Dog Time

I be-lieve last Friday night I was found sitting on the internet just like this. Oh, no, today is Saturday. No matter.

Here are some dogs I want.

Chachi. Can't you just imagine a tiny hat on top of his head and some salsa music playing as he hops around on his tiny, teeny legs? I can. Plus, this guy is moving into senior citizen territory and no one is adopting him, which makes me want him even more.

Chester. I'm not kidding. I know I call a lot of dogs (and babies) nuggets, but THIS GUY is the definition of a Nugget. This guy is the Nugget King. You KNOW I would never stop loving the crap out of this dog. Also, he's old. Double points.

Ok, well, technically this is a bunny, but his name is actually Floppy and he's just sitting in the Animal Control Center in Brooklyn with a bunch of loud dogs. Someone please adopt this bunny.

Lucky. Now, I know that's not the greatest name, but this guy clearly would be cool with somebody changing it because, as anyone can see, he is probably the most majestic dog on the planet. I dream about running through golden fields and jumping off rooftops with this dog.

Dear neo-femenism

I just want to say, I just want to ask, what happened to respect? What happened to rational thinking and respect? Have I been living in a tunnel my entire life? I think something is happening and then someone tries to you-know-what-me. And when I try and say something about it I am just called a feminist. But I'm called it like it is a dirty, inexcusable word. Most of the time I swallow the whole thing. But sometimes I have to ask: If you say you are my friend why do you run away so easily? Why do you invalidate the uncomfortable things? What does my body have to do with my gratitude?

If I have feminist roots, if I listen to feminist songs, if I only sometimes voice feminist opinions, if I cover up my sensitive feelings, does that totally invalidate me when something bad happens? Well, does it?

Let's Just Do This

I have stumbled upon something that is either too sad or too strange to be true. The bizarre existence of famous people's supposedly real myspace accounts. That's right. I looked. Just like I looked at Daniel Radcliffe's you-know-what. I figured, famous people can't entirely hide from the internet. They too must want to keep in contact with random people they knew in their formative years, and parade cell phone self portraits to the masses, and have something to do when they're drunk and bored.

As it turns out, if you can find one sort-of celebrity's profile, it pretty much locks you in to an unending ring of their other "famous" friends. The fun goes on for hours. And I'm not supposing that these are actually real myspace profiles (since crazies are always creating profiles for their "crushes" or idols), but I am supposing that if they're not, there is someone out there who is both overly obsessed and has way too much time on their hands. The web of celebrities is so intricate that I don't know who would be able to fabricate it.

Case for authenticity: pictures that no paparazzi or deranged fan could find on their own. Plus, linking to friends of theirs who are also famous (kind of) but you completely forgot about (The kid from Sandlot 2? Who would make that up?).

Case for obvious fraud: they all sound like bonheads. "Hey, what's up. My name is Jake (Gyllenhaal). Some of the movies I've been in are (.....). I like biking, acting, and hanging out with friends." and so on. Are you kidding me? is that really as interesting as you can be? Wow. (also, according to Jake Gyllenhaal's myspace, Brokeback Mountain is one of his favorite movies, and he is *explicitly* single. Picking up girls on myspace???).

So, if it is to be believed that some celebrities actually do have their own profiles on the internet, and that I have found them, then there are some sad, unfortunate conclusions to be drawn.
--Famous people have horrible taste in music. Not only is it horrible, it is also completely lazy. Offspring + Jack Johnson? Are you even trying???
--They have no mercy about presenting themselves as acting icons and not people.
--They talk like the dudes you knew in high school who high-fived their bros after someone farted really loud at the kegger after the big homecoming game.
--They have a really terrible fashion sense. Like, weird bad polo fleeces and giant white-gangsta baseball caps.
--They make it appear that hanging out with them in real life would be about as much fun as eating cardboard boxes and watching C-Span with the volume down while playing Old Maid with your next door neighbor's accountant. Not the worst thing in the world, but also not on the list of enjoyable things either.

On an ending note, Chad Michael Murray's profile headline is "When you realize you're alive, you can live life!"
He's so inspirational!

Dear Daniel Radcliffe

Ew, gross. I just saw Daniel Radcliffe's penis. Though I know by now I am probably the last person in the world to have seen this photo (it's everywhere--Anna Nicole's "murder", Britney Spears being a nut job, and Harry Potter's, well, nuts), I abstained from looking at it for as long as possible. Really I did. I saw the picture of his butt, and I thought, "good show, Radcliffe, well played". But I felt I would be doing something wrong to see his milk and cookies, as it were. Despite, of course, the fact that they are only exposed due to a piece of theater, and not because he went out clubbing like a hooch and some camera man got all up in his piece. Yes, despite that, and the fact that I don't really have emotions towards the Harry Potter movies in general, I still felt somewhat dirty about it. And then, as I was done with my work and sitting around on a Friday afternoon, home all alone, the constant taunting of tabloid websites eventually got the best of me. And I totally looked. Daniel Radcliffe, his wiener, and a majestic white horse. Well, there we are. The four of us all together.

I don't know what the point of talking about it is, really, except that sharing your experience of staring at an 18 year old's "duty frees" on the internet somehow makes it less pervy.

Housebroken

Well, I did it. Today marks my first "official" "semi-official" "will be seen by strangers, maybe, at some point in the future" day of shooting for a "feature length film" (see, there's not an un-douchy way to say it, so I thought putting it in quotes might help. Turns out, it doesn't. I still sound like a douche). Anyway, the entire thing is very confusing, and you do something a million times, and before you know it it's over, and the whole touchy-feely "process" you are taught and get to experience in college is totally skipped over. I was just there, and now it's done. Apparently, I don't look like an albino radish on camera after all. Well, so far. It is funny how most expectations I had to be really freaked out doing it were dissapointed by the actuality that somehow I showed up, and just did it (well, I also played with my arm fat, took a nap, sang 80's songs, and smoked cigarettes, but what can you do). I guess my flipping out about it will probably come a few weeks from now when I realize what I've actually done and that it's done permanently. At least I can count on myself to set my anxieties aside to do the damn thing I suppose.

Anyway, the point is, Justin Theroux, wherever he is, should be proud. Years ago he told me just to relax. Well buddy, apparently I can. Officially housebroken.

Slow Friday

The only thing more boring than a slow Friday night, is a slow Friday night where you get dressed up to do something, but that / those something(s) turn out to be so uneventful that you don't even leave the house. I feel like that waitress in "It Could Happen To You", except instead of having Nicholas Cage walk in and give me a winning lottery ticket to brighten my spirits, I am drinking Coors Light and trekking to Manhattan to drink more expensive beer and scowl the entire night. Maybe this is God telling me to just go to sleep for once. If it is, the rebellious, angst-ridden 17 year old in me is going to have fun just to spite him. Or at least try. Also, I hate it when people call Nicholas Cage "Nic" Cage. Are you his personal friend? Didn't think so. Also, Face-Off is an American classic.

Also, I was listening to the SILO 2006 album for a hot minute today, and, fellas, I have some news for you. Playing a cd backwards and looping it over a track of another cd being played backwards in slow motion is not music. It is sounds, but it is not music. Yes, I might get the feeling I am in a cardboard tube floating underwater in a stream somewhere with slinkys tightly wrapped around my neck, but. I didn't. And, even if I had, I still say, not music. I realize half the people I know from Bennington would argue with me, but I don't understand your fancy terms, and I don't want to talk about John Cage, or X dude who has a funny sounding name, for the 5,ooo time. But then, that's why I'm not a progressive, enlightened musician....

Also, what am I doing? It is Friday night. Why am I on the internet.

Mind is a Razorblade

First, I don't understand this "new blogger" business. They made me switch, and if I'm being honest, I have to admit, I didn't really understand the "original blogger" in the first place. The type seems very small, and I don't actually have a "google account". Needless to say, we're totally lost now. It's like my mom trying to order me plane tickets over the phone. ("password???? Car, WHAT DOES THIS MEAN????? WHERE IS OUR PASSWORD????!!!!!)

Second, some things:
There is a snow slope in our back alley. It is more fun than when you were actually 8 years old.
Sub second: I forgot the other things I was going to say. Water under the invisible bridge.

Funny that for no apparent reason, small amounts of beer have gone to my head, and it is late at night, and I was "tagged" to do this thing, which normally I would have thought more about, but under current circumstances I just felt kind of excited that someone would be interested enough in my 'blogging' to involve me in a non-myspace, ok-cupid, what-have-you questionaire, so I'm doing it right now. Right. Now. Questions. Topics. Addressed.


"The Rules : Each player of this game starts with the “6 weird things about you." People who get tagged need to write a blog of their own re: 6 weird things, as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

Six Weird Things About Me

1. I am not afraid of many things, when you get down to it, but I have a giant, non-ironic fear of teeth. Too many teeth. I cannot sit still or fall asleep when I think of too many teeth. My friend Sammy used to taunt me by describing "fields of teeth" or "teeth growing out of arms". He didn't even have to try, really. Something about it makes me want to vomit and cry at the same time. Mostly it makes me want to cry. I can't handle it.

2. I like the smell of dog's breath. I find it comforting. There. I said it in public.

1. SUB ANSWER: I HATE honeycombs. Hate is an understatement. As Liam would describe: "Her reaction to the honeycomb honey in a box that i had bought brought about the idea of torture for the first time in my mind. Dangling the container that contained the honeycomb in it over Carlee's bed as she awoke was the most exciting thing in the world for me." I can't even get into how terrified that made me feel.

3. No one. And I mean NO ONE is allowed to wear socks in bed. Nope. No one. ESPECIALLY if there is sex involved. I won't do it. I will not climb into that bed with you.

4. When I was a little kid I used to have very strong feelings for inatimate objects. Like I used to save the wrappers for things because I thought they had feelings too. I would put them in secret places with my jewelry, and my most prized stuffed animals. I would take them out and pay attention to them like I would my real belongings. I would save them for years.

5. Sometimes I get drunk and, once I'm alone, I sexy dance. Uninhibitedly sexy dance. By myself. Though, come to think of it, that's more embarassing than weird.

6. Occasionally I pluck my leg hairs. For hours. It is unendlessly satisfying.

DVD Extra: I love porn. I love men who can sew. I hate anise flavored things (I think the jury is pretty 50/50 on this in general, but still). I have the entire Sarah McLaughan album "Surfacing" memorized. I tell jokes to myself out loud when I'm alone. Again, more embarassing than weird.

On that note, goodnight, America. I tag Julie-Lou. and Eric, whether or not this still exists., and kitten4evaeva a.k.a. KAT. because they are the only other blogs I know.

Dear Valentines Day

Dear February Fourteenth,



When I was a kid, I loved you. I got to make fun crafts for you, which I would bring home to my parents, who would praise me for being so talented at the art of putting-tissue-paper-on-the-top-of-a-pencil-and-then-gluing-it-to-a-heart
-shaped-piece-of-construction-paper. You made me feel good about myself. There were valentines, and candies. My mom used to buy me little love presents, and my dad used to buy me little stuffed hippos with hearts on them (I loved the shit out of that thing, dad, thank you so much). When I was 10, I got my dog as a present on your day. (R.I.P. Louie. I love you, brave soldier). Things were good. When I was young.


When I was a teenager I used to be angry at you. I used to say that you were a Hallmark holiday created so that people would spend money. I said that if people really loved each other they didn't need one specific day to talk about it. I used to listen to lesbian feminist music and say "fuck you, Valentine's day". I glared at the girls who got cheap roses from their boyfriends during lunch. (Whatever, most of those girls have already had babies by now, so I guess the joke's on them). When I was 16, my friends and I got drunk in the bathroom of the art building during school, cheers-ing in the handicapped stall to "this day blows". Good times, in retrospect.



I used to hate you. Then, when I got older, I realized that my hatred for you was more deeply rooted in the fact that I was a lonely teenager and had never had anyone to show their love for me on that, or really any other, day. Upon discovering that, things got much better. I had many days with you spent with various boyfriends over the years, and they were all nice. Some were more eventful than others. But they were all nice. Because you and I? We finally understood each other. One of my fonder times with you involved an ex-loved one, bowling, tequila, and getting my own membership to a pornographic video superstore. And I thank you for those memories.


But now, Valentines Day, it is 2007. And now, I just really don't care. In fact, when I woke up today, I didn't even know it was Valentines Day. I've seen a few dudes on the subway carrying flowers to their supposed or would-be sweethearts, but other than that, it is just like any other day. I feel completely unaffected by this holiday. Leaving my current love situation out of this (as I must), the most that will come of you this time is that I will spend some hours with Julie-lou downstairs, and we will remember getting drunk in the bathroom. I might have a couple of drinks with a friend, talk about my other friend's Dramatic love-situations, and do some work. But that's about it. Nothing I wouldn't do any other day.

So what happened? Where did we go wrong? DID we go wrong? Am I just getting older? I'd hate to say that my history of strong feelings towards you has come to an end. my apathy towards you currently, leaves me with no other choice. Or, perhaps we're just taking a break. We're on hiatus from one another. Maybe next year, Valentines Day. Maybe next year I will love you, or hate you, or have some new understanding of you. But for now, take care. I'll catch you next time around.

Sincerely,
The girl who lost her Valentine's dog (rip), remembers her ex-boyfriends, and wishes, just a little, she could still drink vodka in a handicapped stall in secret.

Dear Best Week Ever

Dear Weekday That bleeds Into the Next Weekday from the Last Weekday,

It blows my mind that it is this difficult to find a place to live in Brooklyn that has the following qualities:
A door
Walls
A ceiling
Enough room to stand
Enough room to hold your arms outstretched
People that actually like living with each other
People that are slightly awesome / of sound mind
My standards are not high, believe me. Be-lieve me.


Let it be said here, just this one time, to all 2 people in America that read this thing, that I am very skilled in the practice of hiding myself from other people and putting on a front that everything is perfectly alright, and I am the plucky, loud beast you know me to be. When, in fact, I am not at all. And when I choose to exercise this practice I am so good at it that even my closest friends, family, and, my highly trained therapist rarely-if ever-question me about it. I wish I was not so good at it. Though, it is a skill that gives me the grace of never having to talk about my problems. So. Let it be said that now may be a time to pick up this slightly retired practice, and I guess, by saying it on the internet, I have some kind of wish that someone would call me on my shit, because maybe, just maybe, they care. Otherwise, according to everyone else in the world, I'm just as fine as I was last week.
But let it also be said that I think I have come a long way with myself over the last seven months, and despite wherever I am emotionally, there are some things I cannot go back to doing. You will hopefully not see me starting arguments with strangers, drinking six days a week and getting so drunk I can't puke, hurting myself at parties and running around playing in the blood, crying in bodegas under flourescent lights at four in the morning, or, you know, other past choices I may have made. Because, although that version of me was fun as hell at parties, it wasn't all that pleasant. And, we all have to grow up someday. Plus, I'm still pretty fucking fun.

That said...

Back to the reliable playlist of songs that is always around whenever you "need" it.
No more using the "B" word.
Tuesday feels like Monday feels like Wednesday and even though I can sleep all the time I only have bad dreams and never really sleep.
Top Ramen is five for a dollar at C-Town and I am really hoping I don't get scurvy.
It is cold as balls outside. Cold. As. Balls. Just don't go outside. If you can avoid it, it's really not worth it.
Got the tooth extracted. Bizarre experience, but let me just say, there are some hot hot women training to be dentists at NYU. You go, ladies.
Finally spending adequate time with Foreign people. Well, maybe only one, but he accounts for at least a small village.
Trying to keep it fun. With the club.
Out of funny quips at the moment. And wishing I hadn't just used the word "quip".

This is what Julie did, which is amazing.

Three Weeks Has Gotten Me

Here. With a tooth that needs to be extracted because it is so bad I run serious risk of getting permanent brain damage if I don't. Here. Putting my plastic bags of belongings into someone else's room in preparation for the party that's happening here tonight with a keg and drunk people dancing on the couch I am supposed to sleep on. Here. Where all my phone conversations have to take place on the roof or in the stairwell, both of which are cold. Here. Eating cheap Chinese food two days in a row with chicken that tastes like it's not actually chicken. Here. Waiting to find out whether or not I am accepted into an apartment, and if not, starting over again. Here. Looking for jobs and being offered ones that scare the shit out of me, like teaching English at night to a room full of Polish Immigrants by myself. Here. Drinking 32's of Tecate and listening to Man Man every night. Here. Trying to figure out what exactly is going on and wondering, if I don't have complete control of my life, who does. Here. Wishing I had more winter gloves when I go outside. Here. Realizing that about 80% of the female population ages 16-35 are doing that whole tight-jeans-tucked-into-boots-thing. Here. Wishing I had the ability to teleport, and a larger collection of knock-knock jokes.

Slowly Catching On

After several occasions recently of touring through the blogs of people I presumably know and trying to decode who they are, I have started to realize some things about "real-er" blogs.

You never mention your real name.
You do not mention the names of friends and associates.
You do not put pictures up of your face.
You talk about funny or interesting things 80% of the time, and the other 20% is spent making the more serious things sound funny and interesting.

Oh. I get it now. Why did no one tell me these things before I started reffering to myself and all my close friends by name as I re-count the sometimes sad, sometimes sentimental and often mundane events of our lives while displaying a picture of my lesbian-hair-cut-head prominently in the corner?

It's like the kid standing in the hot food line for square pizza, staring at all the other kids with Squeeze-its and Lunchables.

...oh, and that picture? Makes me sad.

Big City Big Ideas

Probably the greatest thing about aimlessly wandering the internet and finally settling on reading your own blog, is that you discover things you never remember writing. Well, initially you don't, and then you vividly remember writing it, but it was so bad that you had tried to block it out. I speak mostly about that terribly embarassing little entry I made a few days ago when Steve and Karen were over, and everyone was having a good time, and the night was filled with that kind of energy they have in John Hughes films, you know, the "we're going to be friends forever" vibes. Awful. We all know that I can get extrememly sentimental and shmaltzy, but this was even too much for me. I sounded like a cancer patient who'd just gotten a second chance at life. I actually said something about learning that with friendship, compassion, gratitude, and hope all things are possible. Yeah. I did. So...dashboard control-manage entries-select-delete. For anyone that didn't already read it, just picture: me, in a John Hughes movie, in a room full of my companions, having just leaned that my cancer is in remission and I have a second chance at life, reciting a reflective, optimism-filled monologue over the top of a Paula Cole song. It was a lot like that. Oh, and there are other posts that I am embarrassed to have written, but luckily for me, those are stored in the archives somewhere and I don't have to look at them. Or at least I haven't gotten bored enough to dig through them and laugh/weep at my plucky and cheesy ponderings on life. Ugh.

Anyway,
I'm in New York now.
I oscillate between optimistic and hopeless pretty much daily.
I miss my mom and my boyfriend.
There is a lot of dance party-ing and game playing to make things awesome.
I'm looking for a job.
I'm looking for a living space.
I think I found a living space, but A. I haven't seen it yet, and B. The people that live there don't know that I have already decided to move in wether or not they'd like it. I don't care that it has cement floors and no closet. I mean, these people are on a competetive skeeball team. Oh, and C. Not sure I can afford it.
I am affraid to "take a break" from smoking.
"Half-Nelson" is a really good movie, and so is "The 40 Year Old Virgin". Who knew...

What a Way to Go

Listening to "Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen" again. Somebody intervene. Please. I know how many times I can listen to this song. It's a lot like Agustus Gloop and chocolate. Eventually he just drowns in that goddamned scary river.

I'm moving on Saturday. Baz Lurhman has many things to say about this.

Mamma's Got a Squeeze Box...

I finally caved and uploaded the new version of itunes, 7.whatever. I now have no idea what my computer is doing but it is continually scrolling through my library, allegedly 'determining" things over and over again. I knew I should have stayed antiquated.

But, I did this because, I got an ipod. Yes, I. Got. An. Ipod. Everyone else in the world has one. I finally joined the grown up masses. I suppose now my Hello Kitty discman will have to be bumped to Back-Up status. Probably no one is surprised by this, except me. For all these years I have been relying on my CD player and the mp3-thingie Kat gave me last year, which, of course, I broke. I have no idea how to use this thing. I am a little afraid of it. When it comes to expensive electronics I am a lot like Chris Farley in "Tommy Boy" where he loves his little pet so much that he squeezes it until its head pops off. Also, It's a lot like me with a baby: I'm afraid if I touch it, I will ruin it. But being 23 and marching around the city with a pink Hello Kitty CD player has started to attract unwarranted attention, and I can also never seem to find batteries. So, here we are, my ipod and me. Getting to know each other. So many scrolly buttons. So much "updating". Why is it constasntly updating? I sewed it a little case for it in the hopes that I can actually preserve some of its nice-ness for more than a couple of months. My sister got one today, too. She, as well, sewed a little sock for it. But, of course, hers has a clever button closure because she is both extremely crafty and also very kind to her electronics.

We'll see how this goes, my being integrated into the modern music listening masses. At least I will have 30,000 songs to listen to instead of 16. It might come in useful if I am ever stranded in Canarsie again and need to feel really tough.

Anyway, New York here I come...for good. Me and my black ipod. I'm almost like a grown up now.

Thee New Year

Let it be noted: I woke up at 6:30 this morning on my own accord. And I did not go back to sleep.

I started an exersize plan yesterday. I think we're doing really good...

I have plans to dance around to Prince and do immitations of Transvestite Chickens for Kat and Nathan tonight, because what else do I do when I hang out with my couples-friends but act like a 12 year old? Oh the memories we make...

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.