I Went and Felt the Illinoise!

...and I liked it.

I'm trying not to be too pushy, but after spending a few days in Illinois, I have come even closer to an unflinching decision that, yes I do want to move. More than ever before in my life, I feel that soon I am going to need a change. Staying here is wrong. Chicago makes sense. But, you've never been! No matter. All the better, chum.

J-'s friend lives in a thriving artsy neighborhood, just 10 minutes shy of downtown, and has offered to aid in our apartment search. In fact, his eyes (my god, those eyes!), glittered even more when I not-so-slyly encouraged J- to spill our possible plans to move within the next year. J- was grateful for my pushiness, in the end. 

The midwest is different. Forgive me for being trite.

At a supermarket named "Logli's" J-'s mom sent us on a search for Agave Nectar, a staple product of mine. 

J-: "Hi, we're looking for Agave."

Employee: "Huugh?" She lifts one eyebrow and one half of her upper lip in perfect, theatrical union.

I take the grocery stores in Seattle for granted. I do love you, Seattle and I'll probably be back, but I think we should spend some time apart. 

I would never tell Seattle this, but I think she's holding me back right now. She has become too safe.

The city of Chicago is a metropolis and I'm sure to find Nutritional Yeast, Tempeh, and Agave Nectar with little trouble. I know how to make friends and I know how to handle cities on my own. There is a strong and inspired music scene. There is weather I have no idea how to prepare for, but my dad did get me snow boots. At least my feet will be warm. Barefoot in the summer. Easy.

It's almost time to go.

...It's Serious

As I read "Girlfriend in A Comma" I, yet again, felt the panic of being almost 25 and without a career. Career can mean so many things and apparently it means something quite specific to me because just a few weeks ago I was trying to convince myself that nannying is indeed a career, yet here I am being skeptical and worried again. 

This book frightened me, not because it was semi-apocalyptic, but because it told a story about several friends who grow old, but not up, and contribute virtually nothing of significance to the world. I don't want to be 35 and clueless as to what I want to do with my life. I don't want to live a little life. I'm being narcissistic, I know, and I'm missing the point (or one of many) of the book. This life, my life, is not about me, but rather about questioning and aiding in a greater cause, or so says Coupland. This "greater cause" used to be of the Christian Evangelical kind, but I no longer wish to convert people. 

Knowing that my memory blankets the next twenty generations is not what I want. I just want to create and create and create and never stop. I don't necessarily want people to see what I'm creating either. Narcissism, again. Do I need to show my art to people in order for it to be significant, for it to mean something? I'd like to think not.

Acceptance

Maybe my vocation is platinum. 

Maybe it's what I want and maybe I shouldn't care what it looks like on surveys and tax-returns.

Maybe...

I've Done It Again

Stupid, stupid me. What the hell was I thinking? I need to take better care of myself. That's all I'm going to say.

Should I start over again? Should I go to a place that scares the shit out of me? Sell everything? Become a live-in in say, *.*.*.?

Onward, Literary Soldiers!

I have been encountering a genre of literature that seems to be asking me the same question.

Initially, it disguises itself as being rational, realistic, and postmodern. It presents the plain facts for logical, modern-day readers who believe that the world is scientifically ordered. Many like to read literature like this. I do. It makes sense. I'm educated! I know bullshit when I see it!

However, at the end of the day, after tucking me into my literary security blanket, these novels whisper a disconcerting question into my ear: what if magic is real? And if it is, are you able to accept it?

It almost questions my soul: are you insipid and lifeless, or are you able to accept the mystery?

Literature seems to be enticing me back to enchantment. It tries to be unassuming, but I have the feeling that it wants me to take "magic" home with me at the end of the day and though I do not want to admit it, I really do want to take it home with me. I crave it. What does this mean? Does it mean that I am the epitome of triteness?

At this point, I feel like these books want me to ask these very questions and maybe nothing more. They want me, the overly-anylitical and rational reader, to wonder if the unreal is perhaps real. Maybe it is a version of escapism (it appears that the human race is fucked), or maybe it is literary evolution. I hope it is the latter.

Regardless, I am glad that it is asking me. I'm glad that it feels like something is moving somewhere. Forward, backward, sideways, who cares? At least it's moving.

Dear Diary,

I'm currently reading "The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao," and "Lady Chatterly's Lover." I'm holding off with all the restraint I am able to muster and waiting to read "The Year of Magical Thinking." It's teasing me though, so we shall see if I can resist.

I read an interesting article in the NY Times about Carl Jung's "Red Book" which is being somewhat controversially published next month. Considering the facts that my therapist is a Jungian and that Jung's ideas (at least the ones I have a vague understanding about) intrigue me, the "Red Book" is also on my reading to-do list. And I'll admit, the fact that this book has caused a ruckus makes it all-the-more appealing.

I wish I were in a book club or class where I could discuss these books, but I guess that's what on-line forums are for.

Maybe this means that it is about time for me to start thinking more seriously about going back to school.

My current musical interests include: The Generationals, Starfucker, The Flaming Lips, Crystal Castles, Bibio, Ratatat, Frederic Chopin (thanks to Dexter), Neko Case (still), Jr. Boys, perhaps Wild Beasts, and the love of my life, Dylan.

I think I'll go ride my bike in the dark now.

P.S. I'm in love.

Candid Youth

Every time I babysit new children, I am reminded how G- and N- are scary-close to perfect. Other young children are the typical nonsensical, fickle, naturally caffeinated teeny-tiny monsters/angels-- simply put, they're "normal." I guess I've never been attracted to normal though.

What I am about to type is trite. I just wanted to warn you.

One thing I appreciate (and occasionally despise) about all children is their frankness. Many do not have a concept of appropriateness.

"Why are you so fancy?" -F (boy)

"What's fancy about me?" -Me

"Your shoes are shiiiiiiny, and your necklace is like fancy...and you're wearing all black," -F

"Hmm, my shoes are red though, and my necklace is not black," -Me

"Yeah...but why are you wearing all black?" -F

"I just like this outfit. It's comfortable." -Me

F- looks me up and down.

"Well, I think you look cool. The black is cool." -F

Phew!

At around 10:30 P.M., right before the front desk called the room and asked us to be quiet, F- had another moment of pure honesty.

"Hey, F-, A-, you guys need to stop jumping on the bed, otherwise we're going to get in trouble for being loud." -Me

"Why are you here?" -F

"Because your Mamas and Papas wanted me to watch you." -Me

"Well, we don't like you watching us. You can go home." -F

He was only four, but it kind of hurt. Silly, I know.

If I have children, I beg you Universe, please send me ones like G- and N-!!!

P.S. Universe, will you bring Autumn sooner rather than later?

P.S.

Last night, I had a dream that a dog was trying to convince me to have sex with him. I resisted and then it turned into a man. I was too clever and continued to resist despite the convincing metamorphosis. 

I ran away and got stoned in a park while waiting to go to class. Then, a Japanese girl came over to me and began talking about how adorable I was. She took my head in her lap and brushed my hair until I realized that the situation was bizarre and inappropriate. At this point I flipped out and began yelling obscenities at her. She ran away and I went to play on some slides, which is where the dog caught up to me.       

Interpretations?

It's time that we grow old and do some shit.

At this time last year I was a full-fledged man-hater. Whenever a couple walked past, I whispered, "fuck off," under my breath. All men seemed to be either entirely boring or entirely idiotic. I wished Cupid would shoot his arrow through his own eye. 

This year, I'm buying furniture with a man, and we're talking about flying across the country for the holidays. 

I never really cared for men-haters anyway.

It's different, obviously. It's better.

Stockpile

Yesterday, goods were purchased and I drooled.

Today, I still have all the stuff and I am tired.

Love

I woke up earlier than I would have liked in order to pay the goddamn meter. It was a cloudy day, a gloomy way to begin a birthday and I wondered if I should take it as a sign. I crawled back into bed after satisfying Maya's hunger and re-awoke beneath sheer sheets, love, faux-wind, and thoughtful gifts. Vinyl Dylan, yoga, sage, a candle, a feather mask, and a ticket to the block party...he knows me...

K- treated me to a guilty, greasy, Americana vegan lunch. I can't remember the last time I had such delicious Macaroni and "cheese"...it's been so long and maybe if I were to have the real thing, the "Mac and Yease" would not measure up, but who the hell cares? It was gooey, baked, creamy, spicy, and I could have eaten it until my stomach exploded. However, I reminded myself that it was after all my birthday and therefore thought better of suicide-by-gorging. At the same time, wouldn't it be poetic if my birthday and deathday shared a date? Romantic even?

The day proceeded into one of even greater guilty pleasures as I walked to the theater, cancer between my fingers, bottled poison stuffed into my compact satchel. (2012 is approaching anyway, right?) And so, I used a free movie ticket, spent way too much on a "small" fountain drink (which is in truth large enough to hold the Euphrates) and basked in a cinematic soup of raunchy, inappropriate, sacrilegious content. It was a shitty movie, more or less, but it was a day for junk food of all sorts. I loved it and plan on watching it again. It will sit on my shelf right next to Superbad.

I came home to an empty apartment in which I reveled for several hours. My spree of indulgence continued and I spoiled myself... something I used to do fairly often in high-school, but less and less as I grow older. I'll spare you the details and have you know that all that matters is that I was alone (ALONE) and...it...was...divine...

...for a time...

The pleasure of solitude only lasts so long.

I love when he walks through the door.

He made me dinner and mixed me drinks, gave me kisses and hugs and adoration, but still, my favorite part of the day was when he came home. That moment, today and every day, was and is my favorite.

Earning my Fair Share/ Celebratory Youth

Some nights I roll into bed feeling like I don't deserve eight hours of rest. Take for example last Sunday. I woke up late and stayed in my pajamas for a few sedentary hours while I read "The Nanny Diaries." 

(...Side note: the owner of a local used bookstore lent me "The Nanny Diaries," free of charge, after I mentioned my profession. We talked for a while about the books I had picked up ("Night" and a reference text) and she, for some reason, decided that I was fabulous. When I told her that I only had checks on me, she said that she was the owner and though they usually didn't accept checks she had an affinity for me. "I just love ya and I want you to have these books!" All this to say, I was flattered that she trusted me to return merchandise ["The Nanny Diaries] I did not pay for and concluded that though this particular book was not something I would ever pick up on my own accord, I needed to read it as a sort or grateful gesture...)

After I peeled myself from the couch, I managed to shower and get dressed in order to crash a mild Easter gathering at which I sat and chatted for a few hours with people who had consumed a fair amount of cheap wine (Jesus would have too if he had been with us in the flesh). It was there that I learned about the appetizing delicacy known as "soil" as well as a simple recipe for beets which I tried tonight for dinner. Que Delicioso! When I came home, I spent several more hours on the couch glued to cheesy pop-fiction, until I succumbed to an evening nap. I woke up in darkness, ate dinner, and went to bed feeling like time on the mattress was just another activity of the day. It was something to do.

I remember reading someone's blog a while ago which said something like "I want to go to bed exhausted every night, knowing I have lived fully."

Yesterday was record-store day and I woke up early (unheard of for a Saturday morning) so that I could go the Easy Street's "Coffee with Dylan" and preview Bob Dylan's new record. I spent a while (unsuccessfully) looking for "Two Suns" and came up with a Cold War Kids disc of live performances. Do I need to mention that I also pre-ordered Dylan's new one? J- met me and we went back to my apartment to cook breakfast. Cooking food together is something we do often. I like having a friend who shares my dietary preferences and flavor palette. We haven't cooked a bad meal to date, as far as I'm concerned. 

Stuffed with tofu-scramble, we went to Sonic Boom to see "Say Hi" who were energetic, fun, and put on a great live show  (despite the cramped quarters). I have liked them since the musical awakening of my sophomore year in college and felt a nostalgic connection as I watched them perform on a tiny stage in a glamorously crowded and sweaty record store. It was magic. At the show, I kept making eye-contact with a familiar face. I could not place where I knew him from and part of me thought that my mind was confusing recognition with lust. He was, well, better looking than a tofu-scramble. J- and I were standing outside of Sonic Boom for a few minutes after the show and I saw the guy again. He waved, but I shied away and did not respond and we left. Missed connection. Damn. Why didn't I wave back and ask him where he and I had met? I still can not figure out where he is from.

Our next mission was to find an low-budget tennis racket. Let's be honest: when it comes to rackets, size does matter. Goodwill: We only carry badminton-sized rackets. Value Village: We only carry rackets from the 1700s. What's it Called: Go away; we're not open.

We, slightly disappointed from the fruitless racket-search, headed back to Easy Street to see Moondoggies. I was pumped to see them, but after the first song I sensed that they would have rather been somewhere else. Maybe they are low-energy performers, or maybe they are too hip to rock out, but either way I was slightly let down. We should have gone to see Vetiver. Maybe I am being pretentious. It's just that I find the trendy, 20-something hipster-angst, veneer-of-perpetual-boredom to be distasteful. I wear my fair share of black clothing, boots, and oversized sunglasses, but am not above showing my teeth and laughing at elevated volumes in public.

Twenty minutes and two mini Mighty-Os later, we met a few friends back at my apartment to watch "Vicky Cristina Barcelona." I love when my friends come together. Every one of them is unique, intelligent, strong and opinionated. Many of my friends have disparate ideas and hold deep convictions, yet I still perceive unity and a genuine respect for one another despite differences. Sometimes when I am in a gathering with my friends I like to detach myself for a moment and view the scene from a third-party party perspective and admire the fact that such seemingly mismatched people are able to connect and love one another. It is beautiful...

11 came unexpectedly and after a few late-night, restful minutes J- and I trotted towards the Egyptian to see the final midnight showing of "Christmas on Mars." The preview consisted of hard-core pornography (I'm not exaggerating) and J- and I thereby reached a new level in our relationship. "Thank you, Egyptian!" The movie was not that great and some of the sounds were offensive to my sensitive auditory senses (and I don't care if that was the point; at 1 a.m. I do not want to suffer high-pitched frequencies for the sake of art). 

As the movie spun on, I sunk further into the padded, folding theatre seat and thought, "I can't wait to sink into my mattress," and for the first time in a while, I meant it and felt it. When I was abroad, I felt this way every night...

It was a day for music, art, friends, love, air, life, joy, and divine exhaustion. And it was good...

The Impossibility of Cutting the Chord

Maybe communism is the best choice for me...

As G- and I skipped down Broadway, making sure to avoid the cracks in order to ensure the security of our mother's backs, she asked me, "Why do you have to pay taxes, Marie?" I tried to present her with a respectable, law-abiding answer, but came up with no sensible explanation. Call me crazy. It all sounded like smelly, patriotic propaganda to me.

I ruminated aloud a few nights ago, "Why can't we just be alive?" K- giggled, B- nodded, J- considered... 

Communism does not work, I know. I can't be alive and avoid regulations completely (if you know how, please let me know). On the other hand, if being alive (as I am considering it) is nothing more than struggling to survive on a basic level, regardless of capitalism, health, sanitation, social acceptance, finances, dependable shelter and so on, it is certainly possible to enter the world and do nothing more than inhale and exhale. However, if inhaling and exhaling were the only two activities we were to focus on, quality of life (in terms of longevity and wellness) would be sacrificed and humankind's evolution would likely cease. 

Note: red wine expenses are included under the "wellness" section. Something to consider.

Most of us desire longevity and wellness, right? Sentient beings struggle for existence, but is our superlative existence dependent on governmental order?

Strings have been strung through our palms and heels. Regardless of how free we think we are, we will always be part puppet. Even if I were a nomad, I would have to answer to someone along the way. There is always someone to answer to.

Perhaps I just need to genuflect before our Yankee lord and work and pay until I turn into compost... 

Life is a carnival, believe it or not.

Portable carnival rides are still being manufactured. Some people have been wondering.

Killer whales won't leave me alone. 

I am being conditioned for a continental move. Every time I hear a Spanish word, I drool a bit.

And that's all you need to know about that.

La Dolce Vita

It was a day for sundresses, bare feet, resurrected freckles, driving with the windows all the way down, pink shoulders, roof-top picnics, doing yoga in-front of picture windows, and "Brother Sport."

Unpacking shouldn't take this long, but what's the rush? Maya has adjusted quite well and she (like her mamma) seems to like it much better here. There are more sirens, for one. Secondly, the view proves much more interesting than our old one; plus she now has her very own window seat. Sure, the old building was not half as shitty as this one, but...

Location, location, location. There are parks everywhere. It's one block to Freeway park, one block to a dog park, one block to a tiny park that reminds me of England. There are bars everywhere. Where to begin? Where to end? There are vegan or vegan-friendly restaurants-a-plenty. The people in the building are colorful and loud and some fight and yell and GOD I LOVE IT! 

"You are not H.I.V. positive, Ashley! Get out of here!"

"How did you even afford this place, David?!"

"I worked my ass off you dumb bitch! Leave or I'll call the cops! You're trespassing, Ashley!"

"Fine, call the goddamn cops!"

Ahhhh....The sounds of the city don't bother or keep me awake. I am not sure that I could ever live without them. 

Could this be love...?

Good-night, 9-5ers.

       
I have bleached and  disinfected and unpacked until the tips of my fingers have cracked open. I should have gone to bed several hours ago, but there is so much to do and going to bed is... so...dull...

There is some type of bird that begins calling at around four in the morning. It chirps incessantly and I can not decide whether its trill is charming within the urban jungle or if it is simply obnoxious.

The city's soundtrack tonight consists of: this bird; droning car engines; drunken ramblings; train calls; Bon Iver; a cough; and dreamy puppy snores.

It is time for me dream. I have been having detached dreams recently and I am excited to enter into the foggy reality again. A few nights ago, I had a conversation about Saint Francis of Assisi. Last night, I watched myself die while saving a girl I used to babysit. I hope that tonight I will dream about traveling to an undiscovered, inhabitable planet with Jason Schwartzman. 

Ciao planet Earth!

I'll leave the sun behind me and watch the clouds as they sadly pass me by.

It's late, I know. 

I missed my friends and Maya, but I wish I could wake up in San Francisco tomorrow and the day after that, and maybe the next day as well. More later. In brief, I felt the thrill of wandering once again. It was the same feeling I had when I was abroad: few demands as far as my schedule went; I was alone for the most part; and I had to ask for help because I was lost more often than not.

I was a sponge. 

Maybe I'll move there in a few years. 

For now I must make my way to a familiar pillow and rise with the overcast dawn.

Anatomy

"I'm a virgin and dang proud of it. I think people give their hearts away too easily." -Found in an "About Me" section on a facebook profile. 

I have to be honest, and maybe I should be a little embarrassed, but I had no idea that my heart is located in my vagina! 

I guess that explains a lot.

Stumblings #1

"...Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad."

Christina Rossetti, "Remember"

Or A Gangsta

I dare say: Damn, it feels good to be a quitter.

I am relieved. Relieved that I find myself in a place I neither expected nor wanted to be in. I think that a year ago I saw my life as being rather linear (in retrospect, what a yawn) and now I have even less of an idea about what is going on or where I am headed. God, it is thrilling to be young and free and I don't care if it's trite or if I have written about it before, but I love the moments when I sense the amount of freedom I have and connect it to all the possibilities. I feel it. 

I used to have plans. So much for those. Then I came up with a new one. Another one bites the dust. Some good-byes really are good ones; I've seen a few.

And quite frankly I am no longer anxious about finances because last night, we were playing with the Magic 8 Ball (you know the one) and it confirmed that I am going to be a millionaire. So...that was a relief.

In case you're wondering: I'm thinking about...um...maybe...moving? To...uh...Uruguay? Where I plan on making a mint doing stuff that, uh, people in Uruguay really like. I don't know what yet, but I'm pretty sure there are things they love and would pay big bucks for. So yeah, these are just ideas though. What do you think? 

Strangers with Candy

Thank god I didn't drink. Who knew I would ever say such a thing and who knows if I ever will again?

Between sets I contemplated going to the bar, but the guy next to me was interesting enough to keep me from doing so. Divine intervention? Perhaps, because after the show while I was frantically digging through my purse to find a borrowed bus card I found myself sandwiched between two men who were simultaneously addressing me. One was asking for money, the other, I have no idea, but they were both spouting off while I was digging through my trash heap of a purse. I stood up to walk away and dropped a bunch of my stuff. They both offered up lamentations and asked me what was wrong. "Ah! I am just trying to find something and you guys are hassling me." I walked away and the "I have no idea" fellow followed me. 

"Hey, so shit, shiiiit, you like wanna go to the House of Pancakes?"

"No, sorry, I don't like pancakes."

"You don't like pancakes?"

"I'm vegan and House of Pancakes doesn't work for me."

And cut to next scene:

"Hey so can I like hit you up sometime? I just want to get to know you, you know what I mean?"

"I have a boyfriend."

"Shit, like, that doesn't matter. Fuckin'. I don't mean like that. I just want to get to know you. You feel me?"

And cut to next scene:

"Shit, fuckin', like shit, you know?"

"No. I have no idea what you're talking about right now."

And cut to next scene:

"Hey, so could I go home with you tonight?"

"No, I have a boyfriend. I already told you that."

"Shit, so I need food. You know the House of Pancakes on Madison?"

"I know where it is. I don't like pancakes. I already told you that too."

"What's funny?"

And cut to next scene:

"So you were at the show or something?"

"Yeah."

"Do you drink? Did you drink at the show?"

"I didn't drink at the show."

"Oh they don't let you drink, do they?"

"They do, but I wanted to get home so I didn't drink. Are you going to get home alright? Maybe you should go get some water, and bread."

During this interaction, I spotted three girls. I was certain that they were SPUers. I don't know what it was, but if you have gone to SPU you will probably understand this. They weren't saying anything, weren't wearing any SPU regalia, and appeared spiritually-neutral, but there was something that whispered, "we go to SPU and we will help you."

I stepped towards them. "Hey, so what bus are you guys taking?"

"The two, I was actually just going to ask you that."

"Oh, awesome, me too." 

They saved me, though my pursuer lingered until the bus pulled away. On the ride back, we talked about what had just happened and one girl told me that next time that happens I should drop the F-bomb and be a bitch. I told her that I contemplated that, but he was visibly loaded and I was leery about setting him off on a rage. I was worried that if I angered him, he might turn and become confrontational or violent. A woman overheard our conversation and moved up to the front of the bus to tell me that more often than not, the "nice ones" are the ones who are assaulted. Rarely are rude women assaulted. 

A few months ago, someone strongly defended the fact that he thinks most people are good, and therefore ought to be given a chance. Maybe I took it too far tonight though. Maybe I was in some sort of "danger." I hate that in this world we sometimes have to go there, though. Should we assume the worst of people at times like these? It would make so much more sense if all people could be trusted, and I want to believe that all people deserve respect and to be given love. 

Sure, I was worried that he might hurt me so I didn't want to be rude, but I also thought that he may have just needed to connect with someone for a while. He deserves it too, right? We are all human beings with the need to connect and sense some sort of love. Maybe not. I don't know. Maybe one might jump on the mental instability train and argue that this guy was functioning on a different level, thereby making the situation exceptional. I guess I didn't feel like I was in danger since I was surrounded people who had also just left the show. I probably would have behaved differently if I had been alone. 

I feel like I need to reassure my most devoted subscriber at this time: Mom, it's okay. I'm okay.

Anyway, I was grateful for sobriety, these women and the fact that I would never enter a mousetrap full of pancakes.

Come on sorrow, take your own advice. Hide under the bed, turn out the light.

Neko Case is sending me off to sleep, bidding me yet another night of killer whale dreams.

Night one: the killer whale became a hairy, cardboard box. Well, not really, but my mom was convinced that anonymous intimidators had sent her such a concoction. I did my utmost to convince her that these demented senders could have in no way procured a killer whale carcass, and further, transformed it into a cardboard box. Dream Mom would hear nothing of it.

Night two: I witnessed an underwater slaughter. I...don't want to talk about it.

What's on the agenda for tonight? Considering my stellar bad dream track record, one can only hope for...the best?  

If I could sing like her, Neko Case that is, my life would be complete. Maybe I could secure some sort of discipleship/apprenticeship/internship. I am a personal assistant now so perhaps I could use that experience and become Case's personal assistant in exchange for lessons in the ways of HER. J- told me tonight that he heard that she is a bitch which leads me to think I ought to reconsider, but dammit she can roar! Just listen to "Maybe Sparrow." 

Regardless, I have been told that I need to twitter about the open mic scene with my songs. The lineup includes a gruesome pro-vegan number; one about two-step issue-evasions; another about a masquerade-of-a-parade; and one about marrying a fish (of sorts). More to come!

As for now, it is time to slip beneath the covers, down into the shadows. On belay, love, deep into your darkness.

No points for Marie

Here is a portrait of busy work!

Here is a photo of nonsense!

Here is a shot of me faking it!

Here is snap of a ZERO!!

Hurrah for spending hours on something that accounted to nothing!

I wanted to post this so that I could at least get some form of credit from...Mom? J- liked it. S-, did you like it? Maya, how about you? Do you want it? I will give it to you, but I have to warn you, it comes with saddle bags of negative energy.

Puzzle Pieces

My therapist assures me that I'm not crazy, just rebellious. For the first time in my life, I don't have to be the good girl...

I'm still pretty good, Mom, so don't worry too much.

I am using 2012 as an excuse.

My fears play into it and now that I have named them I have no excuse to avoid responsibility and am going to do my homework.

The greatest thing you left me with 

is this heavy-handed confidence in

therapy, oh therapy

it worked for he, it worked for she

therapy, oh therapy

it'll work for you cause it works for me!

Dear Friedman if you only knew

of all the hard times you've helped me through with...

therapy, oh therapy

Fries and Smokes

Horrible, terrible, scummy mood. 

Solution: Of Montreal, Superbad, and narcotics. Maybe not the last one, but then again...

Maybe prayer and meditation would be a better alternative. "I guess it would be nice to give my heart to a god, but which one, which one do I cho-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ose?"

I am usually able to see the value in school work, but this assignment has me stumped. I'll spare you the details and simply tell you that we're tracing. That's all you need to know. Oh, also: it's pure, uninspiring bullshit. 

Horrible, terrible, scummy student.

What is your problem?

My peers must think I am constantly on something. 

I am used to their vacant stares by now and I have to be honest, I kind of like confusing them. While I was in class tonight, I received a call from a strange number. I was hoping whomever it was would leave a message. Nothing.

"You know, I hate when I don't pick up calls from people I don't know and they don't leave a message. It leaves me wondering if it was some sort of secret call. What if a unicorn just called me and I missed it?"

They looked up from their drafting boards and stared for roughly seven seconds then went back to work. 

Last week, a girl next to me mumbled, "Jesus Christ," when she received a text message. 

I leaned over and asked, "Jesus is texting you? Oh god, I am still waiting for him to text me!" 

They looked up, gave me the "what are you even talking about right now?" look. It's ammunition at this point.

At least I have someone to share my stories with at the end of the day. I can always count on a laugh.

Lust.

Pegleg Race

Sometimes I think about how curious it is that we can balance on our feet. Welcome to the esoteric abyss of my mind. It became even more apparent as the three of us walked the few blocks required to sober up our light-weight, yet bulky driver. 

Our feet are tiny, for crying out loud! Why then, do we laugh when adults fall? Adults should be falling all the time! Look at the size of those things! My feet are not much bigger than my hands and nobody is asking me to walk on my hands. Let's get real. Sit down. Ponder with me, won't you?

Babies fall, but when you think about it the size of their feet are a bit more proportional to body size. What kind of person laughs when a baby falls? Okay I do, but not in the same way that I would at a falling adult. Babies ought to be nationally-recognized walkers the moment they exit the womb! The wimps are getting off too easy, in my opinion. What do they know about tears? I would kill to go back to the days when my tears signified nothing more than hunger and fatigue.

I decided that as homo-sapiens we ought to be applauded, nay, awarded for accomplishing the great feat (no puns here) of walking upright more often than not. Certainly crawling would be a less risky way of travel. I tested my hypothesis on the concrete and was assured that it was a benign way to proceed forward (nevermind the fact that I was testing this hypothesis in the middle of the road at night). The distance between my skull and the ground was a little over a foot which would lead me to believe that I would not suffer from brain damage if I were to spontaneously collapse. 

However, we are a race of efficiency and dammit we have places to be. Crawling takes too much time. Let's all give ourselves a big round of applause for walking on pegs!

Shower Ideas

I had a brilliant idea this morning. 

Since rice is no longer being thrown at weddings, some people are taking to releasing butterflies or birds. What good does that do? Further, aren't the birds trained to come back? I started thinking about what creatures might want to be released.

Circus animals came to mind first, but then I thought that if I were to release circus animals they, being tame, would have no survival skills and I would be the cause of their swift and inevitable demise. Then I wondered, if I were a circus animal would I choose death over my present circumstances? I would die a slow, poetic death in a forest somewhere. Following my final breath a compassionate chipmunk would place a single flower on my chest. At long last, I would be free. Alas, I am not in tune with the everyday circus animal's mind so I nixed this idea.

Then I had it! Rehabilitated animals! They have survival skills and I am almost certain that they would prefer to return to their natural habitat. 

Come to my wedding! There will be elephants, seals, marmots, eagles, ostriches, wolves, and you may even see a killer whale. It is going to be a party!

"I Must Be In A Good Place Now"

I stood below a nearly full moon and let go.

In the scope of eternity my present trials are nearly inconsequential. I am going to die, sooner rather than later and though I do not want to disqualify my earthly existence, I find peace in knowing that I am eternal. Who knows if eternity is a state of existence or non-existence? 

Either way, I know that I exist now on this planet. There is something to that as far as I am concerned. 

I like to think that when I die, my essence will continue on. If I'm wrong, what harm is there in thinking such a thing?

The clouds whispered over the sky and I felt connected. Nature and I were entwined, and I think that God was present. I have faith that He still hears me.

Karma, karma, karma, karma, karma... Chameleons Better Watch Out!!!

I always thought that I could identify with chameleons. There are certain friends and groups of people I act differently around and as much as I try to be a single version of myself there is no getting around the fact that different people draw different things out of me. D- and I were talking about this the other night over a much needed Thai feast and I was reassured to hear that she, like me, chameleonizes depending upon the crowd. It is natural. Or...is...it...?...

Imagine my horror when I was informed that chameleons are rapists. That's right! Chameleon boys rape unsuspecting chameleon girls! The Crocodile Hunter told me so. Apparently Charles the Chameleon will sometimes fly from his post onto unsuspecting Corrina the Chameleon and have his way without any consent and worse...foreplay. 

And so, I have decided, so as not to emulate any chameleon-esque behavior that I must stick to my New Year's resolution with big guns hoisted on hips. I will not give a flying...shoot...what other people think of me and will therefore not be a chameleon-rapist.  

One other conclusion I came to today: when belly-buttons are photoshopped off of one's stomach, it is quite gross. 

More profound and deep thoughts to come...stay posted...