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.