Rockin' Grannies

I keep reading everywhere that 30 is the new 13. I think that's some kind of TV show. And Jay-Z says 30 is the new 21. And Shia LaBeouf, or someone posing as him (see: celebrity myspace profiles. Also see: Things I feel but are too ridiculous to admit about young famous dudes, even here on the internet) claims that 20 is the new 17. People are writing articles about this shit all over the place (most commonly reffering to 30 being the new 21). It's everywhere. Something older is the new something younger.

Ok, yes America, let's do this. I am ON-board. Let's keep making it cooler to be older, because then, eventually, when I'm 45, it will be completely socially acceptable for me to have a burgeoning hip-hop career, a crappy part time job, hang overs from partying until 4 am, and a closet full of costume peices I regularly try to pass off as actual outfits. This is awesome! Because, if we keep going on at this rate, by the time I'm 45 it will be considered the new 34, which used to be the new 23, which is how old I am now, and essentially I'll never have to grow up! Awesome! Yes! Or, at least, I won't be so upset about getting older, and eventually becoming boring and unsightly to the youth of generations to come.

I am so into this trend I hope it never stops. Something young can never become the new something old. We can never look back. We have to keep making old things younger and younger. We have to!

And it sounds like I'm joking, but anyone who knows me is reading this right now and laughing because I couldn't be more excited to find out that 23 can be the new 15. YESSSSSSSSSS!

An Ode to my Mother, Horses, and James Taylor

So, I have now come to the point in the night where I saw the academy awards and I drank maybe 8 glasses of wine, and I cried when James Taylor sang, and I didn't feel bad for it since I have heard him since I was minus 9 months old, in the womb, my mother holding her belly up to stereo speakers as she cried "yes I'm fine any time she's around me now", and ever since the doctors brought me to her in the hospital, and she looked at me, drugged up and beautiful, and said "I have found my soul mate", I can never quite divorce myself from that, and am always slightly thinking, "if you don't understand me, I have no need for you--I have found my soul mate" even though that soul mate may be my mother, and that makes me less than something, but I still can't help it, despite myself. I have jumped off cliffs, I have eaten from garbage cans, I have slept with strangers, but I have always loved my mother the most. My mother will always be that woman with the giant hair, constantly ridding a brown horse across the Indian reservation, always trading silver and late night conversations to do the best thing possible, somewhere in Montana or the most familiar northwest, asking for clever catch phrases and folk songs and pieces of turquoise. She will always be the thing that reminds me of my first swear word, and all my best smells, and giant chairs, and my cousin's first room before he died, and the edge of the sea before I understood what the shore really was, and staying in the car when it took you through other people's cities, and the beauty of a bottle of nail polish when you use it for your feet, and my great desire for pink and purple Popsicles & K-Mart toys, and my great distaste for raw fish--and she doesn't even have to do anything, she just has to exist. She is there every time I make a bad joke in public and no one laughs, she is there when I don't know what decision to make so I don't do anything at all, she is there when James Taylor plays at the Academy Awards and I am crying on Gekko's futon all by myself wondering how it is all happening to begin with. But, I know. My emotional unit (thanks, mom, I cry over every cartoon, I'm real popular with friends). She's the only one who never tells me I'm wrong. She's the only one who applauds every time I make a finger painting of an Italian man stringing spaghetti together. She's the only one who will wake up the next morning and tell me she still means everything she said. And, maybe I am being a little over-zealous. Maybe I am speaking too fairly of her. But if you ever knew her, you would know it all to be true. She is just that little wonder, constantly dancing, and riding horses, and turning around to you to tell you you'll hold on in the end even when you think your horse is getting away from you. The metaphor of my mother and horses can go on forever.

I love you, mommy.
"I've seen fire & I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought I would see you again".

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.