sneaks up on you and leaves you completely unprepared, and sometimes there are some things you just can't fix and they're not yours to fix and they're no one's to fix, and sometimes it's hard to accept that some things can't be fixed, and sometimes the word "fix" is surprisingly encumbered for only having three letters, and sometimes land locked states can feel like islands, and sometimes I make hints to things I know I shouldn't and no one's picking up on, and sometimes I care too much, and sometimes I can't stop, and sometimes I remember that if the earth was to stop spinning we would all fly off of it uncontrollably and that's scary, and sometimes I hate my vigilance, and sometimes I wonder if I have any, and sometimes I just wish I wrote stories about cotton candy men on Coney island but if I did I don't think even I would want to read them, and sometimes 3:00 seems so late, and sometimes that's when I'm just waking up, and then, other times it's still when I am waking up.

I called my mom this morning and woke her up. I forgot about the time difference.

Missed connections.
Yeah. Different time zones.

Be Jazzed, Which is to Say Listen

I want to go on vacation with you, which is to say, I want to be with you, which is to say it would be like a vacation.

Do You See This Magestic Pegasus? 1998

1. "Brick"--Ben Folds Five. After years of listening to this song you see what everyone was talking about when they said it was about abortion, but for the first few years it just seemed like a downtrodden and relateable song. Oh, the skater boy who has a Jan Sport backpack and a bowl cut doesn't like me. The cool girl with mystery and holiday problems doesn't like Ben Folds neither. Good company.

2. What, exactly is the draw in having pants that bell out far beyond the reaches of your shoe? Is it the amount of rain that accumulates up past the knee when you walk through puddles and how absolutely tiny it makes your feet seem? Pants like church bells, with Stone Temple Pilots quotes across them, and either an inch too long or short, but never just right.

3. One of my favorite things was always sitting in my father's car while he was in some appointment, Shiatzu or something "important", and watching it get dark prematurely, listening to my walkman, and thinking about humans, feeling so grown up when I wasn't.

4. And when I said "ain't" I meant it. I thought I was Country. But I wasn't. I still wasn't City.

5. "And you will take the heavy stuff, and you will drive the car, and I'll look out the window and make jokes about the way things are".

6. Leaps? Sleep leaps?

He Woke Me Up Again

Written on Sunday evening, elated about the idea of horses and sentimental conversations. I thought about deleting it because it's so shmaltzy, but then I decided to post it, because it's so shmaltzy, and clearly I have some sort of equestrian-cowboy obsession.

I rode a horse today. Finally. Not the experience I was exactly hoping to have, but I was on a horse none the less. And Vermont is so beautiful, I realized this morning on the back of a horse, at certain points exclaiming like a tourist (insert: Midwestern accent) "Oh my gosh, look at all the colors of those leaves. Shoot, that's just, that's just beautiful. Wonderful. Gosh. Leaves." Due to the fact that it was an "Outing Club" related activity, and there were 10 of us, and some people had never been on a horse before we didn't do much besides slowly march in a single file line around some trails. The horse they gave me was perfect, though. His name was Charger. He was hungry as shit, and didn't care what I was instructing him to do because when he felt like eating, he stopped and ate. I can respect that. He was sturdy, and majestic, and white. Sometimes he would look back at me, and I knew exactly what he was thinking. "I know dude," I would say to him, "I want to fucking run, too." They put me with him because, as one woman said, "He wants to be the leader of the gang". This horse is Rock and Roll. He would bite horses on the ass if he got too close to them, and he would kick any horse in the face if they got too close behind him. Alpha horse. I'm into that. Someday soon I hope to go back and ride again, when I can really ride, hooked onto such a spiritual beast, strapped into an instant-retard helmet, wearing approximately 18 and a half layers of clothing, smelling like horse shit, in the middle of the small green mountains, and remembering how grounding it feels to let something run beneath you. My friend Kellen always says that all girls go through two phases: A photography phase, and a horse phase. Guilty as charged. But I waited so long to do it again. It feels nice to do things again that are not directly related to being a liberal 23 year old female studying acting at a liberal arts college and living in a big city. Nice. Horses. Nice.

Not Rubbing My Eyes

I wrote to a friend this evening. "Someday the sun will rise on my side of the house. It has to.". Metaphors seem about as exciting as watching the hipsters in Williamsburg become hippies, which they are. It's predictable. It's expensive. It's old.

I was defeated at my own game, which is impressive. I remember the stores on South Tacoma Way I used to shop at as a child. They have been torn down to make newer strip malls with newer Chinese restaurants and newer drug stores that sell a newer selection of prescription drugs. There's no Pay N' Save anymore.

My grandmother deserves more than to be written about on a blog. So I will say nothing. But my grandfather is now in a home, and can't walk, and my grandmother is staying alone in the house. The house I grew up in. If that falls apart, everything falls apart. When you are young you think adults are indestructible, especially when they buy you a Nintendo.

I played so many "trust" games tonight, I can't remember my answers for anything.

I am still waiting for other answers.

I am sleepy.

I am sleeping?

I am crawling into bed, hoping to remember things I have lost.

Nothing is as good as this, nothing is as endless.

I don't really like pudding all that much and I drink most drinks through a straw. Any drink if I can.

Someday the sun will set on my side of the house. I hope I'm home when it happens.

I want Blackie the old dog

I used to be something else. I don't know if it was better or worse but I was something else.

I looked out my window. That's a baby, not a dog. Imagine my disappointment.

Do breast feeding mothers ever think about how many men have also sucked on their teats, and feel like perverts? I know I would be grossed out.

I am going to take the jump. Soon. Soon I will do it. Do something. Do anything.

My grandfather is having surgery today. This makes me chain smoke. He had throat cancer from chain smoking.

Sometimes when I get mysterious things in my mailbox I like to make up stories about who it's from and what it says before I open it. I'm a little bit disappointed every time.

No one makes homemade love letters anymore.

I just realized one of my favorite songs is probably about Bob Dylan. That changes everything.

Friday, you feel like Saturday.

And and andand

Sometimes you have those days where nothing is particularly extraordinary, and occasionally very difficult things come about, and still somehow you wind up feeling like things are illuminated, and the temperature is right, and not even the big things were too memorable but the smaller things were semblant and good. This some-time is right now. For no particular reason, on no particular Wednesday but this one, I find myself in my room feeling just alright, in that "driving all night with nowhere to go but gas is cheap" kind of way. Remember when gas was cheap?

Last night I washed all my clothes and made a bed of new linens. I tied my stuffed penguin in a pillowcase and put him through the washing machine for the first time in five or six years. Once he was clean I wrapped him in a blanket and laid him out on the bed like I did when I was twelve. It felt nice. I fell asleep cradling him the way I used to do falling asleep at my grandparents house on the fold out couch, feeling so old but being so small. Perhaps I did this because my grandfather is not well. I don't know. But I do know it was peaceful and not scary.

I have dreams where I am hungry, and I am riding in cars with people I know on the freeway and to the side there are Mexican immigrants trying to cross the border through fences and treelines and everyone cheers for their success, and then all the cars pull over and we all get out and pretend we are immigrants too, discovering things for the first time, like bits of "beautiful garbage", and then we play "musical cars" and switch around, and get back on the freeway, and I am in a tour bus with people I know wearing pig-tails. And I have dreams where miscellaneous boys that I know without really knowing are the father of my child, the outcome of a drunken party with a lost shoe and fat dogs, sitting shirtless next to me in a museum of living sculpture telling me secrets, helping a mysterious lady make me patterned clothes while promising a walk that somehow means something bigger. And I have dreams where Bennington is going to the dining hall, which is a series of potlucks in houses, and the first house is a frat house, and everyone there is drunk and it's like some crappy straight-to-video release about snowboarders, and some of the guys there try to have sex with me even though I say no, and Bennington kids try to save me but they can't, so they move on to the next dinner-house, and I try to hide until all the frat boys go to sleep. And for so long I only had nightmares. But I have these things now.

And I am impressed when you can tell doctors the truth. I am impressed when doing a head stand reminds you of being seven and being told to do hand stands instead because you will hurt yourself. I am impressed when three voices carry like ten. I am not tired of seeing girls who write notes to each other on the legs of their pants, the kind that get wet to the knee in the rain. And I am not tired of the rain, even though this is Vermont and everyone is tired of the rain. And I am not tired of the lives I create for imaginary dogs I find that have crooked jaws from being kicked in the face, or the imaginary house I create where they could all live. And I'm not humble when I say my sister is going to take us all in the race to find good things because she is some sort of tiny force that is barely even real and understands that time is immovable and people are softer than they want to be. And I am the baby my mother toted around on the back of a bicycle in 1986 when she had feathered black hair and sang songs like Carol King along the shores of Tacoma across the train tracks and past the smoke stack they tore down when I was older. And I am not Jewish, but I have hopes for the future. And "Richie Partai" will be the new slang coming into rotation, so look out.

Tara and Erin have come to save me. I don't know what from, but writing about my sister saving the planet and my bald-headed-bicycling days is a start. Oh, Bennington. Good night, America. All two and a half of you.

There Is No If, Just And

Check in. I have been listening to The Cure, Bright Eyes, and Elliott Smith relentlessly for the past few days. What? What the hell am I doing? How have I continued to function as a normal human being when all I'm doing is listening to self deprecating singers who want to kill themselves (or have...)? No, no. No more of this. Hearing Robert Smith sing
""I said 'I love you'" I said...you didn't say a word / Just held your hands to your shining eyes / And I watched as the tears ran through your fingers / Held your hands to your shining eyes and cried" really drove it home for me. And although some of it is beautiful and some of it is appropriate when it's grey and raining, I don't think it should be all and always. Good thing I caught myself before I started writing poetry like this:

There is a door that opens to the cave
where my heart lives
why won't you open it
why won't you touch the handle
I used to be a fire
but then I gave you my flame
and now my heart is sitting in darkness
and it's cold
and I'm just a shadow
looking for a body
I could give you everything
but you don't even see me
I am invisible
I am nothing
I am a shadow
in the shadow of you.

I wanted to throw some unnecessary big words in there, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Now I'm going to go to dinner and think about all the angst-ridden 15 year old girls out there who think Connor Oberst really "gets" them and writes poetry that doesn't even make sense.

Teach me to roll cigarettes

I've tried to start rolling cigarettes in an attempt to save money and smoke less. All this really means, however, is that my desk is always covered in tobacco flakes and I walk around smoking cigarettes that look like blunts and never stay lit.

I've taken a trip back in time (you know, about four years ago) and am listening to "The Execution of All Things", which still remains one of the most definitive albums for the 20-something alternative-college almost-hip-almost-unhip collective of people my age. If I was Zach Braff I'd have to put some of it in a movie. Which reminds me: please read the article about him on slate.com and follow the link to the reworking of the oh-so-memorable "this song will change your life" scene. It illuminates so many things.

A question has been presented: What really, is the difference between selfishness, and self-preservation? I confuse one for the other very easily and then I don't know if I'm being an asshole or good to myself. Could they be the same thing? That would be unfortunate. Ever faithful dictionary.com proved to be unhelpful in the matter, surprise surprise.

The thing about having something on your mind is that it makes it prodigiously impossible to engross yourself in writing about other things. At least for me. Because ultimately writing about something else is akin to not wanting to admit what's actually going on. No, not akin, I suppose that's just what it is. It feels like some form of dishonesty. Sometimes I feel like the carpenter who wants to own his own house but doesn't want to build it. The reason he doesn't want to build it is that he discovers he's forgotten how. So I suppose I feel like I'm sitting on an empty plot of land with a shit ton of 2x4's and no where to go with them.

In other news, Thursday nights Mr. Archer and I have dedicated ourselves to "bringing it back" (you know, "it"), and therefore will be dancing until 5 am. Anyone interested in getting back to what's good should come over. It being in my room I can assure you that you will not have to try and dance to "Golddigger" for the 137,689th time.

In other news, Buffy the Vampire Slayer is an American classic and should be immediately rewatched by everyone. Phrases like "What a homeless" really need to be reintegrated into our culture.

Overcast Days with Nothing to Say

Writing something on the internet makes it one step closer to being fiction.

I have reverted. I have reverted back to falling asleep while eating. Remember the days of my clutching burritos and / or snickers bars while passed out on couch and / or bed? Last night I fell asleep eating community bread and possibly someone else's cream cheese. Well, that brief relapse will be the one and only drunk eating & sleeping experience I will have again. Now that, you know, I'm an adult.

I have started dreaming again. That is to say, my dreams are no longer limited to really fucked up nightmares. And yes, I detest it when people go on and on about their dreams (I wasn't there, I don't care), so I'm not going to do that. But riddle me this: why am I constantly dreaming about an exboyfriend I no longer speak to, a geeky drama guy, human sculpture, and a boy I want to hold hands with? It's like friggin' high school all over again.

If I have been awake for three hours is it too soon to take a nap? If I stopped being athletic 12 years ago, is it too late to start again? What does it mean when you look at someone and you feel like throwing up but you cry instead (quite embarrassingly, I might add)? How come habitual behavior is so unappealing? Why do overcast days make me so happy? When did I become such a coward?

Apparently Chan Marshal gave up drugs and alcohol. So now she'll actually be able to get through playing an entire song live, but unfortunately, her music is going to suck. It was a sad day when I realized that most of my childhood heroes were dead, or reformed. Tom Waitts has a swear jar at his house. He wasn't a childhood hero of mine, but it's still sad. Ok, Grover. Grover was one of my heroes and I guess he's still pretty much the same. Thank god for Grover.

Sometimes, when drinking, whatever it is I'm doing devolves into getting overly emotional, and whatever it is I am emotional about devolves into crying about all of my dead friends. I suppose I don't let myself confront how I feel about it the majority of my sober time because, well, I don't want to. So it just kind of sneaks out when I'm drunk and not paying attention. But it's been so long now. How long is it going to be before it stops bothering me. Apologies to everyone who has had to bear wittiness.

Why do we do everything humanly possible in our lives to keep from confronting ourselves? I was doing some sort of spine undulation in Grotowski (yeah, I know, "college") and it occurred to me that at some point we start deciding things about ourselves so that we can forget them. We decide things about ourselves because not deciding makes things confusing and complicated. I decided I knew how to move in my body. And then there I was, on a green yoga mat at 10 in the morning on a Wednesday, doing fucking spine undulations, and I realized there is a whole section of my back that just does not move. I'm sure that's a metaphor for something but I haven't figured it out yet. So now I'm undulating all over the place like a fucking lunatic because I have to prove to myself that I am not frozen. I don't even know what I'm talking about. I think initially I knew. Oh well. Undulations. False decisions. Whatever. But if you see me rolling my body like a moron in the dining hall at least now you'll know why. Feeling things is painful and embarrassing. I'm trying not to be afraid of it.

And I'm sure Cat Power will put out a really great album perfectly sober. I'm sure she'll find some other way to feel fucked up and upset.

I'm going to watch a movie and think about dogs and everything that has happened lately and everything I wished had happened and running and making lots of mixes for people that I will never give them and the sincerity of wanting to pick up the phone and the better judgment not to. Not yet.

Failed Spelling Test

I just wanted to point out that I misspelled about 50 things in the last post. But I also wanted to point out that it is because I was typing "fast" (fast for me, ok?) and got too tired to spell check, and not because I can't actually spell (i.e. birthday being spelled "berfday"). So now we're on the same page.

I've taken up jumping rope. And eating bananas at breakfast time.
I've decided I have been listening to the same music for the last year and a half and need something new. Send it over.
I've got that almost exciting almost nervous wrecking feeling starting to build in my stomach. Good things are coming.
I've been thinking I may need a new hobby to help fill up what little free time I have left. No, not knitting.

The age of Fall Haikus is on its way.

p.s. I just noticed the 'spell check' option. But it will still never recognize when "form" is actually supposed ot be "from".

No pary's complete until somebody bleeds

Dear Weekend,

I am confused. We had such potential to make it work. Unfortunately you have left me feeling hot and cold. Where, weekend, did we go wrong? Did we, in fact go wrong? Like all those left in the dark, I am searching for answers to the things that keep me up at night and make me vomit a little in my mouth when I get consumed by them.

--Dancing? Could that not have happened? Usually I am of the belief that the first party of the year is pretty amazing without even trying, especially when Canfield pickes a theme that freshman can get all jazzed about. Let's look at the party:
--Supermodels vs. Superheores. Not great, but clever and leaves alot of room for general costume making for the not entirely comitted.
--This being my last first-party-of-the-year (yes, I am experiencing the "oh god I'm never going to do this again" syndrome that plagues most emotional undergraduate students), I was excited to make something of it. Usually I am very good (and very comitted if I may say) at costuming for theme parties. This night, however, I took everything out of my drawers, tried some shit, got pissed off, and gave up. I ended up putting shit tons of eye makeup on (so that perhaps in the dark I might look like a raccoon), and getting Jess to scrawl something on a t-shirt w/ sharpie. Front: don't feed the models. Back: JUST FEED ME. I'm really funny, right?
--The party came after a long, LONG day of callbacks where I sat in VAPA from 2-9:45, mostly waiting around. And when I did read, I didn't have any energy at all. I listened to girls sing show tunes, watched an awesome but brief storm, and met some nice new people I didn't know before. I left feeling like maybe I had actually blown it, when previously I felt fairly confidant about the payoff.
--Music? It wasn't very loud, A, and B, what the crap? I'm not picky when it comes to dancing, but this selection was not cutting it. Not very good beats, not very recognizable songs, too long, boring, and audibly apathetic about making people shake it. I was also wasted, but this is what I remember. Sorry, guys.
--I sort of danced. Sort of. I kept losing the people I was with, and couldn't commit to getting sweaty and pumped up like usual. I mostly did that shuffle-like-you-want-to-mean-it dance until I gave up. I was also wasted, but this is what I remember.
--Since I don't really have a "personal bubble" I lost all sense that anyone else might and was really touchy and gropy to various random people all night. A good party-goer this does not make.
--Bill and I chugged alot of Vodka in his room throughout the night, which was cute and romantic, and we played songs that we wished we could hear at the party (he's obsessed with that effing Fergie song, London-whatever-it's-called).
--I followed not one, but several pairs of people around all night, who clearly wanted to go hook up, and I clearly didn't get it. At one point two of them were going into a room and I was like "awesome you guys, going to hang out, huh?" and they we're like "uh, yeah" and shut the door in my face. Movie moment. Another pair I followed around involved two people I didn't even know, and didn't even speak to the entire time. I was just really fascinated by them and what they were doing eventhough they were doing the same thing as everyone else. Well, that's selective storytelling, but whatever. I don't know what happened to the other couples but I imagine they managed to lurk off when I wasn't looking and go do it somewhere.
--I went to Ben's room to find Rich standing at the door saying "I know what I heard". I looked in to find five or so of them staring at the floor trying to deny whatever it was he was accusing them of. They kept saying "we were just punching eachother for fun, that's all", and Rich was saying "no you weren't, where is it?" Eventually a stun gun was handed over and someone is probably in alot of trouble.
--We all proceeded to drink more vodka, and Ben kept playing air guitar with a broom, and everyone was crashing into eachother and most of them writhed around on the floor, and maybe there was some Bon Jovi or some Slayer being played. Whatever it was was loud and amazing. Somehow Andy started bleeding (his foot I think?), and everything got out of control. He was flinging blood everywhere, on the wall, spattered across the ceiling, ALL OVER the floor. The last thing I remember was sitting on the bed, looking down at my bare legs, which were COMPLETELY covered in blood thinking about how weird and awesome everything was. And that was it. Then I just passed out and fell asleep right there.
--Then I woke up and decided not to go to a call-back since I was pretty certain he wasn't going to cast me. Then I later felt bad about it and decided I probably should have gone.
--I took a shower. I obviously, really needed to take a shower.
--Taco night. Plus. I didn't get to eat much and felt gross post fake-cheese. Minus.
--Spent alot of the night trying to make a dance inspired by a found peice of 'nature', since this is clearly the kind of work you do when you go to expensive colleges. Eventually, the "form" of my poisonous berry could not be found.
--Spent even more of the night waiting for cast lists to go up. AND I DID IT. I FUCKING DID IT. My educaiton has paid off now that I get to play such an important fucking role. I got it. This is actually alot more excting than I'm making it sound, but I'm really tired, so I'll have to hype it up later.
--Dewey and Canfield pulled an amazing prank that I think we got more excited about than the people we were trying to freak out. We went into the Booth Living room while they were all sleeping, set up Ben's amp, and sat there in the dark holding lighters while he shredded. It was hillarious magic. Unfortunately, people either stayed in their rooms or came in and started dancing and taking pictures. The desired effect of freaking them out / pissing them off didn't really happen, but it was amazing none the less. Again, understated due to tiredness.
--But then, also, weekend, you gave me one of those "puke in your mouth" moments out of nowhere and I was taken by surprise. The shittiness of which A, I don't care to get into, and B, will eventually go away so there's no point.
--Then I had to unpack the rest of my crap (why, why do I have SO MUCH crap????????????????), which took about a year and a half to do, and afforded me enough thinking time to reflect and get confused about the weekend.

Judging form the pros and cons of those events I guess I would have to say that overall, not actually that bad. The play is probably the most exciting thing to happen to me in the last couple of academic years. And I do like pranks. So really, I guess, when it comes down to it, I'm not in the dark at all. But maybe next time, weekend, you could try a little harder to bring the dance jams, since I am more than prepared to bring the sweet moves. Oh, and try to remind me that I am an adult, and not all crappy things need to cause me to feel crappy. Give Mama some mature integrity. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Carlee

deffinintions

I looked up "nostalgia" on Google Image Search, and a picture of a yellow My Little Pony came up. I clicked on it. It took me to a website made my someone who, first of all, used the word nostalgia as a verb, but not intentionally, and second wrote sdome hillarious disclaimer about homoeroticism and hetero eroticism before taking you to her blog, at whence point she provided readers with a glossary of terms she uses in her blog, and their deffinitions. The best one, the reason I was compelled to share about the website (bitextual.gatefiction.com) was that one of her words was "porn". It went:

Porn--Erotica written by a man.

Amazing. So. Completely amazing.

Pulse

I never thought this would be the kind of person I ended up being at 23. I'm sorry doesn't cover what I feel or ever could have said. So I said nothing. I did everything bad in doing nothing. I did nothing.

Summer Ends

Seagull, Pigeon, or Crow? Seagull, eventhough the crow is more asthetically pleasing.

It reallly feels like Fall now. There is some sort of emotional quality to Fall, which I can never explain, but I can feel it once it happens. Maybe it just has to do with the waning ammount of daylight. Regardless, I know the summer's over now. In lieu of that: my Summer Mix, which is created mostly out of hindsight.

In slightly chronological order:

--Fiery Furnaces "Here Comes The Summer"
--Royksopp "Poor Leno"
--DJ Shadow "Six Days"
--Bjork "Domestica"
--Ghostface Killah Feat. Ne-Yo "Back Like That"
--Elton John "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me"
--Peeping Tom "Mojo"
--Real Life "Send Me an Angel"
--Beards "We've Got Some Cleaning to do (guys)"
--Rocky Votolato "White Daisy Passing"
--Kate Bush "This Woman's Work"
--DNTEL "Deam of Evan and Chan (superpitcher kompakt remix)"
--Wilco "Passenger Side"
--Broken Social Scene "7/4 Shoreline"
--Daddy Yankee "Lo Que Paso Paso"
--Lovage "To Catch a Thief"
--Vashti Bunyan "Just Another Diamond Day"
--The PLaces "Ode to the Exhausted"
--Ani DiFranco "Bodily"
--Nada Surf "Blond on Blond / Always Love"
--Band of Horses "The Funeral"
--Ryan Adams "The Shadowlands"
--Modest Mouse "Bankrupt on Selling"
--Hole "Violet"
--Mr. Lif "Jugular Vein"
--Chin Up Chin Up "Collide the Tide"
--The Microphones "The Moon"
--Rainer Maria "Situation:Relation"
--That Fucking Nelly Furtado / Timbaland Song
--American Football "Summer Ends"


A sophomore boy came into my room tonight, shook my hand, introduced himself, and asked me for audition advice. Guess I really am a big kid now. The little moments put the larger ones in context. Thank you for that.

I am exhausted but can't sleep, and I have become very good at making a vodka tonic.

Goodnight, Summer.

Back to Bennington. 4 numbers, 1-4.

1. At 7:00 in the morning, if you are still awake, and you have been drinking, go to bed. Stop having conversations. You are done. You will never rationaly make sence. Cash in your chips, save yourself the trouble of navigating a hopeless conversation, and go to bed.

2. When you are in relationships, what you say, and who you say it to, and how you say it is not only based on what you think and feel but also on how your partner thinks and feels, especially about the matter at hand. You are thinking for two. You are not in a poistion to move through social situations with ease and comfort, because whatever you say may or may not stir a reaction from your partner. Tell a friend "check out this crazy shit I did with a Bolivian chick I met once in Cabo,"? No, no. Say to someone "I really hated X movie I saw with my 'sweetie' and it was a total waste of time and here are the reasons why," and your 'sweetie', who loved the movie, will want to discuss this point with you eventhough all you wanted to do was tell a friend it sucked. If you are cold, and bring it up, then there is an argument about how you should have brought your fucking jacket like I told you, why didn't you bring your fucking jacket (see: Dane Cook's commentary on "Nothing Fights"). You can't tell someone of the oposite sex that they look nice (unless they are non-threatening and unattractive), because you're not SUPPOSED to think other people look hot. You can't go on about how much you hate dancing with other people and really only like dancing alone, or in a group-circle-everyone-takes-a-turn-and-shuffles-around situation, because you are supposed to grind up on your man, and he will certainly not feel ok about such sentiments, and you will fight about it more than once (this happened to me. Trust me, it's bad). And, there are countless other things, which I can't bother to think up / remember now. But the thing is, when you are single, none of these things happen. Come over to our side. Welcome to Freedomland.

3. Assholes, fuck off. Leave me alone, change, get out of my life / general vicinity. I am not great at coping with people who act like assholes. Nor should I need to be.

4. I am at Bennington again. I had a little bit of white fear when I showed up. We'll see what happens.

Hello Again, New York

Dear Friends,

So I got into New York safely. Despite the ammount of time I had to sit in the airport (all afternoon) and read more than I have read in the last two months (finnished High Fidelity, started the new Bret Easton Ellis book. For High Fidelity I can say that the ending was abrupt and I had forgotten how the movie ended so I was a little shocked, and frankly about 200 pages into it you stop sympathizing and relating with the guy, and start wishing he would act like his fucking age, and do something good for himself which you know he is capable of and maybe give everyone else a fucking break. But, you know. That's just me. I am a girl after all, maybe I don't get it. Either way, still a great book. The Ellis book, well, what can you say. I haven't gotten that far into it yet, and hoinmestly, he could shit into a paper bag and I would still read it, so, you know. It's actually pretty good, although his pension for run-on sentences can start to wear you down, despite how well he does it. But no, good book I think. And for all you readers out there, the "Camden College" he speaks of is actually Bennington College, where he went, in the 80's, when there were not-so-retarded orgies. And, for the record, let me just ask that anyone reading this who is applying to colleges NOT apply to Bennington based on te fact that he went there, because you will be sorely dissapointed, and looked down on by your peers. but I digress.). Those facts notwithstanding, the flight was fine, and I took a car to the house, escorted by a fabulousd man named Gabriel. Gabriel was from the Dominican Republic, and had one of the best speaking voices I have ever heard. The perfect mix between Dominican and Brooklyn, with outstanding enthusiasm and sincerity. I alomst fell in love with him, except for the fact that he was a car driver, and I was a 23 year old white girl, and we mostly talked about airports and vacationing. He enlightened me greatly about what it is like to date a Hispanic man, and why it is so normal for them to be so posessive over the women they love. After a certain point, he made a lot of sence. Anyway, Gabriel, thank you. I would love to share a car with you again someday.

Much to my mother's pleasure, I am home safely. In my East Home. I have to drive back to school so soon, it almost seems terrible, but it is such a miraclethat it's happening, that I wouldn't care if I had to leave in a half an hour to go do it, I would. My mother tells me I have to thank God every day for it. Thank you, Big G.

Anyway, here I am.
What a weird summer.
What an amazing time.

Park story, flight fear

I finally packed. I have most of my crappy material belongings, all of which I love, into a suitcase, and I am still convinced I have missed something crucial. This is the confliction of the material obsessed.

Oooh, anyone who gets the chance should vsit thatsplenty.com and read all my friends hillarious and poigniant things, but MOSTLY READ Michelle's comic about her and her best friend, Mandy Moore. It made me feel very warm on the inside.

I want to tell all of my overly-commited friends in relationships that, if at this point in your journey you are freaking out, it's ok, and I support you, and it's normal to feel clausterphobic in a super serious situation being that you are under 30, and you shouldn't feel guilty about that. Instead, you should just modify aspects of your life so that you feel more greatly fufilled and that you are not taking things for granted, and accept that it is fine to love someone, but if you spend all your waking time around them, you will eventually hold them responsible for the fact that you regret every aspect of your middle-aged life. Let it go. Catch my drift? You're good, dude, just remember your age. Seems like most everone I know is trying to settle down as quickly as possible. And they feel regrets after the fact, but try to igore them. Except Steve and Karen, who really did something right there as far as I'm concerned. And god bless their doggies. But they are the painful minority.

Lou and I met this dude in Union Square park who had long hair and skinny pants but imediately looked uncomfortable, like when you saw him you wished you were having a really important cell phone conversation with someone that couldn't be interrupted. But on this occasion there were no cell phones, and we were sitting there, waiting to be attacked. So he did. First he asked us if we would sleep with Jesus, if we were to meet him now. This comes out of nowhere. This dude just slowly approaches us asking this retarded question, and we've got nowhere else to be, so we can't leave. No, we both say, we wouldn't. Then he asks again, coming ever closer to us, adding in the factor of Jesus being a hot guy in a bar. Again, I don't think so, we both say. Of course at this point he tells us that he immagines we're best friends since we've looked at eachother before speaking about 50 times. Well, Lou and I are best friends, and we know a weird dude when we see one, so what are you going to do. He tries to hit on one or both of us based on this fact, which leads him nowhere. Eventually he asks us if we are "adventurous", and me, being the deffensive douche that I am say, yeah, of course I am, long haired-weird-guy, and Julie says something like "maybe". And then it's on. And for the next 30 minutes this dude pushes his way into our sitting situation, which is to say he sits between us, and proceeds to hit on Julie in all the stupid ways that happen in a bad movie. He asks to take a picture with us, but of course isn't happy with Julie's expression, and has to keep retaking the picture. He keeps peer pressuring her about how she is secertly aventurous, and what I immagine she is thinking is "of course I am, but not with you, you tiny bizarre wierdo". Eventually I give up on trying to save the situation, and think about something else. Every romantic commedy that takes place in New York. What dog owners do when they go to fancy outdoor restaraunts. Why chodes I meet in the park always make me want to hit them in the face because they try to sleep with my hot, harmless, "unadventureous" friends. Eventually we wait together, and sit there long enough to watch him sell a pair of latex pants to some really sweet gay dude he met on Craigslist (the kind of gay guy you want to hug, who has a totally normal day job), whose boyfriend is trying to get him into "kinky shit" and this dude we've met who is selling them is purposefully vague about how he came across them, saying more than once "I never tried that shit on. I mean, you know, I'm not gay". Anyway, after watching the beauty of Craigslist in the works, little Companion-Dude tries to get Julie's phone number in the dumbest way possible whilst stroking his long luscious hair, and she cleverly diverts in a fairly non clever way--what are you supposed to say to a weird dude who is already trying to type your name into his phone telling you you are secretly the "adventurous" one--and she says "I don't give my phone number out to strangers, I'm sorry." And god bless her, this is the truth, especialy right now, and this guy, this long-haired-I've-already-showed-you-my-student ID-8 times-to-prove-it's-really-me-dude is shot so far down in an instance that he essentially gets up and walks away. Eventough we witnessed his latex pants exchange. That no longer matters. Louie, the secretly adventurous one, refused to give him her phone number, and he ran away. Almost literally. On her behalf, good move, Louie. The point. The point being. You always seem to meet the people you don't want to meet, who are trying to meet the people who don't want to meet them, who will entertain you to a certain point, and then turn you loose on the city. And you can never get anyhere by asking someone if they would sleep with Jesus. These are the lessons.

I fly out early tomorrow morning. I still feel unufilled about visiting some people. I am still waiting to get the peices to allow me to fall asleep happy. I am always affraid in flying that i will die before I touch down. Anyone reading this soon, please think happy thoughts. Still someow I mannage to be the happiest person in airports you've ve ever seen. I don't talk to anyone particularly, I just decide who I would get closest with if the plane was going down, and then feel happy because I have some sort of answer. Tragedy calls for no logic. At least I have an answer to tragedy. God I am affraid of flying.

Hello New York.

Needs More Hobbies

Oh wow. So I'm doing that thing again, which I go through phases of doing, where I check my goddamn myspace account repeatedly throughout the day, eventhough nothing ever changes and I don't know what I am expecting to find. Even when I have a crap ton of things to do I am saying "Just one quick second", and checking it. Why, why god why. My real life is going interestingly enough I don't know what I'm looking to compensate for through cyber-communities. I've been somewhat sucessful at finding people I went to elementary school with, whom, if messaged, would have no idea who the fuck I am. So that's something.

I'm reading High Fidelity, which I know everyone else read 7 years ago, but I am getting to it now, and it's a really great book. Funny, smart, and easy to read, like an airport novel that you feel better about taking in public to read. The man knows his shit, I'll tell you that much. I think it's getting to me, though. Top five lists that don't need to exist, and immaginary good/crappy love scenarios are starting to sneak their way into my life. Oh well. If you are in the small margin of people who haven't read it yet, join me, it's worth it.

Well. Think I'm going to check my myspace. Then I'll probably write another long rambling blog. Because I fly back to New York tomorrow morning and I still suck at packing.

p.s. Seriously. Is that back fat? Where the fuck does back fat come from? Oh this is just too much.

Mama graduates school, question mark

How people seem to find their perfect counterparts is far beyond me, and yet it always seems to happen. I would like to blame our lord and savior the tiny baby Jesus Christ, but I think much of it can be attributed to people's uncanny and subconscious ability to gravitate towards others with the same bizzare quirks and social flaws as them. But thank the lord that some things remain proper and good. Thank the lord, and our tiny baby savior. Thanks, Junior. Sometimes I think when you get down to it, people's compatibility is not based on how great the strengths of their personalities go together, but how well their flaws and defficenies complement one another. Also, if two people have a wooden hook hand, that probably helps. I'm only thinking about this because I was catching up with a guy I went to college with and he has this new girlfriend you would have never guessed he would find, but having thought about it , you could safely say, "yes. That makes more sense than any hot chick you have previously dated". Which is most likely why they will get married. Or something. Build a treehouse together. Something.

I wish I had a giant dance floor in my house.

I hope that I will be able to go back to school and finally finish (what am I, almost 30?), but this task has become immesurably difficult and I can only hope that luck is on my side. And that all people in positions of power are also on my side. Otherwise I don't know where I'll be two weeks from now. I am going back to school with the hopes that things will come together. What else can I do? I am not a rich man. Lets face it gang, I am not even a man. So anyone reading this, please think happy thoughts. Mama needs her degree now more than ever.

Got Back

I almost have the use of two hands. One and a half. Probably one and two thirds.

I still haven't told the story of how that happened I suppose. Though, most any person who knows me remotely and reads this fucking thing has already heard the entire thing. The entire. uninteresting. drunken. thing. invloving spandex. so, we'll save the internet version for another time.

For now, the only thing that's important about it is that the cast if off and I have one gnarled, mangy finger that makes me look like a biker or perhaps an old grandma soccer player. but with a classier title.

so i'm in seattle again. after the thing. the thing which was amazing. the thing which I will still later explain, for the 2.5 people that haven't heard about it already. I am in Seattle because of my hand. of course I get to also see amazing buddies. god bless this city.

Things, listed in no apparent order, just because it's been so long:

--I woke up at 6:15 this morning, and it felt amazing.
--For a split second, on my way to the bus, walking between the construction site downtown and the homeless man in hot orange pants who couldn't speak english, I remembered exactly what it was like to be 15. For about 9 seconds. And it was terrifying.
--My headphones only play through one ear. This is quite dissappointing.
--I am reading. YES! I. am. reading.
--"Little Miss Sunshine" is one of the best movies I have seen in a LONG time. I laughed so hard I was crying. For a long time. I suggest everyone see it.
--I have decided I need more money, which is to say, any money. any money at all.
--Which is to say, I am too fucking old to take another term off of school. I need to finnish. I need to do this play. Which is to say, I need more money.
--I am affraid of the future. The pretty, very, immediate future. Which is to say, I need more money.
--I've been having scary dreams. Scary because I wake up and think people are actually there.
--I miss Martha Maye. I just miss that woman badly.
--Wow. That just put it all in perspective. That one tiny thing you had, put everything relevant to it in perpective. Thank you.
--Hey you. No, not you. Yeah, you. The truth is terrifying. Isn't it?
--A million walls hardly protect a city. I am probably wrong. A million walls probably protect a city quite nicely. You probably did it right the first time.
--The best part about writing anonymously to people is that you never have to take any real accountability for what you say. Top five Elvis Costello songs...
--Fat dogs usually have hip problems. That is almost always true.
-- We need dog-a-grams to communicate. McKnight?
--The best part of this thing is that there are probably only 3 people, and by three I mean 2 people, that ever read it. Bangin.
--Travel is amazing, when it's on your own omission.
--I looked around Seattle this afternoon, and realized that the city is swallowing all my memories, and chasing them down with giant piles of dirt which will one day support condominiums. Condos are eating my city.
--What the fuck happened to the Hemp Festival? Remember the Hemp Festival? That was crazy.
--There used to be a house I walked past every day that had a giant yin-yang symbol hanging above the front door. Sometimes it would get loose and flap in the wind. But they would aways pin it down again. I saw it recently. No yin-yang symbol. What kind of shit heads live there now?
--The Glow Pt 2
--Sometimes I think that I could swallow everything up. And I could make a really good list of things to get better at, and books to read, and people to write to, and money orders to make out, and national monuments I want to visit, and places I want to get my stupid Wyatt-Yerpp picture taken, and things not to appologize for and people not to do it to, and things and people to be really eternally sorry to, and conversations to take back, and long haikus I could have written, and places in Chicago I could have looked harder in, and dark corners I would have said no thanks to, and hotdogs I would have said yes please to, and all the anti-smoking ads I hate, and the ammount of dollars it takes to visit dead Elvis's home, and the strange ways my old friend sounds in new voice messages, and all the beers I've tasted that actually taste nice, and the times I remember first times (like buying my first walkman while with my grandparents in Portland), and the moments I should have told my grandfather I appreciated him but didn't, and the little times I could have made something good out of something pointlessly bad (like a time we were at a gas station and I was pissed because something didn't go exactly right, but there were 5 people in the car dressed like white trash scavengers with too much spending money shouting things like "quarter pound that gnar ass"), and listening to my mother when she said "that wine is bad, don't drink it", and the times I wanted to make literary references but couldn't find any, and go diving off of all the high dives I'm affraid of and always missed, and the portions of mashed potaotes I could have better portioned, and all the sub-cities I never wanted to move to but think about regardless and all the people inside them, and the small notes I write to myself on receipts and the back of cigarette boxes that I always lose or put somewhere I will never put anything again eventhough I think that just by writing them down I will remember and will remember where they are just because I have put them down and could never forget because they are tiny things I don't usually think anyway, but actually, in reality, wind up thinking all the time, like the idea of a little fat girl in foster care asking for someone else's birthday cake and smearing it all over her "girl's rtule and boys drool" t-shirt inadvertantly, and the times I lie about because I can't (or don't want to) remember the real times anymore. A list of those things.

What it Do

I have been having the time of my life. I have been too busy / preocupied / disabled to keep up with this thing. I broke my finger, got screws in it, and my entire right hand / arm is in a cast. Can't use it for shit. The summer is amazing, even when it's bad. My internship is almost over, and it has been everything it was supposed to be. and I'll write details about it all when I have two hands,,,and some free time. I miss everyone and think that being sort of a grown up ain't so bad after all.

The 206

Read Julie's Blog. That shit from today is fuckin' true. goodiemonster.blogspot.com

Coming to Seattle for one week.
I need a vacation from this vacation.

I can't wait to see the real ocean.
I can't wait to see home. And home people. And home dogs.

There ain't nothin' like the 206.
New York is pretty amazing, but it's a diffrerent world over here.

While Sammy Masters Tekken, I...

One of my friends has an agent. I saw this friend a couple of weeks ago, and she told me something which I have been thinking about ever since. She kept saying she was "the best friend". Eventually I learned: the way she started out, her agent told her she was in the "fat bitch" category. She got a personal trainer, and lost 20 pounds. Then her agent told her she had reached "the best friend". She was so pleased about this. She would choose not to eat things, reminding herself, "I am the best friend", and, if she forgot, one of our overly consciencious gay friends would remind her "BEST FRIEND! BEST FRIEND!" "My agent says," she informed me in a business-like demeanor, "If I lose 20 more pounds, I'll become the PROTAGONIST. And I will lose 'best friend" status". And this is the business I want to enter into.
Still, I keep seeing girls on the subway, and moving in droves down the street in Williamsburg, and I keep asking myself, "The Best Friend?'
Agents.


I've got a friend who's got a black chest from a girl he says he won't see anymore. I've got a friend who says she'll never sleep with someone again and is fine the way she is right now. I've got a friend who's making declarations to girls he will probably never meet. I've got a friend who likes to learn the same lessons over and over again. I've got a friend who never calls but probably always thinks about it, and still calls me the same thing. I've got a friend who lies and doesn't know it, and I'm lieing to call him my friend. I've got a friend who settled down, and I think she finally likes it. I've got a friend who rarely speaks to even his best friends and rarely has concerns for himself that I can find.
What are we doing?

I love Tekken. I want to be the superior at Tekken Tag, My hand-eye coordination still leaves much to be desired, but I know I can train well, if I commit. Like the Karate Kid. But more of a girl.

If New York got much hotter I am certain I would start to melt like the candy house in Hansel and Grettel.

I pee about every 15 minutes. I smoke about every 15 minutes. It's a schedule I'm still getting accquainted with.

I'm thinking about what it means to be a pleasent liar when it doesn't hurt anyone. I'm thinking about how I might respect those liars. Or not. I'm thinking about deciding.

Someone told me recently that I am the most selfish person they've ever met. I've been thinking maybe they are right, and that double standards are more confusing than was intially anticipated.

I've been thinking that the Garth Brooks song "The Dance" can go fuck itself, and find someone else to harass in that 12 year old kind of way for a while.

I saw three mice last night. And about 15 cockatroaches. Those fuckers are deffintely breeding.

The common form for Haiku is: 5, 7, 5. And I stand behind this.

Goal: not wake up at two in the afternoon.

Summer Mix

Yep. Now it's official. Everybody's life seems much more interesting than mine. No. That's a lie. Everybody seems much better at talking about it. Or else I just read too much Francesca Lia Block in high school, and anyone who sounds like they're living it is magic.

I always forget how to spell "magic".

The boys hae farmers tans. Not Eric, because he works at a desk and only wears his spring berak shirts in the house. Not Sam either, but I cannot picture Sammy with a tan of any kind. Liam's is the worst. Or best, depending which way you look at it. I have the tan which only appears when you stick my arm next to people who live in urban caves.

I keep trying to make a summer mix. I keep forgetting all the songs I think of. The only song I can always remember is "America", Simon and Garfunkel. That's probably because it usually makes me cry.

I watched "Almost Famous" again the other day, laying on Suzie's floor, on top of her body pillow, trying to forget my hangover and turning up the air conditioner. Probably every 20 minutes of that movie made me cry. Especially the part when they play "America", which is what reminded me of the song. God that movie is so good.

I remember, when I was in high school I talked about making a "mix tape", and my much cooler friend turned to me, and informed me in a very stern voice, that they are always called "comp tapes", or "compillations", but never, EVER are they called "mix tapes", unless you don't know what you're talking about. Some lessons can never be learned.

A bad idea is to go through your old emails which you have saved from people you thought would always be important. Some doors are meant never to be opened again, or, if they are, don't open them with the expecation that whatever you find won't matter. Time passed glorifies everything.

I'm trying to work on posture again. My mom always said that if you slouch, one day you'll stick that way, and I saw an old woman in Brooklyn with a hunched back so bad it made me terrified, and I realized that every time I sit I am too lazy to sit up straight, and I don't want to become 40 and realize that my shoulder blades are rotating outwards and my spine is overtaking my back like an angry snake and have nothing I can do about it. So I keep reminding myself. Sit up. How are you sitting? Sit up more.


Sometimes I realize I am living in moments that will be nostalgic later on. I'm never sure exactly what to do in those moments.
I love this house. I love these people. I love drinking mexican beers, and playing two dollar poker, and trying to spoon a dog who doesn't care, and chasing roaches, and sitting in the alley, and having computer parties, and always finding someone in the living room, and watching how everyone hugs eachother goodbye before they leave, and getting advice and listening to advice and giving advice, and eating weird George Foreman burgers together, and playing TekkenTag and God of War, and listening to Sammy's songs for the 900th time, and doing all the dishes and feeling like the stay-at-home housewife, and being sweaty, and napping in the King's Chair, and taking the train en mass, and knowing that it's still only the middle of July. One day, though, this summer is going to end.

I write so much on the internet and so little on my own. Something to try.

the mice are closing in

Eric keeps posting things posed as me. He's probably just advancing my sweet street cred.

The mice keep coming back into the apartment. This time I think they are living behind the refridgerator and underneath the tv unit which doesn't work. I was reading last night after everyone had fallen asleep, and those little fuckers have become so brave that they were climbing around the rug at my feet, and trying to scale the radio antenna by my head. They stared me down. I stared them down. The only way I won was by shouting at them over and over, forcing them to run back under the refridgerator, underneath the tv. I don't know if they wanted to eat me, or spoon me. They are so cute, I would like to think it is spooning. Although I wouldn't be surprised if they multiplied and eventually carried me off into the night, poking me with tiny spears.

Aviodance is my tactic for pretty much everything. I do not respect this tactic.

I just keep moving idlly around the apartment. Couch, giant chair, kitchen for water, floor to pet the dog, bathroom, giant chair, couch, loft, down the stairs, turn around, up the stairs, couch, myspace for the tripple-digited time, open a book, read a page, close the book, floor to pet the dog, check the time on my phone, check the time on the stove clock, kitchen for more water, kitchen for more water, giant chair, change my shirt, bathroom, kitchen for more water and dillided luke warm tea, rearange things on the coffee table, couch, giant chair, couch, floor, dog, check the time, giant chair, bathroom, couch, bathroom, water, kitchen, couch, dog. All day. I don't know what I'm doing or not doing. Avoidance leads to feeling unsettled. So that would make sence. Dog, couch, chair, water, bathroom, dog.

More sunshine, Eric says. What is going on with me today? I feel like I am slipping slowly down the rungs of some very tall ladder. Like I should be spinning tiny circles on the carpet.

Going to see Sammy's show tonight. Sammy's shows are bangin'.

Bloggerist!

I love blogging. It just really makes me happy to know that everyone can read about my awesomeosity. I also like racist jokes and handicapped kids. Their precious. Anyhow, have a good day!

The Thing About Happiness

The thing about happiness is that it is entirely and most often possible for you to be happy in your life, and be simultaneously swimming in an equally proportionate ammouont of anxious, grievous, unnerved selves. I keep thinking that happiness should just mean happiness, by which I mean that to feel you are happy, or content on the whole, should also imply that in that state you should be without emotions attributed to negative states. But that just isn't true. And it's different than saying that you're happy and lieing. I can't figure it out exactly.

The thing about happiness is that it is hard to accept. I have a difficult time allowing myself to express that emotion when it is purely selfish. If I am with someone, and I am happy to be with that person, I am unable to share that feeling with others because it is automatically realted to a sensation of guilt I feel over talking about it. It is hard for me to allow myself to actually feel it with others, especially over prolonged periods of time, because I think, deep down, I don't actually believe that it is fair for me to have that kind of happiness. That, also, ultimately triggers sensations of guilt and selfishness. Clearly, that is a problem. I don't feel that way about the people in my life whom I love in a platonic sense, but only the ones I take interest in romantically. I have no idea why that is. Cna't figure it out. And clearly, if that is something that is going on, I project it into a relationship, making the relationship difficult, and proving why I am not very good at having them. Also, thereby creating a problem that cannot be addressed because I have no idea why it happens. Most of the time I don't even realize that it is happening at all. And eventually it might just be most appropriate for me to be the single middle aged one of us all, who teaches everyone else's kids dirty jokes. And I'm not even saying that could be the worst thing to happen. I just think, probelms without change leave little options for the future.

The thing about happiness is that I am. I am happiness? Sure. Why the fuck not. I mean, I'm enough of everything else, why not be happiness too. No. I have no idea what I'm saying.

The thing about happiness is, I finally have the time to think about it.

hot monday

I wrote a blog
but then it sounded sad
and also stupid
so I erased it
and made this poem
about how there is no blog
and it is really hot and sweaty.

That's what being sober gets you.

Poker & Goodnight Moon.

I played poker for five hours and came down to the final three. not bad for someone who is still trying to figure out how the fuck to bet or bluff properly.

the input for my computer is totally gone, and all music attempted to play from it is dicy.

Yep. I'm listening to Billy Joel. Yep, Piano Man is pretty fucking awesome.

I have had the foresight to edit out any of the honest things I was going to say. So now I don't know what to say.

I am glad when good people find eachother. but it also makes me want to eat off my own ankles because it seems obsurd that everyone else should be so good at it.

I am like a tiny boy. No one likes a tiny boy. Except for me, and I chose it for myself. Oh let's cry about it. Ok. Thanks, crying music.

Let's talk about how good things come for Cananda. They really do.

One day when I am aunty Carlee, and I am very wrinkled, I will tell all my friend's children about my adventures, and about my boozin' days, and maybe if I'm lucky, I'll come out sounding like Peter Pan. If only. And we can hope.

I want to pet a million animals at a petting zoo. I want to sleep for 86 hours. I want to eat a taco (but what else is new), or five. I want to stomp around my old neighborhood, and I want to stop around my new neighborhood, if only to hear the baby gangsters try and deffend me to perpetrating strangers. I want to find a little bundle of linnens and I want to hide there for some time until everything sounds quiet and I can crawl out and pretend that things are new. I really like when old things feel new again. I really like hobbit holes and cubbies. I want to live in one, not just a makeshift one, where unidentified bugs won't bite me.

I want to meet my 17 year old self, and ask her why she was so involved with everything that she was, and about how she never managed to feel bad about it. 17 year old me was awesome and retarded, but never knew it. I just had very, very long hair. And that, I did know.

Yep. I am going to go to sleep alone on this couch, again, because I am too affraid of the cubby bugs and mice. And all the lights are on and I'm not going to turn them off, just leave them there, on like we are still playing goddamned poker, and whe n I wake up it will feel like it was never night at all, which is how i preffer it because I am so affraid of the dark.

Goodnight fluorescant lights.
Goodnight night.
Goodnight self.
Goodnight little moon.

Welcome, me. Chapter, one.

Thanks to Eric for helping me navigate my way through blog-space, and so graciously posting my "first post!!!!!". Senior Frogs rules.

Why not? Why not make a "blog"? Will anyone read it? Probably not? And I'll probably write most of it when I'm drunk anyway, so it's all for the best. I had a live journal once. It's true. I think it still exists, and unfortunately I found it once, and rediscovered all of the sappy excited-by-the-moment things I had written when I was all fired up at five am. It's alot like revisiting the pictures from middle school when you wore hollogram daisy t-shirts, and glued rhinestones to your forehead. Or maybe that was just me. Oh the delicious dark ages.

I wrote to an old close friend about the past year or so of my life, and when she responded about her life, she told me that my life sounded like a rollercoaster, and that she was no longer on one. She and her wife had gotten married, and accquired a bunch of dogs, and had steady jobs, and smoked cigarettes, and missed their hometowns, and loved eachother, and were leaning how to settle into themselves. And I thought, how nice. And haven't I just settled into the scrappy friend role who writes to her big kid friends about her misadventures, and sometimes they take her in for dinner and let her cuddle their dogs? It's ok. I don't mind so far. And her life sounds beautiful. And I didn't think mine was a rollercoaster. Either way, that's what made me decide to start a blog.

I feel like part of really loving humans in life is also masking yourself so you don't hurt anyone or make any enemies. I really respect people who don't care. I am very good at camoflauging. Obviously bad at spelling it. But I was thinking. Around the time of my birthday I was thinking, and realized I had made the lamest New Years resolution ever (do more push ups. Yeah. That happened.), and that maybe, if I was going to turn 23 regardless of wanting to stay 22 (or 19), maybe I should make some "birhtday resloutions", about things that, you know, really mater. Couldn't do it. I sat down for a long time trying to think of things, little list things, and pretty much just came up with "be less affraid of things". Though realistically, many of the things I am affraid of are too rediculous to matter at all (killer whales, subways), and I could have found many more construcitve filters to process that idea through. but I didn't, and eventually I gave up. I was then thinking, the time will come, when I will know exactly how to talk about it, and whenever that happens I will make my resolutions, whatever they are, however insignifigant.

The motion of things has now forced me to to think about "It", it being things I want to change, or admit, or resolve to do, and so on.

With this level of seriousness I should just actually get a deviantart.com account and post pictures of weeping roses. Bear with me.

I love all people. Most people think it can't be true, that if they knew me they could harness the way I feel and whittle it down somehow, and maybe eventually someone could, but I just love humans. I was exactly that kid in elementary school who was really uncool, but was friends with everyone, because I liked people and I was nice. Pretty much, still that way. I just want to know people, and understand what they are about, and drink with them, and dance with them, and so on. Sometimes I feel guilty becasue I think that it must be wrong to want to know so many people, or talk with them, and that if I do that, I am spreading myself too thin, and denying the people I really care about the time and attention they deserve. Probably sometimes it's true, and probably sometimes it's not. Either way, I don't know. But I worry. My mom told me that when I was a baby I always stayed awake. My parents were the first ones in their group of friends to have a baby, so I went to all the parties with them. My mother tells me that when she tried to put me down to sleep at someone's party, I would crawl out of the bed, and sit in the living room on the floor, and that I would refuse to fall asleep until everyone else had left. Don't know how that was born in me, but it probably explains alot.

I found myself at Bennington in June, with a week left of school, and nowhere to go afterwards. I couldn't afford to go home, and many of my New York friends had things going on. I then found myself in Atlanta, for a month. Living in the good graces of Wythe's family, without anything to do. Let me tell you, Atlanta is not a great place to be if you have nothing to do. It doesn't matter now anyway. It will matter some months from now when I write a screenplay, but for now, all that matters is that I am finally in a place where I can do things. I can walk out of my door and see young people. I saw some little dudes with spike belts at the Williamsburg Italian-catholic carnival today, and I just wanted to hug them and take their picture, because they just seemed so pumped to be getting Zappies (or whatever they are called), and it made me so happy. Them, and the nuns eating sandwiches who smiled at me. Way to go for nuns. And way to go for little babies wearing bling. I saw alot of those.

Some things.
I drink alot. I love drinking alot. I hate waking up at four in the afternoon.
First impressions are good, but second impressions are better.
Sometimes you talk yourself into a hole, and you should have the foresight to just stay there. I usually don't.
Learning how to love someone you have to choose not to be with is hard. And making it harder is when that person doesn't understand that your distance is not a measurement of your dislike, but rather the opposite.
I am not good at being the person to end things. I try never to end things.
I hate conflict. Conflict, unless it is amicable arguement, makes me black out, and then I have no idea what has happened afterwards. Very unhelpful.
I like to dance. All the time. I feel very uncomfortable if everyone else is a really good dancer.
I don't know how to do the couple dance. I do the solo-running-man dance. Lest it be a slow dance, then, perhaps.
I am shitty on the phone. I aviod using it so I don't have to be shitty.
Pretty much every cartoon ever has made me cry. Dumb romantic commedies too, though, thankfully I can say I hate those.
I find that in times when I am trying to cover my ass I grossly try to overexplain myself, which helps nothing, and often makes them quite a lot worse.
I love smoking. I know I should soon quit smoking. I smoke much more when uncomfortable.
I don't have any hair. Despite the wrapping paper the present is not a lesbian, and let's all keep that in mind.
Pride is always the last thing to go.
Someday I will have a colony of dogs. And I will roll around with them.
One half of me is a 50 year old woman. And the other half is a 16 year old boy. Theay are at constant conflict with one another.

That's exactly it. Half 50 year old woman, half teenage boy. 100% 23 year old girl. Very confusing, these compositions.

I think it would be great to sleep on a roof top. I think it would be great to fall asleep at 12 and wake up at nine, like normal people, and I think it would be great to read a book, or 60, and I think I would like to learn how to read all over again because I don't know anymore, and I think I would like to call my father every week eventhough he raised me and he doesn't mind when I don't, I would like to go to the Statue of Liberty because she scares me from far away, I would like the bug bites on my legs to go away so I can look like a normal-less-itchy-human-being, I think I want to not feel like an asshole for a while and give myself the license to do it, I want to be a funny person with a pot belly and stop making jokes about it, I want to hug a nun and watch old italian men play music together, and I want to watch families of wives with mongramed necklaces and husbands with sleeveless t-shirts and babies with too many siblings who are all screaming try to have a good time together, and I want to eat tater tots, and I want to hug really great people like the ones I am seeing all the time, and I want to appologize when I should but not all the time like I do now, and I would really like to stop compromising so much or compromising so little and find the things to compromise about that really matter, and I think I would like to stop rambling and finally after all this time being alive learn how to be consisce, and I think it would be great to cry when I feel like it (aka All Dogs Go To Heaven) and hold it together when appropriate, and I want to wear a disco ball dress and bounce around like Huckleberry Finn, and I want to wake up and feel promise, and I want to give into the cheesieness, because I mean it all and I just am that way.
"Wake up and feel promise". What a chode-y idea. Doesn't mean it's not true.