One of two things is happening. Either I am only writing blogs when I am drunk, or the only time I have access to the internet is late at night, and I only remember this when I'm drinking. Probably both. So I have gotten in the habit of rereading the things I have written and laughing at my ever embarassing and unique ways of coming up with things to say at three o'clock in the morning. Drinking when I should be sleeping...
After tonight I can say with a fair ammount of certainty that the gay community makes the rest of us straight people look like a group of boring shitheads. Ok, we're not shitheads. We're just boring by comparison. It takes a generous ammount anymore to actually make my jaw drop from an inability to understand, but tonight my mouth was on the table. Despite the fact that I have to wake up at 6:45 in the morning, I found myself sipping large portions of Not So Familiar Gay Boy's Baccardi and coke just because I was so aghast about what was actually taking place. I mean wow. I might as well go home, do a jigsaw puzzle, eat a gingersnap, and re-catalogue my rolodex. Just cash it in. And then marry some ponchy computer teacher named Eugene and learn how to bake casseroles and only have sex, in the missionary position, on hollidays like President's Day. Because after tonight I don't think I can compete.
I would like to hold hands on a date, and pay my bills, and find a nice dress for graduation, and see my friend's final projects, and eat at bbqs, and make my room a room, and buy a ticket to New Orleans to see the Sister, and find good pieces of free furniture, and check out some Olsen action tomorrow when the second Little Bits Olsen comes in to work. But you know, these things are just things.
4.27.2007
4.25.2007
In Recent News, It's Bath Time
Polls today showed that I have not, in fact, cleaned my body in approximately the last seven days. Maybe more. We're not sure. So in about four minutes I am going to have to remedy that. Because I am starting to get a dirt tan, which, while being a funny topic of conversation, also makes my friends and coworkers sit further away from me.
I think that it may be inarguable that spring is by far and away a much better season than winter. I remember the first day that it was unbelievably sunny I just walked down the street, smiling at babies and dogs and strangers and groups of boys playing ball in the park and lovers buying eachother shoes and gellatto, and even at myself. I had no reason to be smiling other than things felt nice, but wow did things feel nice. I want to hold hands, and go hiking, and feed homeless people sandwiches, and actually wear shorts without two pairs of leggings (thusly exposing the world to my bizarre pale legs, so you know that says something), and give my seat up to women with suitcases, and high five male models, and laugh at myself when I trip, and engage in conversations about the importance of "being in love with the world". So something magical might be happening. And that thing might be spring. Thanks spring. Until you came I had no idea how much winter actually blew.
On a general world loving, spring infected note, I would just like to say: It feels good to appreciate, and it feels good to be appreciated. If you like the person you are spending time with, it is nice to share that information. It's good to tell people when they're funny and nice and pretty and doofy and strange and loved and clever and awesome. People should tell people. And eventhough I have heard the argument that just spending time with someone should imply you enjoy their company, I don't agree. I think that means you're affraid to be honest and therefore vulnerable. But let's be real kids, we're not getting any younger, time's not slowing down, and we aren't gaining anything by keeping ourselves so much to ourselves. So tell your friends you love them, and your girl(boy)friends you think they're awesome, and your mom thanks for pushing you out of the womb. And though I sound like a hippie, you all know I'm right. Or maybe you don't. But then, maybe you still think it's cool to stand around with your arms crossed, judging everything. How about this, I'll start thigns off: Bath, I like you, and I appreciate you for making me clean and more likeable by my peers. Thank you for all your hard work, and frequent efforts in giving me warm water. I enjoy you every time we hang out.
Bath time 2k 7.
I think that it may be inarguable that spring is by far and away a much better season than winter. I remember the first day that it was unbelievably sunny I just walked down the street, smiling at babies and dogs and strangers and groups of boys playing ball in the park and lovers buying eachother shoes and gellatto, and even at myself. I had no reason to be smiling other than things felt nice, but wow did things feel nice. I want to hold hands, and go hiking, and feed homeless people sandwiches, and actually wear shorts without two pairs of leggings (thusly exposing the world to my bizarre pale legs, so you know that says something), and give my seat up to women with suitcases, and high five male models, and laugh at myself when I trip, and engage in conversations about the importance of "being in love with the world". So something magical might be happening. And that thing might be spring. Thanks spring. Until you came I had no idea how much winter actually blew.
On a general world loving, spring infected note, I would just like to say: It feels good to appreciate, and it feels good to be appreciated. If you like the person you are spending time with, it is nice to share that information. It's good to tell people when they're funny and nice and pretty and doofy and strange and loved and clever and awesome. People should tell people. And eventhough I have heard the argument that just spending time with someone should imply you enjoy their company, I don't agree. I think that means you're affraid to be honest and therefore vulnerable. But let's be real kids, we're not getting any younger, time's not slowing down, and we aren't gaining anything by keeping ourselves so much to ourselves. So tell your friends you love them, and your girl(boy)friends you think they're awesome, and your mom thanks for pushing you out of the womb. And though I sound like a hippie, you all know I'm right. Or maybe you don't. But then, maybe you still think it's cool to stand around with your arms crossed, judging everything. How about this, I'll start thigns off: Bath, I like you, and I appreciate you for making me clean and more likeable by my peers. Thank you for all your hard work, and frequent efforts in giving me warm water. I enjoy you every time we hang out.
Bath time 2k 7.
4.24.2007
In Different News
I should learn how to spell that word. I'm fairly sure that normally I would know.
I was mad about something. It seems lately I have a tendancy to be mad. I think what I wanted to say was:
It figures.
Very little floats.
I notice everything though I am so good at being the stupid one you might miss it.
My feelings are hurt easily, and though this reminds me that I am a baby, it also reminds me that I have the gift of feeling things, which I would not exchange for anything.
Lake Michigan is big, and wen can be like Lake Michigan if we wake up early enough.
I am not an alcoholic I just love things. And one of those things is whiskey. In all capacities.
I remember the last time we were really together,the four of us, in a foreign city, playing so hard we dropped to our knees, and I had never dropped to my knees before, and even then I didn't know it would be the last real time. How could we have known.
I should not feel so bad about the things which I know are inevitable. And many bad things are inevitable.
Remember every goodbye letter made in time away. Remember every hello.
I have jugs of water but I am dreaming of pastures of horses and O sound like the foreign man.
Someone hear me. I would like to go back to the badlands. And the real sea. I have not forgotten the things I cannot say. Though I am still just a girl trying to find a way to say them. Don't make me any more afraid of you than I already am, though I hardly am at all. Ahhhh, it's all so complicated, but less so when we're sleeping.
I was mad about something. It seems lately I have a tendancy to be mad. I think what I wanted to say was:
It figures.
Very little floats.
I notice everything though I am so good at being the stupid one you might miss it.
My feelings are hurt easily, and though this reminds me that I am a baby, it also reminds me that I have the gift of feeling things, which I would not exchange for anything.
Lake Michigan is big, and wen can be like Lake Michigan if we wake up early enough.
I am not an alcoholic I just love things. And one of those things is whiskey. In all capacities.
I remember the last time we were really together,the four of us, in a foreign city, playing so hard we dropped to our knees, and I had never dropped to my knees before, and even then I didn't know it would be the last real time. How could we have known.
I should not feel so bad about the things which I know are inevitable. And many bad things are inevitable.
Remember every goodbye letter made in time away. Remember every hello.
I have jugs of water but I am dreaming of pastures of horses and O sound like the foreign man.
Someone hear me. I would like to go back to the badlands. And the real sea. I have not forgotten the things I cannot say. Though I am still just a girl trying to find a way to say them. Don't make me any more afraid of you than I already am, though I hardly am at all. Ahhhh, it's all so complicated, but less so when we're sleeping.
4.18.2007
Recovering the Internet at Four in the Morning
Lucky me, wouldn't it happen to be that the only hour I get internet here might be a time when I should not touch it at all.
I'm slowly figuring out how to put the peices of my personal identification back together after having my wallet stolen twice in three weeks. AND NOTE: To you whom have them: there will be more to you later, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. One, because you know I didn't want to stay, and two because I only had one fucking dollar in it, and I hope you made good use of it. Good luck with my receipts and ticket stubs. You moron. I never understood what people said about not trusting New York City, really, until these things happened. Now unfortunately I guard my things in trains and bars like I have something left to take (which I don't), and I am glad I have friends who like to have fun at home (because I can't go out now), and a roomate who will pay for my train tickets to work each day. Shame on you. Both of you. But this is for another time, I digress.
I bought a journal. Once again I decided it was time to try the thing I was so obsessed with in my younger years, and went looking for a book today. Do you know how hard it is to find some plain book to put things in? I stood in the book store for maybe a half an hour, something that felt like forever, as I perused through the Batman, Hello Kitty, fake-moleskine "journals", meant to keep your utmost secrets and treasures. Well, i don't want a place to write my treasures, I just kind of want a place to write my shit, you know what I mean? Eventually I decided on some book with squiggels and a label that said "journal" emphatically on the outside, mostly for the reason that it only cost five bucks, but will make me look like a real asshole if I ever use it in public. Eh, everyone looks like assholes when they write in public though, right? So yeah, I bought a Gournal. Me and my Gournal. Good times ahead. Or maybe, at least, not so many confusing times. You know, now that I have my Gournal.
I read an article today about how to reduce to signs of aging and to live a longer life. One of their tips was "find small things that make you happy, and integrate them into your daily routine". "Great!," I thought, and I wrote it down. Like it was something new. Then I realized, I do this all the time, because I look at pictures of dogs on the internet nearly all the time, and feel like the most happiest girl on the planet. I immagine that once I have my own dog I will still do this. Because I can't seem to get over them, or wanting to save 30 of them to be my very own. So, according to this article in the lady magazine, I am going to live at least 20 years longer than everyone else I know. Joyous occasion.
So now that I'm admiting that I might be somewhat drunk, I have to ask the inevitable question: why does moving to New York to be closer to the things that you want to do mean that first you have to be as far away from them as possible?
At least it's spring. At least I'm here. Even if I have no proof that I exist and the government takes most of the money I earn. At least I am here. Ammong my idols ad my aimless peers.
I'm slowly figuring out how to put the peices of my personal identification back together after having my wallet stolen twice in three weeks. AND NOTE: To you whom have them: there will be more to you later, but you should be ashamed of yourselves. One, because you know I didn't want to stay, and two because I only had one fucking dollar in it, and I hope you made good use of it. Good luck with my receipts and ticket stubs. You moron. I never understood what people said about not trusting New York City, really, until these things happened. Now unfortunately I guard my things in trains and bars like I have something left to take (which I don't), and I am glad I have friends who like to have fun at home (because I can't go out now), and a roomate who will pay for my train tickets to work each day. Shame on you. Both of you. But this is for another time, I digress.
I bought a journal. Once again I decided it was time to try the thing I was so obsessed with in my younger years, and went looking for a book today. Do you know how hard it is to find some plain book to put things in? I stood in the book store for maybe a half an hour, something that felt like forever, as I perused through the Batman, Hello Kitty, fake-moleskine "journals", meant to keep your utmost secrets and treasures. Well, i don't want a place to write my treasures, I just kind of want a place to write my shit, you know what I mean? Eventually I decided on some book with squiggels and a label that said "journal" emphatically on the outside, mostly for the reason that it only cost five bucks, but will make me look like a real asshole if I ever use it in public. Eh, everyone looks like assholes when they write in public though, right? So yeah, I bought a Gournal. Me and my Gournal. Good times ahead. Or maybe, at least, not so many confusing times. You know, now that I have my Gournal.
I read an article today about how to reduce to signs of aging and to live a longer life. One of their tips was "find small things that make you happy, and integrate them into your daily routine". "Great!," I thought, and I wrote it down. Like it was something new. Then I realized, I do this all the time, because I look at pictures of dogs on the internet nearly all the time, and feel like the most happiest girl on the planet. I immagine that once I have my own dog I will still do this. Because I can't seem to get over them, or wanting to save 30 of them to be my very own. So, according to this article in the lady magazine, I am going to live at least 20 years longer than everyone else I know. Joyous occasion.
So now that I'm admiting that I might be somewhat drunk, I have to ask the inevitable question: why does moving to New York to be closer to the things that you want to do mean that first you have to be as far away from them as possible?
At least it's spring. At least I'm here. Even if I have no proof that I exist and the government takes most of the money I earn. At least I am here. Ammong my idols ad my aimless peers.
4.10.2007
Rumors of Famous People and What I Hate, part One.
What if you found out your idols were assholes?
What if you found out today?
What if you found out your idols were stupid and not worth the time?
What if that made everything feel hollow?
Because today I finally met a famous person, and another famous person, and they both were respectively cold, and though I never forgot the concept "I am the hired help", I also never forgot the concept that nice people can be nice no matter what, no matter who they are talking to, and though still I knew that 80 people spoke for them I felt that there was no need for their bodyguard to follow me though the door and scowl at me like I was stealing something vital when all I was doing was delivering a package to a man named Brad, because man, I don't want to harm your girl Alecia Keys, believe me, she's all yours to lord over, I am just trying to get paid my minimum wage. But believe me, one day you"'l be guarding me while I piss and I'll tell you I don't need it because I can fend for myself, and I hope then you can let other people piss around me, because it's only right, and you'll remember the way you looked at me when I was just a sallow studio worker, and maybe you'll feel a little bit bad. Maybe you'll call Ms. K and she'll feel bad too, because now I'm a famous person too, like her, eventhough I am white trash, and she"ll say "I knew she always had potential", and I'll be all "girl you know I did" and then maybe we'll throw some confetti around.
But I will never be a dick to people like us. Eventhough I have to smile and courtsey to people who are rude all day long. I would like to think that people who have nice things don't take those things for granted. I hope not to be so foolish.
I know the sun is always setting on a summer camp or a high dive somewhere.
I would like to find a drum circle or a space without judgement.
Mama K.
What if you found out today?
What if you found out your idols were stupid and not worth the time?
What if that made everything feel hollow?
Because today I finally met a famous person, and another famous person, and they both were respectively cold, and though I never forgot the concept "I am the hired help", I also never forgot the concept that nice people can be nice no matter what, no matter who they are talking to, and though still I knew that 80 people spoke for them I felt that there was no need for their bodyguard to follow me though the door and scowl at me like I was stealing something vital when all I was doing was delivering a package to a man named Brad, because man, I don't want to harm your girl Alecia Keys, believe me, she's all yours to lord over, I am just trying to get paid my minimum wage. But believe me, one day you"'l be guarding me while I piss and I'll tell you I don't need it because I can fend for myself, and I hope then you can let other people piss around me, because it's only right, and you'll remember the way you looked at me when I was just a sallow studio worker, and maybe you'll feel a little bit bad. Maybe you'll call Ms. K and she'll feel bad too, because now I'm a famous person too, like her, eventhough I am white trash, and she"ll say "I knew she always had potential", and I'll be all "girl you know I did" and then maybe we'll throw some confetti around.
But I will never be a dick to people like us. Eventhough I have to smile and courtsey to people who are rude all day long. I would like to think that people who have nice things don't take those things for granted. I hope not to be so foolish.
I know the sun is always setting on a summer camp or a high dive somewhere.
I would like to find a drum circle or a space without judgement.
Mama K.
4.05.2007
A Little Trip to a Friend's Computer. Oh, Hello Computer.
I've moved.
I have a new haircut.
I'm living in a startlingly wonderful bubble of niceness.
And my roomate doesn't mind when I wake him up by singing Skatman. Because he's the best.
We don't have internet until Saturday, at which point I'm sure the drunken posts will start pouring in. For the time being, drunken posts have been replaced, much to my dismay, by drunken text messages I should not send. Because no one has created a breathalizer function for cell phones yet. Someone, please, create this. Please.
Until Saturday,
Wishing I was Peter Pan,
Singing A Lot of Jock Jams,
Excited for Casey the New Roomate,
Missing my Ability to Look at Dogs on Petfinder,
Mama Kanine.
I have a new haircut.
I'm living in a startlingly wonderful bubble of niceness.
And my roomate doesn't mind when I wake him up by singing Skatman. Because he's the best.
We don't have internet until Saturday, at which point I'm sure the drunken posts will start pouring in. For the time being, drunken posts have been replaced, much to my dismay, by drunken text messages I should not send. Because no one has created a breathalizer function for cell phones yet. Someone, please, create this. Please.
Until Saturday,
Wishing I was Peter Pan,
Singing A Lot of Jock Jams,
Excited for Casey the New Roomate,
Missing my Ability to Look at Dogs on Petfinder,
Mama Kanine.
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