bri infinity

Lunch with Janice.

2010-11-14T19:44:00.000-08:00

I planned on eating alone.
But my plans were ruined when Janice sat down.

Like they say—
People make plans, and God laughs.
I doubt God laughs at people’s plans,
but who knows.

I didn’t really make a plan, anyway—
lunch happened on a whim.
Half a Brie and pear sandwich, spicy vegetable stew on the side.

Someone else is sitting here with you,
said Janice, but really she was asking.

Do you mind if I sit here—the only other table is a big one.
asked Janice, sitting down.

I’m always like this—
said Janice,
always rushing, and nowhere to go.

Janice had golden earrings big as eyeballs,
she had fingernails painted clear and shiny,
she had a sticker stuck on the lemon slice that danced inside her glass of iced tea,
she had the spicy vegetable stew, also.

Janice ruined my plans.

Well,
exhaled Janice,
I had a lovely time eating lunch with you. It’s nice, sometimes,
not to be alone.

Yes,
I said and thought at the same time,
it is nice.

Meow

2010-11-03T22:14:00.000-07:00

The weak cry,

Cat-soft syllables.

Tasteless, tame-tongued,

the guttural purring,

evolution

Of the lion, tiger, leopard, panther, cheetah—

the hollow tin chiming,

Pretty Miss Kitty’s collar.

Thursday Night

2010-10-27T15:42:00.000-07:00

I start hitting him but not too hard—definitely not as hard I could, definitely not as hard as I want to—I start hitting him and he acts like he doesn’t know what’s going on (after all, I don’t even know his name).

So he just stands there all wobbly and kinda laughing but really kinda nervous laughing and does nothing.

His friend says, “What the fuck are you doing this for?” I say, “I’m a bitch—I’m a slut? You can’t just talk about women like that! Who are you? You’re everything that’s wrong! You’re the power, you’re the patriarchy, and look who you are! You don’t even care (I keep on hitting him). And you don’t even know what the fuck is going on!”.

I keep on hitting him and they are not doing anything, they’re still doing nothing.

I cry a little bit but no tears come out—I’m smacking his friend now with my keychain and they’re still doing nothing, because, probably, they don’t even know what the fuck is going on.

I slap my keys across his fucking button-up shirt, I drag them across his friend’s face.

I’m waiting for them to hit back—to do anything—I want him to.
I’m waiting and I’m wanting, but they’re still doing nothing.
They start to walk away from me, they pull one another towards the Opposite Direction and I want to cry more than anything in the world but I’m too angry.

He tells me, “Just unbuckle your bike—go home”. I tell him to fuck himself and think about bashing my bike buckle into his brain until something oozes out of it.

There’s a girl with them, she’s been with them the whole time.
And that’s what started this all in the first place, really. The girl has been smoking on the sidelines the entire time; she doesn’t say anything til the end. They’re all walking away now and she looks at me, says something like “Fuck you”, and I first think to scream back but instead she makes me cry but no tears come out (too angry).

I remember looking at her. I don’t remember what she looks like because it’s dark out and everyone is drunk and she has a face that is not easy to remember in the first place.

I say, “I’m with you, girl! Come on (sounding desperate now), Go learn! Educate yourself, learn about the world—learn that you deserve better than this! Don’t go home with these ass holes!”

She looks back, screams, “Fuck you, I go to class!”.
Everyone laughs real loud now which makes me want to live a life in jail just to see them die first.
He looks back, yells, “Now you’re goin’ home—too bad, I woulda taken you home with me for five cents! (everyone laughs)”.
“Yeah”, his friend adds, “I woulda taken you for a penny! (everyone laughs) You look sexy!” (everyone laughs).

I want to set the city on fire, I want to burn down buildings and watch my muscles melt into the ground, grass, street.
I tear my skin open with the zipper on my jean jacket, I unbuckle my bike, I rip into the asphalt.

I’m pedaling home, I’m sweating and shaking and my hand is bleeding onto my coat now.

At the red light: Some drunk young men yell something at me that I can’t exactly hear, but it’s all the same.
I squeeze my breaks right there in the middle of it all and look into their faces, say, “I will fucking kill you” (everyone laughs).

They keep walking, shout back, “No you won’t! (everyone laughs)”. I yell, “I will spend my life in jail to kill you! (everyone laughs)”, I go home.

I get home, outside.
I think about the world and about women and about how “to be a girl in public is to be watched” and about everything else , and I scream and squeak and cry harder and louder than I knew I even could.

Makeup’s smeared all over my face now. My sleeve’s all bloody and everything is horrible.

A man comes out of the bar across the street (it’s after-hours), lights a cigarette, stares.
I think about what he must think I must be crying about and then I explode.

I buckle my bike and go inside.

A Day

2010-10-24T19:48:00.001-07:00

You live in a terrible way.

Daylight swims through slits
under closed doors,

Click shut, slam shut, smack—
(won’t), shut.

Someone says,
You can’t live this way.

Your teeth are screaming
so loud,
You can’t hear
what Someone is saying—

A sticker still stuck on
a slice of lemon,
is dancing inside a glass of iced tea
on the other side of the room.

You’re sitting in the
far-far,
far back.

Daytime shapes itself bright,
shimmers across freezing floor,
shines inside spiky veins of
white-white,
white flesh.

Someone says,
It’s a terrible way to live,
the way you do.

A Morning

2010-10-19T14:25:00.001-07:00

My teeth are screaming—
saying (I don’t know what).
They’ve been yelling since I brushed them this morning.
And I’m all the way in the back of a room now
wondering (if anyone can tell
that I’ve been crying all morning long),
wondering (if it’s written all over my face—
all over my teeth).
If that’s what the little white mouth mounds are trying to shout:
“Hey! This girl has been crying all morning long—Hey, look! You can see it
on her face.”

Limbo

2010-10-18T20:11:00.000-07:00

There’s a lot to say about Limbo.
But no one says anything here—no one talks to you in Limbo.
Free time is spent with Yourself, the only other person who lives here.
But you and Yourself don’t really live in Limbo—you just sort of exist (right there in the middle of the rest of the world).
Very much not with the rest of the world, very much not a part of the rest.
Things here are different than the rest of everything (but not really).
All you do is exist amongst Yourself, and think.

Happy Sounding

2010-10-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

There’s a race war happening down the block.

I can hear it from my apartment window, two stories high above ground, two stories up from the race war down the block.

“Who did I yell at?” a man yells.

Another man tells him he’s yelling right now. The yelling man yells, “This is racist”, and another man insists this is not racist; he tells him that he’s drunk, and he needs to leave—he needs to go home.

The yelling man is pumping his arms up and down. Slicing the night air with angry palms, he’s thrusting his body forward now in a fit of victimization.

Another man again tells him that this is not racist; that he’s drunk, that he needs to leave and go home now—that he’s belligerent.
And so he leaves, and maybe he goes home—but who knows.

Everyone out side sounds happy.

They’re yelling and talking about each other and laughing at inside jokes and laughing about things that are happening, about things that have just happened.

They’re drunk and willowy clouds from the tips of their cigarettes are furling around their happy heads, forming thick circles that hang in the forty-three degree Fahrenheit darkness.
They’re shuffling their feet back and forth—it’s getting colder out now.

Inside it’s warmer, the heater isn’t on because I'm trying to conserve but I’ve got warm socks and a big blue blanket and a red corduroy couch and the insulation of solitude wrapped all around me.

I wonder here a lot, sometimes.

A lot of times I wonder how all the happy sounding people know each other, and sometimes I wonder where they all met.
I wonder sometimes if and when and how I might meet any of these smoking, laughing, yelling people; and a lot of times I wonder, however and when I might meet these people, if I’d be able to sound happy, too. A lot of times I wonder if I’d be able to hear myself sounding happy from two stories up.

If I might hear myself, smoking, yelling, drunk but not too drunk, and laughing at inside jokes—would I think, Everyone outside sounds happy. Or might I think: Almost everyone outside sounds happy, but not everyone.

North Side

2010-10-07T21:52:00.000-07:00

Syrupy stratosphere hugs wet earth,
streets slick with sin—
With sinners,
slopping sinful shoes against stone.

Malodorous miasma impregnates dusk,
the smell of urine after eating asparagus—
Penetrates nighttime,
screws sinful noses up against moonshine.

Satiating stagnant sinners—
Corporeal corneas of fleshly
old men exasperate,

Honeyed, burnt—
a spectacle.

Blindness, After Seeing

2010-10-02T18:42:00.000-07:00

We fantasize—
To violate the virtues of vanity,
to visualize liberation from the impediment of eyesight.

We swim,
splash,
plash,

Against silver,
sheen, surface.

We are worshippers of glass,
martyrs of the Mirror.

Conversation

2010-09-15T18:38:00.000-07:00

A middle-aged woman with hair the texture of cotton candy and the color of cigarette ash is clutching a patent pleather pocketbook to her perfumed chest is yelling. Nearly screaming at a group of elderly Asian travelers, and calling out to no one in particular,

"ARE YOUR PARENTS GOING TO O -HAR-A?" she cries, repeating herself,
"YOUNG LADY—ARE YOUR PARENTS GOING TO O-HAR-A? ARE THEY GOING TO O-HAR-A AIRPORT?"
Plasticized pink goop is smeared across her teeth, and wiggles as she wails.

Confused at the woman’s wild behavior, young lady and her parents consult one another in Japanese and wheel their luggage to the end of the line, shaking their heads left and right in unison deciding,

"Uhh, sorry no—no thank you, NO THANK YOU.”

“NO, NO—ARE YOU GOING TO THE AIR-PORT? I’M JUST ASKING IF YOU’RE GOING TO O-HAR-A.”

“O-Hare” I say, immediately surprised at hearing the words aloud.

“Ex-cuse me, is there a problem?” The gucky residue slathered across her smile is the same shade and texture of her pocketbook.

“There’s no A, it’s just O’Hare” I regret the outburst, and try desperately to disengage her in conversation.

“Ohh-oh, Well on the East Coast that’s just what we call it. I’m sorry if I said anything to offend you.” Smacking her leathery lips together, she expels an odious hiss of astonishment. The rosy goop sludges across one of her front teeth, she provides no indication of awareness.

“No.”

“Are you from Chicago?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it there?”

“No.”

“Do you like it here?”

“No.”

“Well, where do you like it?” Her sputtering of insincerity polarizes me in its disregard.

“Nowhere.”

“Well, I like it here, it’s nice.” An obscenely pregnant black woman in front of the line adds.

“Me too, lovely people. Very friendly.”

“Mm-hmm” Another very fat woman concludes.

I dig a shaking hand into my plastic grocery bag and crunch a Tostito between my teeth, not closing my mouth as I chew.

Silvis Sterling Rock Falls

2010-09-12T18:40:00.000-07:00

Extinct existences
on shining stones, engraved in gold
Charcoal, auburn, and ivory, capitalized words
Enveloped In Mold.

Purpling grays,
brilliant and dancing,
Graceful and sparkling,
Sprawling, bright, yellowed—

Exquisitely dead beneath
the Ultraviolet.

Water, Burning

2010-09-12T18:16:00.000-07:00

It heats the marrows of
your bones,
the milky sinews of
your mind—
from the inside,
out.

Vibrates your skull, your brain, your head.
Tingles cranial tissue,
twisting its way
up and down,
up and down,
up and down your stem, your center, your self.

It simmers, stews, sits inside—
Poisoning ponderings, prohibiting possibilities,

Brewing a brilliant and beautiful bastion against

every one else.

Laundry

2010-08-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

There is a woman stomping on a small paisley print area rug in the middle of the folding area of a 24-hour Coin Laundry.

The woman is crinkling her brow and holding the ratted strip of fabric out in front of her as if she were eyeing a new dress. She absently rises up and down on her tiptoes, causing her cargo pants to fall halfway down her ass and reveal a faded leopard print thong with ratted red trim almost identical to that of the rug.

From the six-dryer distance between us, she could pass for sixteen or sixty, though is most likely in her mid-twenties to early-thirties. Thick-rimmed plastic glasses sit on the very edge of her nose and she pulls stray threads from her sad strip of carpet, discarding them on the tile laminate.

The woman absently bites at her middle right fingernail—

She doesn’t notice that I’ve been staring at her all this time; the buzzing timed dryer has impatiently alerted me that my clothes are now clean, and I’m still staring at her.

It is not until she rather decidedly pushes her hair back into a mousy bun, does not pull up her pants, and throws the remaining threadbare tatters of the rag in the drier that she notices me. In a frenzied fraught, she shoots an obligatory smile and does a quick, confused double take before dropping her dollar twenty-five in quarters into the change slot.

I look away now and pretend to read my book, but it seems I’ve been reading the same snippet of dialogue for the past seventeen minutes: “Salad?”

Saturday

2010-08-07T18:15:00.000-07:00

What are you doing? Someone asks.
And you reply, “Sitting on my bed, listening to music.”
But really, you’re not sitting on your bed—you’re curled up in a ball on your living room floor. And you’re not listening to music, you’re not listening to anything. You’re torturing yourself with thought. And that’s it.
Hmm. That’s weird. The same Someone says, Do you want to do something?
No. You don’t want to do something—you don’t want to be something, with someone, you just want to stay.
Eternally immersed in the murky pool of self-deprecation that you’ve been treading in forever.
I might just melt into the floor. You think. And think. And think until your head is swollen enough to be seen from outside, where you very much are not—where you just can’t seem to get to.

Dollar Tree: A Cultural Study

2010-07-29T18:40:00.000-07:00

What began as an innocent and much overdue trip to the dollar store today quickly became a full-on immersion into the cheap, plasticized pool of America’s Everyday Savings!

Browsing through the expansive aisles of buck priced notebook paper, and plastic flowers, and Bibles on Audio CD, and purple lace bras, and purple glitter hair extensions, and water guns, Nerf guns, and plastic cowboy guns, and Corn Chips, Cheetos, Chiclets, cookies, and seawater scented candles, I found myself deep in the blackened, corn syrupy heart of Middle American consumer culture.

Standing in what can only be accurately described as the “little girls” aisle, and deciding between a Sleepover Party Kit or rainbow colored hair extensions (see below), the only emotion I could identify was that of stupidity.

Perhaps it was the Rick Asley music blaring in my ear, or the blinding neon EVERYTHING’S $1 signs that seemed to be following me everywhere, or the slow buzz of the morbidly obese man’s motorized scooter, or the sheer overwhelming bargain potential—but all I know is that a cheap, comfy feeling of tranquility hugged my consumer instinct as if to say Welcome.

The book aisle of the Dollar Tree is like Wal Mart America on crack.

The limited selection of literature spanned the length of roughly two three-foot shelving units—with one and a half shelves consisting of mostly WORD FINDs, SODUKU, coloring books, and MIND PUZZLERS. First glance denotes a mostly “faith” dominated genre selection; dozens of cardboard boxes with INSPIRATIONAL printed in red occupy the aisle, contain bibles in assorted sizes, fonts, and colors (neon green!) and other titles including Retribution, Patriotic Grace, Moments of Faith, and Praying. A slightly closer look reveals a hidden [non]agenda—L. Ron Hubbard’s biography and early science fiction are wedged between 101 Ways to Find The Right Babysitter and Do Your Kids Know You Love Them. I picked up a copy of L. Ron’s The Great Secret (it was, after all, Only A Dollar),

and delved into the first pages of Galaxy Press’ #1 Best Seller to read a story laughably similar to any of America’s No.1 Christian publishing house, Thomas Nelson’s interchangeable titles…

just sayin!

Anyway, in addition to The Great Secret, I left the BOOKS section with a copy of CELEBRITY WORD-FINDS (featuring cover starlets Lady GaGa, Sandra Bullock, and Jeff Bridges: also includes

Harry Houdini, Walter Cronkite, The Jonas Brothers and ABBA), and a BIBLE Coloring & Activity Book. Fast forward past the fast food freeway (linking ingredient: high fructose corn syrup), the lingerie/drinking glass section, greeting card/cell phone accessories section, and MEDICINE and BATH aisles to the final frontier (pregnancy test/compact mirror aisle): My concentrated reading of the Ovulation Tests was interrupted by the screeching voice of Entitled American Customer:

“Ex-cuse me, Do you have sweat-shirts—do you know what a sweat shirt is? It’s like a sweater, but not.”

I rounded the end cap to find the same lady I encountered in the Bible on Audio CD section screaming at an elderly East Asian stockwoman. I stood and watched her for a while; “Come on, do you UNDERSTAND ME?” and “Sweat shirt” until she was literally yelling--before staring her straight in the eyeliner and saying, “You shouldn’t be so rude to people…” to which she tactfully responded “And you should mind your own Goddamn business!”.

In retrospect, I should’ve come back with “I don’t have any business, this is all I got!” or should’ve started with something more open-ended like “Karma is rude, too.” or maybe I shouldn’t have said anything in the first place (being off my meds has ignited my spunkiness).

But all I did was stare at her and adjust my dress.

Feeling sick and stupid, with The Great Secret and blue hair extensions in tow, I checked out, bypassing the impulse items (Burger King brand CheezeFries, 100 Grand bars, Miley Cyrus trapper keeper, and FAT BURNING pills), and paid my $4.37 just before the retail gods sucked my soul out.

But really, what should I have expected for EVERYTHING being $1! ?

I and Her

2010-07-25T21:05:00.001-07:00

I thought,

I’d see what happens.

Like flipping a coin,

or rolling dice,

or any of the other cliché metaphors for taking chances.

I thought it doesn’t matter anyway, really.

Me pressured I into a game of risk,

and I couldn’t even follow through with it.

Me reconciled with I and forfeited the game,

I took a drink of water, from an old glass that had been sitting on Her’s nightstand for more than three days.

I took a big gulp. It tasted like skin, and slid through Her’s throat like sand on hot cement. I took another sip, this time it tasted like spit and moved like cotton on frozen asphalt. Her told I to wait a second, I looked at Her in the mirror and did not cry, did not laugh, did not do anything. But look.

Her and I kneeled on the cold laminate, but only with Her’s left knee, because the right one was bruised and still scabbing.

I closed Her eyes.

I’s fingers tasted like someone else’s perfume, which made Her curl forward into an upside down U.

I stared into the gleaming white porcelain and thought about how clean it was and, for a moment, wondered how often it needed to be scrubbed to stay so white.

Her, still crumpled in a U, crouched forward on tiptoes, leaving her bare heels floating freely atop the plastic ground.

I shoved Her’s fingers all the way down this time, swallowing a mouthful of phalanges.

I coughed loudly, Her’s eyes swelled into bare-less red bulbs, and I coughed again.

Nothing came out. I squatted above Her’s ankles, staring again into the brilliant gleaming white. But this time I did not wonder about how often it needed cleaning.

Nothing,

not even a dribble of sandy spit, came up.

The poisonous pastilles seemed content in staying inside; after all, they had just gotten there.

I thought, how stubborn of these drugs, to slug through Her insides—the sludge of Herself—when Her and I were both firmly fixed on getting rid of them.

Her and I tried again, and again.

And then, after some time had passed, the room had dimmed, the eye-bulbs burned out, and the bright of the white had begun to fade,

they thought again together; that they had landed on heads, drawn the lucky card, thrown the dice,

and won.

Majority's Vastness

2010-07-23T21:48:00.001-07:00

The human race is an entitled one.

People look at the world through a muted sheen of deception, doltishly walking around on dirt and grass and asphalt and concrete with their inflated senses of self.

They look, and they laugh, and they eat, and they wipe their mouths with paper napkins, they shit, snore, sleep, and sweat. They have enormous expectations about everything.

They exist—

They are ignorant to the congruity of nothingness.

They exasperate their existence until it's out of breath, until they sum it all up with their last kicking tufts of oxygen. Something like: “I love you“ or, “Oh, Lord Jesus—” or, “Can you please hand me the remote?”

(Their finale of thoughts)

Until they roll over and die—

and who knows what follows thereafter.

We humans spend our selfish lives trolling about the universe on borrowed time, searching for and/or neglecting a “purpose”. Participating in the mandated morality;

attending to our most abhorred of earthly obligations:

Graduation parties of distant relatives, and birthday parties, and going away parties, and "just because" parties, and parties of four, and appetizer, salad, entree, desert, and cocktails, high heeled shoes, Christmas-themed wrapping paper, birthday themed wrapping paper, and pieces of paper addressed to "Mr." and "Mrs." and "Ms." and "Dr.", company outings, enjoying others' company, and funerals of your mother's aunts and uncles.

A widespread refusal of epidemic proportions has vowed us into our catatonic states of awareness—

of hyperconsciousness, of insecurity, adherence to societal standards, of designated deprecation, mechanized machination, disharmonious disregard,

and overall flimflam.

It’s always too early for a revolution, too late for insurrection.

Just the right time to feast our eyes on our intentions, to change into our “comfy clothes” and tune out into our favorite programs;

to impend our identities with these learned instincts.

We are a civilization of neuro-typical thinkers entrapped in our own pretenses.

Watching television with a very young child garners a far more profound interest than any unrelieved adult viewing.

The child will ask a question, and then another one; something like, “Why are there so many commercials?”.

To which you will respond, “That’s just the way it is.”

And, the way it is became the way it is, because that's the just the way it is.

"No Regrets"

2010-07-22T20:33:00.000-07:00

“No regrets”

The cliché is a firm pledge to self-sufficiency and validation. An oath to absolution, a testimony of denial. I’ve used the empty excuse to pardon myself from the most heinous of personal crimes. Decisions so ethically defiant that they would otherwise be indigestible.

Reflections on my behavior have been shoved to the darkest corner of my brain, abandoned in a secluded section of suppressed memories.

Perhaps I left my disillusionment back there, too.

I forgot:

What it feels like to not care or think about the clothes you’re wearing.

How waking up at the same time every morning feels.

About sleep's reassurance.

How it feels to be un-medicated.

To truly believe that the Sex Pistols are the best band on earth, ever.

The ability to enjoy a meal.

The belief that things will hurt less with age.

How to convince myself--that there is a God.

About the contented hours I spent playing with and talking to my cat, and what we talked about.

About having no regrets.

Nice Day

2010-07-20T19:10:00.000-07:00

It's such a nice day out—another afternoon.

People with rolled shirt sleeves read under trees. These people, with their exposed knees and shaded eyes, have conversations, they have coffee and lemonade and green tea with ice cubes; they have a laugh—and they spread themselves across grass and concrete.

It's such a nice day out—take advantage of it.

Another nice day (again) and you aren't taking advantage of it (again). Another afternoon (again) in that tiny room. Your legs are cramped from laying on the futon, laying on top of the corduroy, laying with yourself.

Have you swallowed a breath of fresh air yet—has the day filled your lungs up its with niceness? Has the pleasantness of daylight warmed your insides?

Still is the air in that tiny room, thick with skin and perfume. Are you still there?

Are you keeping occupied? With work, and with the internet, and with the television, and with the cell phone, and the media.

Do you have somewhere to be—somewhere to go?

Do you have somewhere to go?

Don't you have somewhere to go?

Another afternoon, it’s so nice outside today. You’re still in that tiny room, in the still air that smells of perfume and skin. You're waiting for the ice cubes to freeze, waiting to enjoy your cold drink—even though the dense air in that tiny room is conditioned.

And; it's such a nice day.

You sit and then you lay, and you wait for the night to fall; for the next nice day.

Night Shift

2010-07-19T21:36:00.000-07:00

The sky is washed in acid,

the atmosphere dressed in denim.

Pathetic puffs of cloud

blotch dark blue evening

and you are staring,

and you are walking,

and you are laughing alone.

The spastic fluorescents—

Letters “T” and “A”

illuminate a fogged periphery.

Glow desperately, and,

demand a permeable purpose

and you are thinking about some things.

and you are thinking about every thing.

and you are thinking about everything.

An Open Letter: Thank You.

2010-07-16T01:43:00.000-07:00

Dear _____,

Thank you for the honesty, the wisdom;

the searing sense of self-awareness.

(Thanks for the advice).

Thank you for helping me become a pretty girl.

“Fix yourself in the mirror”, and “Sit like a Goddamn lady”, and “No”.

Thanks for all of the encouragement—for sparing me the embarrassments.

And botulism, and caffeinated creams, and caffeine with low-fat cream, and hundreds of dollars worth of Crème from the sea.

Thanks for the crafted criticism, and thanks for the pristine dreams.

“I wish I had her legs”, and “I wish I had her boobs”, and “I wish I had her elbows”, and wishing, and wanting, and lusting over the Stars.

Thank you for the skills.

Thanks for noticing:

tarnished nail tarnish, caking cracks of caked cracked lips—

because I most definitely would not want people to describe me as the “Girl With Goopy Mouth”.

Thanks for keeping track, and for all of the suggestions—

thank you for helping me exude

the perfect balance

of feminine and sexy.

“Terrible”, and "Still no".

Thanks for helping me keep my focus:

For the buffing, the shining, the waxing; the relaxing reassertions, and the reinforcement.

Thank you for helping me be beautiful.

[Untitled]

2010-07-05T08:47:00.000-07:00

Ooh, beautiful baby,

your voice is

like a

sweet kitten's

claws

on sandpaper.

Mental [St]Ability

2010-06-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

How many people in your life can you talk to, really?

I mean, how many people do you know that you can talk to, really?

I mean,

not, "I like this, and you like this, let's forge a fleeting bond based on mutually superficial values", and not, "I know person X, and you know person XYZ, let's talk about them" and still not, "Who else do you know--how can you contribute to our prefixed commonality" and most definitely not, "Let's get drunk and pretend we get along".

None of this, but

Who can you think with? Who else allows you to think? Who else challenges your thinking?

Besides yourself--if you should possess and recognize such cognition--how many creative minded people do you know to be genuinely creative thinkers?

One,

maybe

one and a half.

I mean,

Who the fuck are you?

(you're a freak)

(you're the freak)

(you're a member of the mental minority).

"There's a party going on in my head
and no one is invited

Company's Okay
solitude is bliss"

Highway Philosophy

2010-06-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

"LIFE ISN'T ABOUT FINDING YOURSELF--
IT'S ABOUT CREATING YOURSELF"

This inspirational quote flashed across the Niles Police Department's marquee on my way to work this morning. Among other profound proclamations such as "DONATE BLOOD--GIVE, GET"(?) and descriptions of runaway felons wanted for crimes including grand theft auto, domestic abuse, and murder (probably)-- "JENNIFER ATLWOOD: FEMALE/W, 5'10" 200 LBS, GREEN EYES--BROWN HAIR".

Life isn't about finding yourself, but it's about... creating yourself? Although I understand the Niles Police Department's intended message, to be a "do-er", a "go-getter"; does it not read like a promotional slogan for identity construction? The proactive "do-er" mentality so esteemed by the (sedentary) masses is discouraging of personal exploration-- be a do-er, not a thinker.

Agree? Disagree? Indifferent?
THINK about it.

Either way, watch out for Jennifer Altwood.

"You just don't sound happy."

2010-06-23T21:05:00.000-07:00

I hate talking on the phone. I hate the exchange of auditory pleasantries. I hate the panicked awkwardness. I hate the misinterpretation. I hate the small talk, and mostly, I hate talking.

“You just don’t sound happy.”

My father said this to me during a telephone conversation; my sorrowful answer to his deeply introspective question clearly communicated such discontent,

“How are you?”

Fine.

“Are you sure?”

Sure, I’m fine.

“You just don’t sound happy.”

How genuinely can misery really translate over the phone? What does happiness even sound like? I’d imagine it goes something like this,

“How are you?”

I’m very well, and yourself?

“I’m very well, as well.”

The Today Show

2010-06-23T00:14:00.000-07:00

Television reality: white wine with two ice cubes in the living room. Living in this room, the living room, the one with the television and the video game system and the stereo and the leather couch. Sitting in this room for hours.

The onslaught of futility; wish-less hope, and displacement—“free time”. Boredom: the relentless battle between leisure and self-deprecation, and the implicit void.

Looking to fill all free times with catastrophe. Looking at your mother, who is clapping her hands together for the people on the television screen—someone has just won the grand prize.

Staring into that screen, the big screen, and envying the beautiful people. Staring at these people and thinking about what you would like to be wearing when you die. Staring and looking and envying, and listening but not really listening and thinking but just barely thinking, and deciding that you would like to be completely naked instead.

"What's with all that weird music lately?"

2010-05-31T12:12:00.000-07:00

"Yu Gung", Pussy Galore.

Click it or ticket.

2010-05-24T20:54:00.000-07:00

Make a quick stop at the popular coffee chain drive-thru. Don’t talk to you before you’ve had your morning coffee.
Open your window, lean into the speaker, order a beverage and sit in your car and wait.
Do you think?
Do you listen to music from your iPod adapter, do you listen to the radio? Do you sit in silence? Drive up to the window, you give the drive-thru worker a five dollar bill and hold your hand out for change. Two quarters, a dime, two nickels and three pennies—one of the pennies is Canadian, but you take it anyway.
Where are you going?
If you listen to the radio, do you change stations during commercial breaks?
Or do you just sit in your car and wait?

"That's All We Do Now."

2010-05-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

And the television,
Always television
I’ve heard the glow from the screen
is bad for your skin—
Adds five years.

And the talking,
Always talking
To the cat,
To yourself,
To the television,
“That girl’s just an idiot” and,
“Oh please”
Talking to talk,
filling the room with talk.

And the staring,
Always staring
into that box—
Looking at the commercials,
Looking at the media,
Looking at the girls in bikinis
and the boys who love them.

And the sadness,
Always sadness
Reflected in the upper right hand corner
of that box
Looking so empty,
exhausted, expectant.
The high definition colors dancing
across your pupils,
your irises,
the profound glowing
boredom.

And the timing,
Always timing
A quarter to eight
Your favorite show
is almost over,
And you are on mute now.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

2010-05-17T18:23:00.000-07:00

Do you remember the first time you killed something? A spider, perhaps. Or maybe a fly—with a colored plastic fly swatter or a bunched paper towel. Do you remember how old you were?
How many worms have you stepped on? How many ants have you run over with your car?
If you notice a spider in your shower—do you kill it immediately? Do you blast the hot water onto it, instantly breaking all of its eight arms and legs? Do you watch the defeated brown mass swirl down the drain before resuming your hygiene ritual? Lather and rinse—do you happen ever to repeat?
Or,
Do you just watch—its crawling, creeping scatter across the tiled porcelain.
Do you stare into where you’d imagine its eyes must be and do nothing?
Do you scream and slip and shout for help—soaking wet, naked, and scared?

Accidents Happen

2010-03-21T14:31:00.000-07:00

Today, my faith in humanity was restored at the epicenter of North Shore Capitalist consumption. I experienced the rare, stunning kindness of a stranger in the parking lot of Old Orchard shopping mall.

Examining the wildlife during the walk of shame back to my 1994 Honda Accord and savoring the bittersweet buzz from a new material purchase, the future of the human race was looking bleak. I decided there were few places I hated more than the mall, these places being food courts, out door festivals, and pet stores with live animals.

I peeled the “100% UV Protection” sticker off of my new Forever XXI sweatshop-brand sunglasses and adjusted them on my face in my rearview mirror. I searched for a tissue and blew my nose, and just right before I was about to turn the key in the ignition I was jerked out of my leisure by a solid, blaring honk. Oops… I didn’t realize anyone was waiting! The SUV’s turn signal light ticked impatiently towards me, and in a fit of both rush and annoyance, I blasted out of the coveted spot and straight into passing sedan.

I jerked forward and my brain swished around in its place. Shit.

It was entirely my fault—well really it was the asshole SUV’s fault for sending me into my panicked haste… I stayed in my car for a good ten seconds and emerged in hysterical surrender.

My victim was a middle-aged woman with a crazy frizzed bouffant and neatly buttoned pea coat. She sauntered over to the passenger side of the car to take a look with a relaxed smile on her face.

“Holy shit, I’m so so so sorry! Really, that was my fault. Is your car Okay? Shit.”

“Oh dear, well I’ll probably need some body work done. Yep. Looks like it. Not too bad though!” As she said this, she slapped the bruised car door and let out a single, hearty laugh. The metallic turquoise paint from my car was streaked across the passenger door, and it looked like someone had taken a hammer to its side.

“Fuck. Yeah, Okay… oh my god.”

“I’m new to Illinois so I don’t really know… but may I please see a copy of your insurance?”

I scrambled through my glove compartment to find the document and caught a glimpse of the woman through the side mirror. She was standing with her arms clasped behind her back, leaning slightly against her car.

“Hey thanks for not being like, crazy though…”

“Well, yeah what can you do? Accidents happen… Your car looks fine, by the way.”

“Yeah, well my car’s a piece of shit—it doesn’t really matter. But that’s good… Hey so, how much do you think this is going to cost me or whatever?”

Perhaps noticing my hysteria, she moved in closer to me and put her arm on my shoulder.

“Well you know, I was thinking I might not do anything to it. I’ve had this car for a while anyway… It’s not that bad.”

“Wow, are you sure? That would be fantastic, because I’m a broke college student…”

She crouched down and looked into the dent one last time, “Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Just relax, relax. Take it easy!”

As she said this she extended her arms out for a hug and gave me a quick reassuring rub on the back like a mother would. I was amazed. I thanked her five times and took a patient look before backing out.

What was this lady on? Did the impact of the hit fuck with her basic human instinct of entitlement? Maybe she had just gotten laid, or something… or maybe, she was just that kind. Whatever it was, was working for her, and it definitely worked for me.

I drove back home with the windows closed and I thought about what I’d have done if she had backed into me.

1:33 p.m.

2010-03-09T16:39:00.000-08:00

My gums have rotted out,
Darling
They’ve bled all over
my twisted syllables

You punched out
my baby teeth,
Sugar
My lips have sewn themselves
into a gob of adjectives

My cheeks have caved in,
Honey
scraped to colorless pits

You’ve dried out my eye sockets,
Baby
They’re exhausted from
your petty pronunciation

You should smile more,
Sweetie
You look so pretty when
you smile

9:30 p.m.

2010-03-03T21:49:00.001-08:00

Twisted umbilical cord
weaves through a
Micro-waved mass of
Edible things

Hot nectar drips
slides through cracks in
rotten bone
Warming the decay

Saliva drenches
spoiling viscera
the pitted afterbith of
newborn skin

Enamel melts
bleeds into fine cuts of
red meat
Oozing over the expired leftovers

Placenta boils
thin plastic cover-wrap
Mildewed ice shells of
Frozen peas

Finally
the crowning head screams

Squeeze Hard

2010-02-20T17:33:00.000-08:00

Close your eyes tight enough and you can engulf yourself in the total absence of your surroundings. Squeezing them almost until they hurt, the details of a brightly lit room vanish and you’re immersed in solitude. The circular glow of your irises penetrates your dark space. The prismatic glimmer bounces through your thought, diverting focus to the desperate light shining into the skin of your eyelids. The temporal distraction is frustratingly human, an impossible reassurance of the life that exists outside of your body.

There are few moments where you’re able to wholly envelop yourself within this unlit understanding, and they are exquisite.

Spilled Milk and Other Accidents

2010-02-14T21:44:00.000-08:00

A definite sense of invincibility and immortality that is not a feeling but a fact.
Total euphoria.
Kinetic elation.
Unparalleled contentment.

Outside of and beside yourself, you’re wholly and completely satisfied. You’re utterly irrational and everything makes sense. You’ve got it all figured out—nothing can stop you.

Walking down a flight of stairs seems an absurd task. Such a mundane action is almost comical when you’ve become so intensely aware of the situation that the stairs themselves laugh at you in mockery. Everything is warm, and somehow just a little off. Your surroundings are even more bizarre than usual and the mere concept of peripheral vision is esoteric.

The same plastic outlet cover that you look at every day is broadcast in an entirely different, shimmery light. One that illuminates your understanding of the world with pure, fleeting clarity.

A holographic aura dramatizes the overlooked details of your environment and, while savoring the pulsation of the bitter air, you realize that a building is never simply a building.

You feel a prickling rush of comfort splash around in the hot nectars of your brain. You revel in this feeling as you sit up straight in a regulation metal desk chair.

11:13 p.m.

2010-02-14T00:09:00.000-08:00

The blood in your veins boils
One hundred and thirty five degrees

Your skin crawls out of
itself
Muscles melt
Into a dead pool of
Sticky swimming mass
Creamy marrow
and pulp

Your fingernails bathe in
The slough
Drowning as
They scream out
for your toes

Your teeth float across
Parched ponds of neon flavored
Mucus membrane and
Immerse themselves in
The fresh flood

3:34 a.m.

2010-01-30T14:47:00.000-08:00

We will reach down far
Behind our teeth and our tongues
And search for
Scrap metal
Used parts
And
We will be sure to check
The expiration dates

We will swim through our intestines
And find
Rotted guts
Digested food
And
We will sing as we splash around in
Hot vomit

We will get lost inside of our bodies
And
There will be
No way out

We will stay there forever
And
Everything will be
All right

No Borders.

2010-01-16T17:42:00.000-08:00

Soooo... I went to Borders with my friend today and read a bunch of magazines (including my new favorite, ADDitude), and drank chai lattes because that's what you do in the suburbs.
We were sitting at a table in the middle of the "cafe" reading an article about an egg white pancake alternative when a grey haired man in his mid seventies strolled over. He was holding a "double cupped" tea without a lid and un-ironically sporting a Bill Cosby sweater and dirty Member's Only jacket.

"Hello ladies"

This didn't confuse me because, for some reason, I seem to regularly attract lonely old dudes who hang out in bookstores and coffee shops... wonder what that means, anyway:

"What's up."
I actually don't know if we said what's up, but it was something along those introductory lines. He continued by asking us something like "so how has the day been treatin' ya?" or "what are you doing here on a Saturday?". Thoroughly irritated by his disruption of my faux pancake article, I tried to block him out but couldn't manage to get through it.

"Isn't this great, you can just come here and read for three hours and no one bothers you, or at least almost no one."

"Almost."

"Are you in school? What are you studying?"

"Witchcraft."

"Ohh... so does that mean you put a a a a, what do you call it, on me?" He accompanied this question with a gross old man wink, not the kind that a grandpa would give.

"A hex?"

"Yes, a hex."

"Well, If I did, I couldn't tell you."

I struggled through the pancake article one last time between conversation snippets about psychotherapy before giving up at,
"I'm addicted to knowledge, that's it."

"I'm addicted to meth."

"What?"

"Meth."

"My wife died a few years ago. She overdosed on prescription drugs."

"That's unfortunate."

"Ativan."

"Anti-anxiety."

"That's why when when when I see these middle aged women come here and to Starbucks and get their Frappucinos and slip their Zolofts into them, I just don't believe in any of it. Anti depressants, all of these drugs. I don't believe in them, they do nothing for people and-"

"Listen, I'm really not in the mood to talk about anti-depressants with a stranger right now. Doing so makes me want to kill myself. Seriously."

He stood there for a while, one hand in pocket, another grasping both cups and stared at me for what felt like three minutes but was probably more like forty five seconds until I broke eye contact and he walked away.

Creamy.

2009-12-21T21:49:00.000-08:00

Velvet salted butter

A cold metal core.
and
The startling touch of two strangers.
Unshifting eyes and the
vibrating sensation of
thigh on
thigh

An Intensely Magnetic union of body heat.

Rise

2009-12-19T16:34:00.000-08:00

Wake Up.
Wipe the crust from the corners of your cracked lips
onto your tired tongue.
Sticky sweet
or
bitter dried blood.

(set cell phone alarm to: Snooze 5 Min)

Think about

Magazine clippings, foreign telemarketers, shimmer eyeshadow, freshly squeezed pus, and televisions.

Stare into the cracked ceiling and
swallow.

fjsadlfjlaskdjf

2009-12-14T23:44:00.000-08:00

My feet make patterns in the half melted grey slush and feel detached from my legs.
The winter wind burns my face and I walk slowly.
My stomach tumbles, causing me to lose balance and realize that I haven’t eaten in over sixteen hours.
I concentrate on the cramping in my side and push an ungloved hand into my coat in search of my buried hipbone.
Almost.
I open my mouth to yawn and the cold air rushes into my empty throat. I swallow and acidic vomit drips down my esophagus. A sudden overwhelming sense of urgency sends a tingling shock through my spinal cord.
I pass a homeless man who coughs loudly and I feel intensely self-aware. I approach the stoplight in mild panic, realizing I have nowhere to go.
I stand there for a while and pretend to search for something in my backpack, perhaps a cell phone. I decide to turn right.
I resist looking at my reflection as I pass a two-sided mirror, but sneak a peripheral glance and notice that my cheeks are flushed and red with blood.
I get home and do not take my shoes or coat off for a while.
I sit on the floor and think about vain things.
I cup my head in my cold hands and feel sad about them.

OmG, So what have U been thinkin' bout?

2009-12-07T22:46:00.001-08:00

As of late, my body has been rejecting sleep due to an extraordinary amount of agitation and curiosity.

I've literally found myself spending hours standing in the middle of my room in my underwear at 4am listening to Animal Collective's Strawberry Jam on repeat thrice in the last week.
I've also taken more than a few solo hikes out to "the" bridge during the wee early morning hours.

The same situation happens each time: an overwhelming realization that I've somehow walked myself there hits me and results in either freaking out and sprinting back home to Strawberry Jam, or adopting an overwhelming, Nirvana-like sense of comfort.

It's as if I've split myself in two.

I forget about the enigmatic contents of canned frosting, the science of mp3s, carpet fibers, skin texture, taxidermy, cuticles, microwaves, and everything else that forces me into my paralyzed, Animal Collective induced zombie state and I just stare.

The river is calm and electric.
The sky is a hazy black tent.
And I don't care about the clothes I'm wearing.

A $4 latte and that Bitch, too.

2009-11-29T22:36:00.000-08:00

I spent way too much money on a "soy chai latte" at the the fake Starbucks "cafe" inside of Barnes and Noble today (which unfortunately does not accept Starbucks gift cards, but does take Barnes and Noble Rewards Cards) because I was under the impression the drink would've been costless with aforementioned gift card-- which is specifically designed for such shameless indulgences. I found myself in this faux library/coffee shop because I arrived at the Suburban Express bus an hour early and decided to kill some time with caffeine and witty feminist dialogue, and picked up the latest issue of Bitch magazine during the same visit.

The twenty five year old emo circa 2001 cashier who was already on my bad side due to the card issue dug himself into a deeper hole of deprecation when I checked out. GIANT scan gun (seriously, why the fuck does a bar code reading device ever need to be so gargantuan?) poised in his dainty hand he remarked,

"So this too?"
Yeah.
"Ooh, that's an interesting title! What's it about?"
It's a feminist magazine.
"Ooohh...I see..."

He shot me a quick, panicked glance as he dragged the "oh" expression out as long as it took for the other dread-headed barista to concoct my four dollar drink before announcing the bank-breaking total.

I told him I didn't need a bag and concentrated on his skinny fingers frantically tap the massive hand scan machine as he keyed the numbers into the computer with his other hand. It was as though providing my explanation about the mag's title was offensive, it left the dude speechless and visibly disconcerted--the equivalent to mentioning the mythical menstruation cycle in a conversation among men.

Bitch has got its title right, because Feminist would be far too vulgar.

LNT MeMoRY

2009-11-23T21:02:00.000-08:00

LNT

I’m laughing my ass off.

The fluorescent lighting and ironed glitter fumes induced delirium has got the best of me. Yolanda is leaning a plump brown arm on the register, picking orange pumpkin-shaped rhinestones from her two-inch long plastic fingernails and flaking them onto the floor.

“Damn, I need’a get my nails did. This Halloween shit is old.”

I’m still laughing my ass off, but the perpetually droning “Silver Bells” muzak causes me to debate killing myself or having a manic fit.

“Breezy, you crazy. What da hell you laughin at?”
“I have no idea!”

The store is empty, a cloudy brewing thunderstorm is visible through the plexiglass windows. I’ve been ironing the same ten doilies and holiday themed table linens at the front register for the past two hours.

“Hey, I’ve been ironing the same ten things this whole time.”

We simultaneously burst into hyena-like laughter and Yolanda slams a bejeweled fist onto the counter in hysteria.
A petite old lady wearing a metallic pink headscarf rudely interrupts our frenzy as she saunters over to the counter, clutching onto her LeSport Sac bag for dear life.

“Excuse me,” she speaks softly, with a harsh Russian accent.

Yolanda and I shoot her blank mid-laugh stares and an almost comic prolonged silence proceeds the next fifteen seconds until Yo reverts back to robot mode

“Yes! How can I help you, ma’am?”

I’m sitting on the edge of the register counter with the iron glued to my left hand, inspecting the lady's cat shaped sweater buttons.

“Yes, I was using toilet in the back there and it was very dirty. I slipped on a feces and hurt my elbow.”

Her eyes now illuminated as brightly as her neon white hair, Yolanda abruptly shifts her body forward.

“You said you slipped on feces? You mean shit?”

“Ah, yes shit. I hurt the elbow.”

No. Way.

After a brief pause of disbelief, we both exploded into uncontained laughter as the confused baba wielded her shit elbow in our faces.

“WOOOO! YOU ‘DON SLIPPED ON SOME SHIT!”

Twenty.

2009-11-22T22:46:00.000-08:00

20.

Years. Of.

Devotion to

Lines, listening to "Feliz Navidad" while being put on hold, numbing your mind with reality television, unscrewing lids, wiping your ass, staring in the mirror, pretending to laugh, bells, snow, obligation, getting the waiter's attention, walking in uncomfortable shoes, riding in cars with strangers, disagreement, seasoning food, shampoo, singing, command C command V, body, fluorescent lighting, hunger pangs, cold water, tasting tongues, supermarkets, omg, department store fitting rooms, smoke, not telling the truth, mathematics, judgement, dry skin, applause, being "difficult", mp3 docx rtf.

losing

things.

CVS BITCH

2009-11-09T21:45:00.000-08:00

After spending the last 48+ hours quarantined alone in my 10x10 room, the brief voyage across campus to CVS felt otherworldly.

I finally emerged from my dormitory dungeon and stepped outside to envelop myself in a blurry periphery. I felt delirious from A) excessive sleep B) environmental shock C) swine flu D) solitary confinement or, the most likely choice, E) all of the above.

The idea of the five block crawl seemed impossible, so I waited outside for the bus for six minutes.

I felt a genuine sense of momentary confusion about the purpose of my travels stepping off the Cambus.
Ignoring the sidewalk and dredging across the half-dead flowers, I made my way into the Old Cap Mall.

I absolutely detest the CVS here in Iowa City for a number of reasons, the fact that it's so ridiculously easy to steal from doesn't even begin compensate for its unsettling character.
I mean, what kind of pharmacy/convenience store located in a second rate mall/student credit union is carpeted?
It's just too weird.

Once you've forced yourself to get over the intolerable ambience, you'll find yourself becoming further discombobulated upon closer approach the pharmacy counter.

Every time I've mustered enough strength to bring myself there, I'm further challenged with at least two problems with the prescription, insurance, or questioning of my identity.
At this point, I know them and they definitely know me.

Oh great, here she is again.

I can tolerate listening to the young Hispanic woman who wears four multi colored head bands mispronounce the names of my medication, despite correcting her three times. I can put up with the confused intern, who asks to see three forms of ID every time he sees me. I can even put up with the morbidly obese Santa Clause on crack doppleganger who types with one finger at a time.

There's just one bitch that I simply cannot put up with.
Her peroxide fried hair and sarcastic eyebrows are endearing, but her incompetence is simply fucking infuriating.

So, after another fight with her and a frantic, unsuccessful search for Vaseline, I find myself sweating while comparing the pseudophedrine content on the backs of Tylenol Cold boxes when I hear it:

Halo.

No. Fucking. Way.

At this point I was far past infuriated and had moved onto profound enraged delirium.
The only thing that could have possibly made this moment worse--sweat soaked, frenzied, and insane--was the exploitation of Beyonce.

And it went there.

Oh yeah, and they couldn't sell me the fucking pseudophedrine anyway because I forgot my license, and you have to be over 18 to make meth.

Hot and Dizzy

2009-11-03T16:36:00.000-08:00

You know that woozy feeling you sometimes get from standing up abruptly, sending a hot dizzying rush of blood to your head?

Take a second to concentrate on what that really feels like.

A general sense of hazy disillusionment, the absence of peripheral vision. Like the nauseating feeling of drinking cold water when painfully hungry. The icy liquid slithering through every single bone and intestine in your entire body.

Anyway.

I dressed up as Lady Gaga for Halloween this year, and I decided to go all out to make up for my failed attempt at Bret Michaels last year.

This is what I wore:

Although my first choice was the same costume as the girl on the far left here, but some girl at Ragstock bought the last pair of vinyl red thigh boots :/

I walked onto the Picador dance floor to be warmly greeted by a chubby, four-eyed (and may I add, un-costumed) alt-bro.
"Hey slut."
The look on his face was a creepy combination of entitlement, satisfaction, and intrigue.
"Excuse me?"
"I called you a slut."
I was mostly stunned (and admittedly semi-drunk), I had never been called a slut by a complete stranger before.
"You have no right to say that to me."
Feeling confused and violated, I began to walk out to the "garden" (smoking area), disregarding him. As I turned to do so I felt a forceful finger push directly in the middle crevasse of my fake hair plastered back, causing me to stumble forward.

No. way.

Shifting on one heeled foot, my jaw dropped, I met eyes with the culprit. I faced the same disturbing look of unapologetic douchery.
Enraged, and mostly in awe, I pushed his doughy shoulders with both hands and he eerily laughed as he stumbled backward.
At this point, his pint-sized girlfriend (?!) took it upon herself to intervene:
"Do you have a problem, bitch?"
...is this really happening right now?
Feeling dumbfounded and duped, I cocked my head and walked away.

Another addition to the douche documents.

Oh yeah, check this out.

My Best Friend is an Obese Raccoon.

2009-10-08T23:16:00.001-07:00

I "went out" for my friend's birthday tonight.
Basically, the first time all week that I experienced human interaction on a congenial level.

Anyways, I opted to return to the dorm seeing as I couldn't bring myself to pay $5 to get into SCummit for one grimy hour and honestly was feeling withdrawn from my futon the entire night.

After an arduous solitary walk back to the dorm, dodging two hobos who "knew me" and various sarcastically catcalling bros along the way, I decided to take a break and reflect on the metal bench outside of my dorm while listening to Rihanna.
The sky was clear, the air was bitingly crisp, and my body was tingling from the dwindling effects of the Bud Light.

I swung my feet over to stretch them out on the bench and shifted my body to lock eyes with an unusually huge cat.

The stare was polarizing, it felt that everything around me had paused in this moment.
I was shocked back to reality when I realized that the creature's furry eye circles indicated the "cat" was not a cat at all, but a giant raccoon.

I pathetically screamed and watched as he disappeared into the rustling bushes from which he emerged.
I sat there with my feet frozen halfway on the bench and thought for about seven seconds before screaming and jolting out of my seat.

I stood there, stiff and hysterically laughing for what felt like ten minutes before cautiously proceeding to the entrance.

I realized, while scurrying to drunkenly unlock the dormitory doors, that the fat raccoon and I were in the same boat.
He was my best friend.

"Is there any chance you could be pregnant? Any chance at all? At ALL, at all?!"

2009-09-30T21:22:00.001-07:00

Sooo...

I recently took a lovely visit to the much too familiar UIHC emergency room.
Long story short, I put in a work order to get my bed un-lofted...
ANYWAY, I was getting my foot checked out (the day after the incident, which is apparently a day too late) by a questionably lesbian-looking doctor when she suggested that I get an x-ray "to check for foreign objects".
Before I was escorted on the recognized walk to the radiology department she asked the obligatory question:
"Is there any chance that you could be pregnant?"
"No."
Then took it a little bit further...
"Any chance at all, at ALL at all?"
"Definitely not..."
Aaaand further still...
"Are you on contraceptive birth control?"
"No."
"Are you not sexually active?"
Feeling uncomfortably invaded, unsure whether this was an impromptu lesson in sex education or the lady was sincerely concerned about the potential radiation frying of my nonexistent child, I defensively--or defeatedly?--replied:
"I'm gay."
"Oh. Well. Okay. Then."

Our congenial nervous laughter was unsettling and I watched as she scurried to straighten her stethoscope and clipboard before awkwardly assuring me that the nurse would be with me in a few minutes.

I guess the whole thing was just confusing more than anything, in retrospect the whole thing seems unreal.
In all of the countless x-rays I've endured and "Is there any chance you could be pregnant?" questions I've put the kabosh on (I also found out that the joke "I hope not" is not funny) , I've never encountered such a persistent inquirer.
I'm pretty sure she just wanted to ask me out... (kidding)
If my mind had been straight (hah), I would've asked instead "Are these questions relevant to what you need to do to take care of my foot injury?"
But no.
I blabbed that "I'm gay."
Nice one.

I guess I just wanted to disconcert her as much as she had me, and it was the first thing that came to mind that would do so.
Uhhh PS: walking is a BITCH and I could reallly go for some hydrocodone or SOMETHING, definitely gotta ask for that next visit...

Loving: Lady, Leslie

2009-09-26T12:23:00.000-07:00

Wedding Essentials: Gravel Pit Swimming, Pig Petting, Dairy Queen

Iowa’s queen of hip-hop, Leslie Hall has managed to out-do herself. Again.

The entrepreneur of all things spandex and bedazzled has added another element to her distinctive brand: personalized gay wedding packages, “In Iowa, by Leslie”.

EnGayged couples can choose from four customized packages ranging from $50-$299 including:
-Gem Sweater Wedding of Grands (features an illegal fireworks display)
-Iowa Prairie Wedding of Tenderness (chicken frolicking optional)
-Design Your Own
-The Quickie (Leslie will travel anywhere in Iowa to perform your wedding)
She also offers an extensive list of tempting optional features like chairs, laser tag, and air rifle.

HURRY AND FIND THAT SPECIAL SOMEONE TODAY!
It’s almost tempting enough to just settle for that semi-special someone…sigh.

http://www.leslieandthelys.com/
(PS I originally wrote this blurb for the DI that's why it sounds so reporty)

IN OTHER NEWZ:
How is Lady Gaga so amazing?? I'm going to be her for Halloween, help me decide which one to be!

The first one might be kinda hard for me to pull off...

Dreaming About Product Placement

2009-09-21T09:30:00.000-07:00

I had what I can only describe as a "movie dream" last night.

Not quite lucid, but it is obvious during the entire dream that you are watching. The story was basically centered around some invincibly crazy girl and her lover. It began in a shopping mall, in which the two love birds spent time holding hands and stealing millions of dollar$. It was noticeable that virtually every wall in the place was plastered with posters for the same fabricated bottles of beer and wine.

After getting arrested, the crazy bitch managed to escape the police by pretending to be a patient being taken into an ambulance, and she was almost scot(?) free until they asked her to confirm her birthdate. From there she was taken to a jail/camp/sanitarium with her lovah. Throughout their time at the jail/camp/sanitarium many things happened and it was clear to me, even in my dream, that the same fake products were being endorsed.

The whole thing basically closed with the her blowing up the place and everyone running around naked and on fire except for her and her wifey who escaped to a nondescript farm house several miles away and toasted to their victory with the comfortingly recognizable brand of beer.

I can't escape capitalism, even in my dreams...

Subtle.

SWINE ATTACK H1N1

2009-09-14T23:19:00.000-07:00

Would you break your nine year vegetarian diet for a taste of that? (no)

SOOOOOOOOOOO The UI and IC are goin NUTZ about the H1N1.
Even the drool (barf) inducing ham salad at the Burge dining hall has been replaced with what resembles either tuna or raisin.

The University of Iowa has gone so far as to adopt an entirely new class absence policy which students may or may not unethically take advantage of in the situation of chronic HOV flu (hangover). Basically: if you feel sick, don't come to class. Don't go to student health. Don't go to the doctor. Just keep your contaminated ass home and as far away as possible from... everything.
Hawkeye-brand hand sanitizer business is booming, intoxicating the air of virtually every academic building and business in Iowa City with the stuff.

My motto has always been that over sanitization leads to illness. Basically, if you have no fear (45 second rule for that tomato slice versus 5), you'll have the power of immunity!

But since the confirmed diagnosis of my cousin, and the recent advertisement for 'Flu meals: If you are sick do not leave! We will bring food to you!" pasted onto every door in the dormitories, I've found myself becoming increasingly uncomfortable around: coughing classmates (to the point where I can't focus and spend time praying that they're unfortunate chain smokers), "my" public bathroom, and the sweat encrusted//germ infested gym.

According to the UI, there are no confirmed cases of H1N1, although all people exhibiting flu-like symptoms are assumed to have it...???

"Sup Bitches?!"

2009-09-07T21:48:00.000-07:00

You know those kind of reject bro parties that you find yourself at when you're bored and desperate for free alcohol?

I found myself at one of those on Friday. Just like hipsters, jellybeans, or racing horses: there are many breeds and degrees of 'bro'.

Friday's bros were the kinds who were turned down from the fraternities for unsatisfactory grades or appearance. Their girlfriends were the type of 'bar hos' who wear the sweatpants and pajamas they don for class into the nighttime. But one thing they all have in common is that they all think they're better than you, and that you are not a person, but an object of awing humor or confusion.
Non-submissive girls who can shamelessly beat them in completely un-ironic beer-chugging contests, and will unapologetically tell them that their party playlist sucks: these girls are crazy, brah!

When we left the 'party' (ten bros and five girls nodding to Lil Wayne in a rotting three bedroom apartment) we listened to them emphatically rehearse their goodbyes and then stuck around to listen at the door before taking off. (not my idea) They were beside themselves attempting impersonations and having a laughing fit.

Cool. I took three beers for the road, anyways.

Bros can be alright, in infrequent moderation... emphasis on infrequent. There are those moments in which you find yourself high-fiving, laughing and/or fist-pumping together in celebration. But most of the time their douche-bagery stands in the way of such epiphanic moments.

We ran into one of the guys later in the evening on College Street, now unrecognizably intoxicated, he greeted us with "SUP, BITCHES?!"
To which I responded "Sup, Don't refer to me, or women as bitches!"
And then he classily compensated with "Ohh sorry, SUP, SLUTS?"
"Not funny, you can respectfully greet me or not bother at all."
To which he sarcastically replied "Oh geez alright 'respectable ladies'"
"Yeah..."
Fuck you.

Douche-bagery.

The Homosexual "Lifestyle"

2009-08-31T21:13:00.000-07:00

In my 'Diversity and American Identities' class today we discussed the questionable homosexuality of an author we're reading, Katherine Lumpkin. I hadn't read the article before I came to class (because I just added the class and the article was previously unavailable to me) so I felt a little bit lost, but I got the jist of it. Basically, Lumpkin was a closet dyke, she didn't want to come out and destroy her reputation as an author; because of the time period in which she was alive. Some bitch wrote an article trying to expose Lumpkin's homosexual lifestyle', and we debated if this was valid in class. In the article, there was a photo of Lumpkin dancing with another woman.

Class token outspoken dumb girl examined the photo and defensively stated "You know, I go to Studio13 (Iowa City gay bar) and dance, and I have gay friends, and I love that part of my life, but I'm in a committed heterosexual relationship and I've never danced like that with a woman. They look like they're in a very happy, intimate embrace." Her response was complimented with (nervous?) laughter from the rest of the class.

I'm not sure why she felt the need to begin her statement with a defensive remark about how much she loves gay people and 'that part of her life', and then to further very distinctly declare her heterosexuality, and proceed to make an otherwise not homophobic comment.

It was obviously very unsettling to me. Especially the part about the class (and professor's) laughter.
In this case, I do not think that I'm being a cynic--or oversensitive, I think that people should think before they speak out loud in class, and that defensively offensive claims do not prove naivety, but rather unconcerned ignorance.

Are you Kidding??

2009-08-30T20:01:00.001-07:00

PURE disgust.

Beef Frankz

2009-08-19T21:58:00.000-07:00

Jimmy Fallon recently took Conan's spot on late night, I tuned in for the first time tonight to find myself watching a 'celebrity hot dog tossing contest'. Apparently, the goal of this 'contest' was to blow up huge photos of random/ironic celebrities (chuck norris, arnold schwarzenager) and have audience members toss as many possible wieners through the makeshift mouth holes in thirty seconds. He generously gave the losers their own packages of beef franks as a condolence prize.

I mean seriously, can you think of any less natural, more packaged food than a hot.dog.
*Rule of thumb: steer clear from any 'food' that contains high fructose corn syrup, palm oil/any other partially hydrogenated atrocities.
Where the fuck did that name come from? From the dog? Or is the dog derived from the culinary delicacy?

Normally I'd find something like this funny, but looking at the GIANT glass buckets stuffed to the brim with hundreds of mystery meat tubes, I felt completely and utterly disgusted in the waste. My immediate thought was: WHY?! followed by, 'you could at least switch to soy dogs'. This was wasteful and wrong in so many ways, but JF went on unscathed, to play beer pong with one of the golden girls.

I'm a PETA-hating pescatarian but this sparked the activism (in the form of electronic complaint) in me.
I went straight to the source--the jimmy fall show website, where I was directed to this, helpfully followed by this.

Thanks for assuring me that my opinions are important, NBC!

Anyways, I naively didn't realize how much interviewing is involved in cultural journalism. I've done alright so far but felt like the end of my last interview fell flat when I responded with nervous laughter after the source said 'Can't wait to get to Iowa City!'.

HeadACHES.

2009-08-16T15:34:00.000-07:00

I'm back to IOWA CITY. I had my first meeting at The Daily Iowan today, and was assigned three stories to work on in the upcoming weeks.

Dreamt last night that I was embarking on some sort of epically long journey via GIANT spontaneously combusting luxury boat. I managed to escape right before 'she blew' three times. After each time, I set back to work on the reconstruction on the newest replacement boat. After the crew and I finished, there was a red carpet premiere of the sea monster complete with celebrity appearances (lady gaga, mariah carey, puff daddy). Then it erupted, again.

grrrl.

2009-08-14T11:46:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wake up from a really great, intricate dream only to forget everything about it five minutes later??

I do remember my dream from Wednesday night, though... in a nutshell: I went to some type of opening/club night party at an urban outfitters-esque store where I picked up an alleged FREE copy of some sort of magazine resembling the Chicago Reader only to be prosecuted by the store's bleached-blond, creamy porcelain-skinned employee and police-interrogated for stealing! I argued that the magazine was free, and that even if it wasn't, I was completely misled by the FREE sticker on the front of it and would be happy to pay for it! But the cashier girl was relentless, and fuming in her sequined American Apparel minidress. After a another drawn out round of back and forth, I retreated to the locker room (which was curiously identical to the one at Bally Total Fitness) to be met with the accuser. We laughed at the misunderstanding, she took of her dress, we started making out, and I woke up.

Results from the EEG: I'm not NEUROLOGICALLY crazy--which is a good thing, right?

Electroencephalogram

2009-08-12T11:04:00.000-07:00

I went to Northwestern hospital today to get an EEG. First I got my blood drawn, then my dad had a lovely breakfast at the hospital cafeteria where I was shocked by the array of unhealthy food choices, and after a desperate search for the G elevator I arrived at the neurophysiology wing.

The nurse 'marked the spots' where the electrodes would go on my head with a red chinese pencil and then pasted a bunch of colored wires to these spots with what looked and felt like thick mayonnaise. The nurse left the room and I was told to lay down on the hospital bed and wait for instructions. 30 seconds later i heard her voice projected through a mysterious big-brother like microphone from the wall and she instructed me to 'open' and 'close' my eyes for about five minutes while different strobe lights flashed up in my grill.

After this, she came in and adjusted a few of the wires and told me to try to take a nap. Between the crying baby across the hall, and the construction outside (not to mention the electrical equipment attached to my brain), I was unconvinced that I would be able to sleep at all; but I found myself waking up what felt like three minutes later from a deep life-like dream. I was confused and irritated that the conflict in my dream had gone unresolved and I feel that this is a reflection on my current situation.

Anyways, it took three shampoos and two conditioning sessions to wash the mayo out. I find out if I'm crazy by tomorrow.

Some Parts of Life

2009-08-11T13:25:00.000-07:00

These are some pictures I took in various places of London and Chicago with my dad's old camera.

Lost in Futuristic Mexico

2009-08-11T11:21:00.001-07:00

I had a dream that a semi-friend of mine suddenly and unfathomably died. His funeral was held in a part of Mexico that more accurately resembled a dreary part of East London. The line to view the casket was literally out the door. I remember glancing down from (?) and looking down at the ant-like, pretentiously mourning hipsters and feeling sickened with the thought of uselessness.

I never made it inside the funeral, but rather rushed off to catch the newly crafted spaceship underground train to Cancun. Here I met all of the formerly-queued fashionable ants, now wearing their cheesiest smiles and most obnoxiously neon swimsuits. We were at some sort of after-funeral vacation retreat. The dead friend was alive, DJing, and downing tequila shots as per usual. Was I in limbo?

I went on to be faced with some sort of dilemma about rotten fruit and self-consciousness, then I woke up.

There is no arguing that Beyonce's voice is incredible, but I don't think she was right to play Etta James, as they have completely different singing styles:

Aretha Franklin Saved My Life

2009-08-10T16:22:00.001-07:00

I have undergone some serious soul-searching since being faced with the question 'If you could live inside of any song, what song would it be?'. One anonymous person responded with "In the Flowers" by Animal Collective which brings to mind an ethereal dreamland of nothingness *gag* while another, more sensible person declared "Good Vibrations" by Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch. After the third person claimed 'Funkytown' by Lips, Inc. I felt robbed and confused. I finally decided upon "Pennies from Heaven " by the king of swing himself, Louis Prima.

Imagine if your 'song' played every time you entered the room, or walked down the street, and the hilarious clash between "This is How We Do it" and "In the Flowers".

Although the answer changes completely when asked "What song describes the state you are living in?' Listening to Pandora radio and sitting on the edge of my bed in my pajamas at 4:30 pm, Ms. Aretha Franklin decided for me by skipping to "A Change is Coming my Way"...hopefully

Newly discovered amazing ballad/soul singer: Dinah Washington

Luv it

2009-08-07T22:36:00.000-07:00

Shit be Poppin'

2009-08-03T22:17:00.000-07:00

FASHION HERE

High Sk00L again

2009-07-30T17:17:00.000-07:00

I'm back from London and living under the authoritative rule of my father, just like HS daze.
Disputes include: No sauteing fish in the house, the smell will DESTROY everything! and Should you be drinking a caffeinated beverage past 5pm?

I'm trying to get my shit together before IOWA. I have to send writing samples to various publications to which I'm applying and I feel a writer's block... I read an enticing three page piece I wrote half drunk half delirious on the plane back home entitled 'Plaid Shirt' about...just that, the evolution of the plaid shirt.
Perhaps I've been listening to too much Lady Gaga??

I watched a movie today called 'Visoneer' set in a semi-Orwellian state in which citizens are warned that 'suffering' from dreams at night leads to explosion (spontaneous combustion). Any time now...
I've been having vague and boring dreams, ones mirroring mundane daily life in a slightly strange way.
Probably explained by my jet-lag induced deep sleeping.

Leisha Halley, will you please be my girlfriennnnd?

I Now Pronounce Thee...

2009-07-24T05:51:00.000-07:00

I dreamt last night that I attended the huge wedding of some kids I barely knew in high school at an Evangelical stadium-like church. The ceremony felt more like a circus than a formal wedding, as hip hop music piped through the speakers and dozens of drunk bridesmaids and groomsmen made their way through the aisles in technicolor tuxedoes, and silver banana suits. I remember thinking to myself, "If I were to ever get married, this is how I'd do it!".

During the customary two hour break between ceremony and reception, I wandered through a torrential thunderstorm with a demonic stalker girl who met me through an internet dating service. She kept saying "You know, I only date models. But you're model-like, sooo model-like."

She then went on to perform a wiccan-devil worship ceremony, which I was irritated by because we were running late for the reception, then I woke up. THIS IS NOT FICTION, PEOPLE (well, I mean... non fictitious in that I really did dream it)

IN OTHER NEWZ: Erotic pictures of Lily Allen posing in fluffy panda suit featured in this month's edition of British magazine, i-D.

(just a picture of me, being model-like)

Grannie Pantiez

2009-07-22T15:40:00.000-07:00

My dreams have been story-like and vaguely sexually infused.

I was wandering through some littered plains searching for a lost star-shaped helium balloon, when I stumbled upon an oasis which just so happened to be the prince of Dubai's holiday mansion(?). I remember this prince offering his hospitality and inviting me to come in for a meal and to and clean myself. I walked in without a second thought.

I proceeded to take a bath... in his casino-like whirpool as he watched me. My breasts had warped into floatation devices and I had a difficult time keeping them below the water's surface. I didn't seem to feel uncomfortable that I was A. bathing in a stranger's jet whirlpool B. being watched by the prince of Dubai himself C. morphed into a partially plasticized human being.

Typical.

The headline of today's London Lite, which is basically a daily gossip infused news roundup distributed outside the tube stations for free after 5pm, was "MAGIC PANTS (British for underpants) SOLD OUT, STORE ORDERS 40,000 EXTRA ANTI-CELLULITE PANTS!!!" My mom went on to excitedly read the article (out loud) which claimed that these coveted dream undies had sold out in seconds and that they were 'worth a try for only 25 pounds!($40)'. Perhaps, if these 'magic pants' are selling out like hot-cakes, it is not women's cellulite that needs melting, but our cultural attitudes towards it. Considering that over 80%(!!) of women have some cellulite, and although air-brushing has led us to expect otherwise-- the 'horrible orange peel effect' is in fact a natural genetic component of the human female.

Don't FreT, have a CoUrgetTe

2009-07-21T13:15:00.000-07:00

Shaving

2009-07-19T16:33:00.000-07:00

So before I head of to the land of nod, I thought I should take the opportunity to document the borderline-bizarro dream I had last night.

I promptly passed out with the lights on, after drunkenly-Facebooking for an hour. From my professional experience, going to sleep intoxicated can result in all sorts of interestingly colourful dreams. Contrarily, these drunken dreams may just sort out to be mundanely confusing.

I repeated the same honey dream as I had for the past two nights in a row, and segued into a scenario in which I became uncomfortably intimate with a stranger who was shaving off my pubic hair. The strangest thing about this was not that some random woman was removing hair from my lady bits, but that I had remembered that I was scheduled for a bikini wax on Monday. And how would I be able to explain this situation to my mother when I had to tell her to cancel the appointment?

I am most fascinated by these moments of personal, mental awareness within our dreams. So called 'pinch me' moments, if you will. I feel that these are moments in dreams that are the most difficult to separate from consciousness. Because if you pinch me in my dreams, I'll cringe and ask 'What the hell was that for?'

Symbolizm

2009-07-18T08:54:00.000-07:00

The only thing I can remember from last night's dream is a scene in which my mother, stepfather, and I were sitting around a table eating breakfast. I have a vivid image of my stepfather slowly dipping pieces of french bread into jars of honey and butter.

I've come to believe that themes and/or objects that continually present themselves in our dreams are symbolic of the subjects which recurrently present themselves in our waking lives.

These are merely things that are 'on our minds', or perhaps things that we are expecting to occur. Many people may take them as sorts of premonitions or warnings of the future. This applies especially to dreams in which, you can only recall such themes and nothing else.

Does anyone know what that swirly stick thing is that is pictured in virtually every drawing/photograph of honey in the universe? Does it drizzle honey more efficiently than say, a spoon? I have never seen one of these things in real life...

The normal version of the song was unavailable due to 'embedding disabled by request'(who's request?), but can be viewed here.

One of those days...

2009-07-17T13:43:00.001-07:00

Narcissist Dreamer

2009-07-17T03:57:00.000-07:00

I was trying to archive any memories of past dreams I'd had in which I was not featured.

Blank.

Am I the only one with this nocturnal narcissist state of mind? Or, is it possibly that even when you yourself aren't featured in the dream, the perception remains your own and therefore is impossible to separate?

CherRy cherry BoOm B00M

2009-07-16T02:53:00.000-07:00

Last night was filled with all sorts of whimsical madness!

In a nutshell...

I found myself in Mexcio, but nowhere in Mexico I had been to before. This Mexico was presumably fabricated from depictions I've seen on television and in popular culture.

Anyways, I was wandering through this poverty-stricken area in search of a new pet. The animals for sale were a scary combination of a cat, pomeranian, jack-weasel, and cyclopse. Some of the creatures were more brilliantly coloured than the others, although they all knawed and bit at both me and each other constantly.

Then some other stuff happened, and we ended up in a suburban area of America.

Apparently I was on a personal mission to survive a jump out of an airplane.

I walked to this airplane stop (think bus stop, but for airplanes) and past a small vintage buttons store everyday, in preparation of this mission, for what must've been weeks. I found solace in the store and more so with the shop employee. The employee looked exactly like some guy who tried to dance inappropriately with me at an afroman concert first semester, and then tried to compensate for his behavior by buying me drinks, which I promptly threw in his face! (not really, but I wish).

When the time finally came for takeoff, I chickened out and ran to the buttons shop in tears.

A lot more happened, but I can't recall details. Only that I was the director for an amateur ballet for which Lady Gaga was the costume designer.

LOLoL

2009-07-15T15:28:00.000-07:00

Do you ever find yourself, suddenly hyper-aware of the hilarity and/or awkwardness of your current situation? You proceed to laugh even harder, realizing how hilarious and embarassing the situation already is, and even harder yet that you are laughing at your laughter of the current situation. Your jubilance becomes uncontrollable and any sense of societal norms fly out the window. People are staring at you, they are shielding their children from you.

It's just you, and your inside joke. With yourself.

I love it when this happens.

Brita h82o

2009-07-15T04:15:00.000-07:00

I had one of those really long dreams last night about nothing in particular. The kind where you wake up covered in drool with no shirt on, feeling exhausted.

I remember that the majority of the dream took place in a sort of fun-land version of the Coralville Super Wal Mart, and that my mother's relentless persistence of trying to get me to buy an eco-friendly eyelash curler was infuriating.

After escaping the store, sans curler, I stumbled upon a group of nondescript old friends who were all smoking cigarettes arou

nd the cart corral. These friends all offered me cigarettes before even introducing themselves. My first instinct in the dream was to light up, but I felt reluctant, remembering that I had quit, and passed.

I have not touched a cigarette in over two weeks, and now I can even manage to stay away from them in my dreams.

I just feel bad that it looks like it's happening in an alley.

The Magical Miracle of...

2009-07-14T03:56:00.001-07:00

The most interesting types of dreams are the ones in which you feel as if you've had some sort of profoundly epiphanic moment, that you've experienced clarity on some torturous dilemma; only to realize just how absolutely nonsensical said revelation is upon waking.

People tell me that I have been known to wake myself (and presumably these people) up by having outrageous laughing fits. These fits occur during the interim between sleep and waking, and are usually the product of the culmination of such realizations.

When these people ask "What's so funny? What's wrong?".

It is impossible to recollect how, even in your dreams, you had managed to make sense of such nonsense. And so you laugh some more.

AspAragus/Perfume.

2009-07-13T14:43:00.000-07:00

Premonitionz

2009-07-12T10:31:00.000-07:00

Obliging to my mother's relentless persistence, I got my palm read at Camden markets this afternoon.

The guy was "featured on TV and radio shows, and everything!" Plus, he had a pretty impressive collection of ethereal cloth tye dye paintings decorating his stall. Needless to say, the guy was LEGIT.

According to the clairvoyant expert, I will: Fall in love/into a 'serious, and lasting relationship' in the 'very near future', live a very long and healthy life, have an extremely successful/double career, and have at least one and maybe two children. Oh yeah, and I won't 'die alone'... But wait, I better watch out for 'problems in the stomach and throat' And I shouldn't smoke. Heavy shit.

Wow. Those are some pretty big predictions! All that from my grimy, underground-pole grasping palm, huh?? And for the bargain price of 10 pounds for 7-8 minutes!

Whoa. This guy must be good.

Liquid Cellulite DeLite

2009-07-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

"What's your earliest memory?" is one of my most loathed conversation starting questions, right up there with "If you could have dinner with any three people...?!". *Shudder*

Memories are as fluid as ____.

Does this proposed 'first memory' differ from a first recalled memory? WHAT ARE THE RULES, PEOPLE?

Ahem... so, I indulged my friends and joined in on the social sharing without conflict like a good girl. I decided that my first memory was of what my mother insists is a dream, although I will maintain that it was a spiritual encounter, a haunting if you will. I had this traumatizing experience when i was four(?) years old, staying at my grandfather's farm in Missouri.

Although searching for this memory elicited earlier ones of the plane ride to MO, etc. This is where the 'true memory' conflict comes in... So you can see how these 'party starting' games can become complicated!

The memory and interpretation of dreams are so arbitrary, I'm unsure if this can even be considered qualifiable memories.

*The question: What kind of (if any) dreams stick with you? How many of your past dreams have made this recurring impact?

Did you know that alcohol

is known to cause cellulite??

Seriously Satirical.

2009-07-10T16:17:00.000-07:00

After a drawn out tube ride wedged between a stuck in the 80's hair metal couple and a pre-pubescent girl with teeth grating B.O., I finally made it to Leicester Square just in time for today's premiering matinee of Bruno.

As an avid Sacha Baron Cohen/Ali G fan, my expectations of the movie were exceedingly high. I had been anticipating the film's release since the day I first heard rumors it was being made!

Although the movie did not live up to my sky high expectations, being half as funny as Bruno's attribution to Da Ali G Show, I was not let down.

I am torn in that, since the movie was so out there (obviously for satirical purposes), it was difficult for the people 'Bruno' confronted in the film to take him seriously.

In short, the movie made me laugh and more subtly; examined homophobia's still- strong reign.

BlueBerRy ZynFendel

2009-07-10T04:08:00.000-07:00

I had one of those strangely fluid dreams one has during the interim between sleep and wakefulness this morning....

I worked at some sort of computer company (geek squad-esque) where we all had to wear hideous ill-fitting blue t-shirts. I worked at this place with my mother, step-father, and some other randomly distant relatives. The whole dream was centered around some sort of melodramatic, action-packed heist/mission that I can't fully recall. Because I was thoroughly distracted by the mysta-crisis, I spent most of my work day wandering through other employees' work stations.

I stumbled upon my step-dad's office and found him was staring at a blank (1980s technologically advanced) computer screen, holding an empty bottle of blueberry(?) wine. He said to me "HAHAHA all I had for lunch today was a bottle of wine!". At this point in the dream I realized to that I had not eaten lunch and congratulated myself on the banking of calories.

Then my cat woke me up.

I fell back asleep within three minutes after kicking him off the bed, and proceeded to have a short dream about being a curator at an Italian art museum that looked suspiciously similar to the Chicago Field museum.

Kinda boring.

*word I think should be integrated into daily discourse: gutted.

Oh hey, does anyone remember 50 cent?? where'd he go?!!

DyKe DrAma

2009-07-09T15:27:00.001-07:00

So, since I've been sick here in London I've been deduced to incessant tea drinking and watching pirated episodes of The L Word in bed.

I'm a bit ashamed to admit how far behind I had become on the LeZ-drama, but I ended up watching the entire final season over the past 48 hours. Intense.

WHAT THE HELL!?!?!?

So, the season was complete BULLSHIT. It made absolute no sense and left me with a feeling of dissatisfaction and disappointment.

Jenny dies. Who kills her? Why? Lots of gross B/T sex. Fin.

But check Kat Moening (Shane) in the dress and heels in the pic! Yowzaaaa

What a happy bunch of hand-holding, femme lesbianz.

T00f Crud.

2009-07-09T02:55:00.000-07:00

I had a pretty solid twelve hour sleep last night, but what I can remember (or think I can remember) from my nocturnal madness is that at one point I had to clean some guy's decayed grey and black meth mouth. I had a giant torturous scraper (which I conveniently kept stored in my pocket) that I used to peel away the discoloration. All of this naturally took place at the Glenview Starbuck's parking lot in the strip mall where I get my pubez waxed...

I held the guy down against a curb separator and had at it, I remember actually asking myself in the dream how it was humanly possibly to have such crusted teeth, and then proceeded to vocally express these feelings to (??) while the guy just lay there like a dead fish.

Then i woke up.

So here's the real question:

Do you brush your teeth before or after breakfast in the morning?? (Your answer may determine the fate of our friendship and definitely any potential relationship)

Word I think should be integrated more into daily discourse: gaggle.

Wtf?

2009-06-30T05:16:00.000-07:00

Making Friendz

2009-06-29T19:46:00.000-07:00

It makes me painstakingly sad that I cannot bring my cat with me everywhere and experience every part of the world with him....

I think about the two of us; hanging out in cafes, sipping espresso, smoking hand-rolled tobacco, and guiltily reading tabloids. I picture us being confused about the public transit system.

I picture this immortal friendship... which obviously makes me think about dog parks.

How long until something like this will finally come to the cat world?!?!?!?

Rollll Models

2009-06-26T06:15:00.000-07:00

The constant reaffirmations women seek from one another have become so mundanely engrained into our very beings... but at what point does this become damaging? When does another person's obsession become your own?

Oh yeah, and Michael Jackson died. RIP.

LdN

2009-06-17T21:29:00.001-07:00

Rich n' Wo0p are takin' it on the road to jolly ole' London, England!

We will be flying out of O'Hare tomorrow night in economy class style.

Of course, we will be partaking in our share of minding gaps, etc. immediately after our arrival.

Belleforte... stage name?

Just for the halibut.

2009-06-10T19:12:00.000-07:00

How much fish is too much fish?

"Chi-Town, Throw those C's up!"

2009-05-31T00:16:00.000-07:00

It's an interesting to gain a different perspective, after attending a sweaty dance concert sober such as I did at the Flosstradamus concert tonight. I managed to dance my ass off, have a great time, and really enjoy the music (great set!), while at the same time was more aware of things I would not be in an inebriated state including: dealing with the overwhelming amount of times hip hop songs coerce you to 'throw your hands up', brace faced- high school boys snapping iphone pics of drunk girls dancing atop sand barrels in temptingly short skirts, apathetically ambitious SAIC students spastically pulsating to the beat while strategically snapping party pics (which I shielded myself from) for their street fashion blogs, and best of all: the array of people's smooth dance moves and grooves! I took all this in with one big, stinky, smoky sweat, and embraced the music.

Good, clean, fun.

'Chi-town, throw those C's up!' (new hand gesture, to be immediately enacted)

Would you rather: spend three hours at an outdoor dance show cramped next to Fat Albert's sweaty, un-deoderized armpit OR spend three hours at a dance show jumping up and down in shoes that irritate your skin and induce gushing blood?

Try both.

Spicy

2009-05-29T15:38:00.001-07:00

I went to Whole Foods today and found the most magnificent tea! It's spicy and delicious, in the way that it pierces your nose when you inhale it. 'Lovely' Is the way my newly British mother would describe it.

I just really cannot understand the consuming, obsessive infatuation people can develop for another person. Im all for love, but the fine line between love and oblivion is wavering. Perhaps I'm just too cynical? Although, I consider myself to be more of a realist.

Handsome Furs + Flosstradamus tomorrow.

Gross

2009-05-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

My mother who is currently residing in London, UK, calls me for one of two reasons: to share a funny story with me about my cats, or to give me demanding permission to purchase some sort of must-have item such as the 'fit flop'. These miracle shoes have the power to reduce cellulite and tone legs while walking, and they come in fashionable styles like the gold sequined ones pictured! INCREDIBLE! All for the low price of $59.99! But come on, the thought is a tad bit alluring, isn't it?

Keeping with the topic of the grotesque; radical swine flu pandemic is going nowhere fast. Seriously, everyone knows that this illness is the biggest joke since the crest toothpaste scare, but after going on the tilt-a-whirl at the Evanston church carnival today, and watching countless sweaty Bally Total Fitness patrons hop aboard uncleaned eliptical trainers with no looking back, I must say that I am fearful. Not to mention, how embarrassing would it be to die from such a thing? Furthermore, how difficult would it be to take the funeral seriously?!

Lastly, I was driving back home on a windy 40 mph road through a torrential rainstorm when I passed by a dead raccoon that I had seen earlier in the day, its parts now splayed and swimming in the puddles. Cringe.

To All the Birds in the Chimneys

2009-05-27T20:33:00.001-07:00

Obsession.

Fleeting/ubiquitous/suffocating/comforting.

I'm looking into purchasing a synth so I can drop sick beatz over my rhymes.

WOULD YOU RATHER: Take a hot bath bubble bath crawling with silverfish OR eat raw greasy bear meat?

Panic Switch

2009-05-27T08:35:00.000-07:00

We look to the internet, the coveted infinite beacon of information, to answer just about any question we mgiht have. From 'Does the five day lemonade fast really work?' to vague wiki-excerpts about art and war that provide one with the minimal amount of information needed to hold a believeable conversation about a topic they know nothing about. 'Did you know, that (insert obscure intellectual fact here)'?

In addition to this absurdity, the internet is a documeted threshold of unwanted memories. Be sure not to get too drunk at that (insert famous DJ's name here) party, the evidence is sure to be widespread in the form of party pics and facebook posts by morning!

If you spend too much time staring at the fluorescent 13" screen, and your head starts spinning from too much nonsensical research, you might be experiencing an unconscious existential crisis.

Essentially, the internet scares the shit out of me.

Welcome to my blog!