she says im boring the camera

I don't like the verb "booked" used to refer to securing an airline ticket. It makes me feel odd.

I went to Spain. I went to Minnesota. I went to Brooklyn. I stayed in Brooklyn. I am now sitting in my new room in Brooklyn. I still don't know what to "do" in life, but I realize you need to find satisfaction in small things and just pay the rent. Hugs, hot cocoa, buying gingerbread men, swiffering, and smiling at friends belong in this "satisfaction" category. I'm trying to be friendly and show appreciation for people I once overlooked. So many people touch your life and go unnoticed. Cheers to you. Clink.

I like pleasure spiked with pain and music is my aeroplane.

Terri and I had a crush on Anthony Kiedis (long haired) as small girls.

Am I a 20-?-yr-old cliche for being unemployed and alone and listening to The Smiths late at night? Whatever. Probably.

Reality Smells Like

My sister & I rented a gorgeous apartment today that a gorgeous man lived in who liked kayaking and fire pits and other fun stuff. We each would have had our own room. The rent was very cheap for the island. Then we realized we really couldn't even afford that and still save for fall rent.

So we have to tell him we can't take it tomorrow. I want to throw up I feel so bad.

Fun Level of Making the Right Adult Decision: -5

I feel completely like a baby trailing its diaper behind it going ga-ga on the floor for my new camera. I'm that stupid and I'm that eager.

hmm

I feel like dolphins are bad ass muthafuckers. Just look at them. It just occurred to me how much star power they have.

whatwouldIwant?Sky

Will this work??

-Katie asking whether this new font works on her new computer as compared to the old, but it applies to all life right now. Or, anybody right now.

I am majoring in sad dork lately now that I'm done with the English.

Factoid

Slut is an anagram for lust.

Conclusion:

You can call a girl a slut, but you are really just lustin'. Oh shoot.

something i learned recently

"This he understood: that association renders men stronger and brings out each person's best gifts, and gives a joy which is rarely to be had by keeping to oneself, the joy of realizing how many honest decent capable people there are for whom it is worth giving one's best (while living just for oneself very often the opposite happens, of seeing people's other side, the side which makes one keep one's hand always on the hilt of one's sword)."

- Italo Calvino

Inspiration

So glad I have teachers looking up the pH level of sperm on their own time, inspired by my work.

growing up means never having to say hello in person

A man whom I've never met but apparently saw me at a bar on the island last week told his cop friend (who knows my mom and my mom's friend who I was with, also it was March on island and thus the bar scene was scarce and unexciting) that he thought I was cute. I only met the cop friend briefly at said bar (sorry for the he said/she said recount), and didn't say much. But his FRIEND apparently saw me. He's 25. So of course the adult thing to do is tell your cop friend who then texts my mom who texts me and asks, "Can he facebook you?" I respond to my mom, "Well, we're all adults here".

What I say in my head: Yeah, oh yeah definitely, tell this guy who I didn't ever speak to in my life that is three years older than me that asked to FACEBOOK me through his friend who then texted my mom, that he can in fact have permission to look at an online profile of me which he could only simply access if he knew my full name.

*Breathe out*

Maturity

I am 22 and I still use acne cream. And it DOESN'T work.

Or whatever

Right now I'm on a Peter Pan bus. I'm realizing this is the last time I'll ever be riding from MV to Amherst. I don't know if this is good or not. It's just big. Or not that big.

On a completely unrelated note, I figured out an Of Montreal lyric. They're pretty esoteric, but I think I got it. "We don't want these days to ever end. We just want to emasculate them forever."

Emasculate days??? What, Kevin Barnes? But it's very carpe diem. "Grab life by the balls, grab today by the balls, emasculate your day".

Wow... my bus driver sucks. Totally drove up a curve and almost crashed at a rotary.

I want to disturb my neighbor

My mom made me artichokes, salad, and mac n cheese and carrot cake tonight. I am stomach-poppin filled. But it all tasted so good. I got a little necklace with the world on it because when she asked what I wanted I said, "Uhhm world peace and to graduate".

Tomorrow I have studio time in a dark room. Twill be amazing. Hopefully.

Feelin' a little down. But I'm just fine. I suppose.

EN

Sharon made a prophesy that I will one day marry Edward Norton. That's absolutely acceptable.

I want someone that makes me want to shoop. Thanks.

Highlights of last night

Boy I was talking to that lives near me: Are you a hippie?
Me: No... what?
Boy: Cus you look like a hippie. I saw you and I thought, "Woah, hippie chick".
Me: Uhhh no. I mean I'm nice and have long hair...?
Boy: I thought you were a hippie.

*I walk into a room filled with 10 straight males rocking out to Lady Gaga at the end of a party*
Me: Woooooaaahhh

Some guy: So when did your parents separate
Me: Uhm before I was born
Some guy: Oh really how old were they?
Me: 24
Some guy: Oh man my mom was 17 when she had me,
Me: teen moms!
Some guy: Do you and your mom get along really well?

*Dancing with a guy in a friendly way*
Me: you have a girlfriend! I saw pictures!
Guy: Yeah i do.
Me: Awww.
Guy: It's her birthday in 2 minutes
Me: Call her call her call her
Guy: ehh I texted her
Me: Lame! You have to call her and be like... "Baby I love you so much!"
Guy: Uhh I've never told her that
Me: But you feel it. I know you do
Guy: Wow, you're surprisingly romantic.

Back story: Six months ago I drunkenly opened my apartment door thinking someone had knocked on it. No one had. I still invited the dude in the hallway in, though he hadn't knocked. I gave him a tour of my apartment. My roommates were not thrilled. Then I kicked him out abruptly because I was bored. He called me a bitch. I never remembered who it was remotely and never saw him again.

That guy: Oh gosh! It's you!
Me: Oh man!! I gave you a drunk tour!! Then you called me a bitch
*we high five*
That guy: I could never remember who it was
Me: Me neither!! You called me a bitch
That guy: I probably meant it in the fun way. Like, "Bye bitttccchees"
Me: Nope. Nope you did not.

Me about every 30 minutes: Kristie come! I have to pee! I only want to pee outside. Let's go behind the barn!


There were low lights too, but lets keep them off here. After five hours of sleep I woke up because I can't sleep anymore. I am exhausted and have an extreme headache. It's supposed to be wonderful out today. And so it goes...

oneoneone

I have realized that I either have good eyebrow days or bad ones. Like hair days (I got bad/good ones of those too). My eyebrows are such a length and unplucked, so that if I sleep on them wrong or if they're just feeling whimsy, they will go completely wacky. I just lotioned my most treacherous eyebrow. To keep it into place. New, odd, low?


My working definition of cliche: that which will knowably pull your heart strings


I am reading On The Road for the first time, after avoiding it for no particular reason my whole life. And I HATE HATE HATE it. I never usually feel strongly in a negative way towards books. But man, it is so bad and what makes it worse is that it is revered.

honorary degree

I want to nominate Chris Meloni to get an honorary degree from my college this year. Any ideas for the essay?

What Kristie and I did do last night

Ate chinese food, got drunk, called friends and got no responses, laid on the floor laughing (me), watched America's Best Dance Crew, proceeded to take a long drunk shower, Felt dizzy and ill and ran to my bed. Where I slept still in my towel and wet hair from the shower. Since I have no shame, I'll say I'm on my period and didn't recognize that as a drunk citizen. Also my hair somehow formed an unnatural poof akin to a bumpit on the right side. Had to take another shower this morning.

Homework done for my afternoon class: None.

Dream I had last night:

I found a hidden staircase next to my bed room entrance that led to a loft I'd never noticed. Upstairs there was a circle of four couches, and just like a really nice space for hanging out (we don't have much of that in our apartment). Then I realized out of the loft there was a roller coaster-like track that had a cart you could sit in that was a direct line to the Mr. Chicken on route 9. The cart would leave at random times with no warning. I accidentally got in the cart and went but didn't order anything. It was next to the space station restaurant. At the Space Station restaurant (chicken nuggets, rainbow room) Sharon and maybe Carly were there. They said they they wanted to do something. I said we should have a get together in the upstairs of my apartment. Sharon said, "Yeah I have to plan it, it's my birthday, who should I invite?". We decided just the girls and Mark (Stef's boyfriend). I was up in the loft. Girls filtered in. Then all of a sudden crazy people like from high school/college and/or my relatives were coming. An old man that I swear was in the Escape to Witch Mountain movie said he was my old teacher. My dad was there. My paternal grandfather was there. I pulled Mike G. aside and said "I know this isn't real and I'm making it up because my grandfather died in 8th grade" then I hysterically cried because I felt overwhelmed by that. I ran into a sun room (unexplained). I met a woman with huge eyes and claws for hands. She was the human version of the animal she trained. I forget what animal, but it kind of looked like a mini sloth or slow lorris. It went at about 100mph and ran over things fast.. like around your body but you couldn't even feel him. He was super cute. Hung out with him for a while, then kind of got freaked out. I felt like I had to leave. I checked my money on my dresser and it wasn't American/ and or/ was counterfeit. I had a 26 dollar bill. I was really mad at the convenience store guy for giving me back bad change. I went outside. A bunch of guys I had never seen in my life were hanging out. I decided to get drunk with them. I had brought out my rum. Then Katie W. came out and drank some. Then the guys yelled at me saying I had finished my rum and now was drinking theirs. A guy (who was kind of attractive but I wasn't attracted to) got up in my face and told me "We could either go to my bed right now and fuck and you don't have to worry about the rum or you have to pay. I said, "I have to go to the ATM. All I have is this 26 dollar bill". I figured if we got drunk we'd have sex anyway. So I started to walk down the street, rum in hand, off to my nearest ATM. Then I woke up....

What Kristie and I could do tonight

a. sit at home watch a movie, bye bye sleep.
b. sit at home, stare, talk
c. sit at home do homework, don't hang out with each other
d. go out to eat
e. go out to a bar and drink and look at one another
f. invite people (Carly)and do d. e.
g. Diva's
h. go to the movies
i. flick a bic til we're stuck to the couch
j. sit at home and yoga
k. sit at home and dance though I've been doing this for 3 hours alone
l. sit at home and get drunk, do a., b., k.
m. get drunk outside
n. play apples to apples by ourselves
o. oranges!
p. penises!
q. quilts!
r. reggae music!
s. Sex!
t. Terri!
u. Umbrellas!
v. Voodoo!
w. Witches!
x. Xylophones!
y. Yummy!
z. Zebras!
aa. ritual suicide
bb. disemboweling
cc.

The Secret Acts of Females in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication

Here, for any who dares read, is the beginning of a mock-Victorian-etiquette-manual-esque piece I wrote maybe a year back. I just found it on my hard drive and gave a little giggle. Thought I'd be not-so-shy and share it.

The goal of the personal exercise: To write a beautiful story of diarrhea.

It's unfinished. Sorry for spelling errors, I oddly couldn't update the document.

The Secret Acts of Female in their Rightful and Lonesome (Loathsome) Domestication



The very inscription on my breast pocket alerts me to the fact that I am a lady, and being part of the female sex I must address myself as such first and foremost: owner of galloping mammaries, arbiter of branching hips, tradeswoman of the fearsome triangular dynasty, keeper of the womb.

I must also recognize myself as others do call me by: my dulcet, infantile girl name, the very presupposing and wildly insinuating, Lilly. My dear mother wrangled that one no doubt from the vestiges of Mother Nature herself, hoping in time I would one day prove myself to be as precociously layered and recondite as that bespeckled musty flower. You see, the intricacies of woman lay not only in her form.

A lady is always presumed to look her best. Slinky, form-embracing garbs are a must as well as some proper skin adornments. That is why you could see my figure wrapped in the same such apparel on any given Saturday night—and on this given Saturday night, to be sure. Howard Blake had informed me of his get-together (shin-digs too colloquial and parties too pedestrian) last week and knowing that this night could afford the appearances of many captivating women and some selectively entertaining men, I gave a brief and husky, “Why not?”, propping the phone back in its cradle and sighing towards the barren walls. Felicity was simply exasperated, buttocks barely seated on her chair, when I told her of our impending engagement. I see how my credibility might be shoved off completely by the latter sentence, and I will be the first to admit the atrocious, reprehensible properties of a name like Felicity and all those who would associate with some such names. However, if I may be given warranted reprieve from disapproval for the etymological atrocities of my neighbors, the narrative can continue on in a felicitous manner, as it were. I kept Felicity as a close by acquaintance, dare I say friend, because indeed her amicable countenance was one rarely seen in the dismal, dreary setting of Portsmith. Portsmith, its burgeoning mouth agape to the whimsy transits of commercial vessels, was a wasteland culturally and had barely the muffled heartbeat of social attractions. After surviving the first twenty-two years of my life in such a stifling flutter of a sea port, I found it only suitable to stretch out the rest of my existence in the toil that makes for the poetic lyrics in the shockingly popular shanties of the day. These ladies here, they have no combs, they comb their hair, with cod fish bones. These and other similar lyrics are well suited to the general disposition of the commonfolk here. No, you won’t see Felicity brushing through her auburn locks with the calcified skeleton of deceased marine life, but the women that huddle in their shops selling their respectable goods might certainly find themselves stroking through their stringy, briny hair with the spine of a fish after being so damaged by the hood of stale, brackish air that swarmed the crust of Portsmith.

“Do you think Kenneth Sullivan will be there?” Felicity whined on our way to the door, reconfiguring the gaudy bow on the front of her red blouse.

Kenneth Sullivan and men like him were of the contrary, dullard species that I categorically ignored with an upturned, snubbed nose. He wore the type of tight, squarish trousers that undoubtedly slinked up his backside and left nothing of mystery to the dynamics of his unchiseled, flat behind. His gums receded from his teeth like unobligingly led horses, encapusled in mote-like spit that I imagined had the bacterial fecundity of toilet water. Felicity doted upon such gentlemen.

“He must be. This looks to be his type of gathering,” I suggested.

I rang the doorbell ceremoniously, with a brief hesitation as I entered through the doorjamb. A sudden and achingly swift bolt of pain breached my intestines and I had to graze myself a few courteous seconds before I was to engage in the active duty of dialogue. Something stirred among the depths of my stomach, and having had a modest breakfast and lunch, I wondered at my gustatory disruptions. I carried myself in still, gliding not walking, as most women do in their desired effort to become attractive to the opposing sex. My breasts firmly sheltered in the tightening dress and my protruding and perturbing stomach encased by the skirt, I melted over towards the host to give him his regards and wavered over like the dolloping smoke of a cigarette to a group of unassuming guests.

Harold Glaser, Marianne Shields, Cynthia Trasout, Mark Adams. The faces blurred into a pastel mixture and only the names remained doubled up and lingered over in my memory like overfolded vocabulary lists that an overachieving school girl minds over in the penultimate days before the exam. Cristoff Demarconi, Jane Regan, Randall Furbush. Name plates and gravestones marking people and yet their identities will remain shrouded to my encumbered mind as their tenuous illustrations in my head were spilt away like rained on chalk drawings. Surely there were leather shoes, someone was wearing a sweater, someone a tailored suit, of course pearls, and there might have even been a Trixie that my memory is specifically choosing to omit, but in these situations all there really can remain of such personalities are their monikers. Their figures distort in inkish blots inside my inabsorbant cerebellum, leaving much to be desired, and please forgive me. But had my mind—and oh dear stomach—been in standard functionary condition, I might have addressed to you three swollen paragraphs pregnant with description of bowties and canine toothed camaraderies, but for now this is all I can offer.

Felicity grabbed my black garment from the hip and bent her lips towards my earlobe.
“Kenneth just asked me about Peru. About going to Peru. His company has a branch there. Hmmmmph,” she chortled in a hum of presumptive bliss.

“Well, well. The lower Western hemisphere awaits, the loins of America lay eagerly for you,” I muttered.

Felicity scowled at my jocular pandering, wishing one day that my aspirations would match the tennis-side vodkas that hers leaped towards.

In an instant the doom that slept in the nethers of my belly awakened like a vengeful sea creature. I slid away from Felicity, hoping she would not note the wave of anxiety pelting my forced grin. In the flash of a learned sprinter I traversed the entire room. The Cynthias, the Harolds, and the Randalls whirred in a ferris wheel fashion against the brazen trek to the lady’s room. One should always excuse themselves and pardon yourself by saying you are going to powder your cheeks when retiring to the restroom. But there are times, there are other times when stealth is paramount to the female motional habit.



I locked the door with a deft click and tore my stockings down with the terror of building water against a weakened levee. As one sits upon the toilet, one must be sure to paper the seat to maintain a hygienic bottom. Next, one crosses her legs and is careful to muffle the sound of nature’s calling. A vigorous wash of the hands is urgent upon returning to the given social event. One should linger at the mirror, studying one’s frame, and be sure to have reapplied lipstick in hand when vacating the room. Primping always conceals other tasks the body unforgivingly minds. I sat upon the toilet and felt an urgency so vivid, my legs remained as disparate as the continents on a globe. I sat in trepidation, unclogging my bowels as if I were a mightily established spectroscope probing the innards of the goat subject in question. Yellowish waves of boiled impotence ring out like truths swept from my anus to the ground, the same gurgling breath as warmish tiger lilies bring come spring, only not so sweet, and fragrant, yes, but not in the pleasant manner but dedicated to the scent of repugnance, the sun bakes down along the nape of the neck in such the same manner of the heat that sounds against a distempered stomach, and like the cooing rush of temperature across the genitals moments and instants before the surge to the snowy capped peak of glorious orgasm—then comes too the current of fire from the grumbling belly. Acidic liquid that curls up and undulates until quaking in a tumultuous stream of disastrous stench, and sucks back in when the owner of such fecal tribulations fails to meet the necessitated toilet. I rest on the toilet, warming it with my twenty-minute hiatus. My bowels become generous philanthropists to the moral cause of the toilet, expunging altruistic plops into the awaiting tithing basket.


(to be continued... dun dun dun)

Baffled

I woke up feeling like this at 8:30 this morning (Oh, great and my first class is not until 2:30):



I was in the bathroom hand-washing my underwear from the night and wincing in horrific, viking-ic pain when I came back to my room to discover a text from none other than the *previously discussed here* Deli Sam.

It reads: "Good Morning my love".

Everything about this is laughable including the 15 minutes he has spent in total in my presence. And my bloody underwear. If only he knew me and not some weird, hazy, cardboard fantasy of who his acne'd-grease-cookie-buyer-sister-of-his-regular-customer is. His love, indeed.

HPV day

I made this card for my sister for Valentine's Day.

Mhmmm.

I love love

Moralism: a Didactic Post



Unlike those Valentines-Antagonizers, I for one have no problem with love. I know, I know, singles feel "bad" about themselves. Or, supposedly they do. But honestly, if you feel ~uncomfortable~ with a day because you are single, then you just must not be secure with who you are as a person. I love myself single and have absolutely no problem with my singlehood. I almost irritate myself more when I'm in a relationship. So, I just want to propose the idea NOT to hate on a holiday that celebrates love. Who doesn't love love? I mean, who doesn't like feeling loved? Be honest. Nobody. Nobody is like, "Yeah I hate how the person that I love also loves me". It seems Love-Hatin' is almost as cliched as Love-Celebratin'. And I'm not talking solely about romantic-sex-love here. I am spending today with some lovely friends of mine, all of whom I love. Why? Because I love love. And if you're reading this, I probably love you too.

"With our love, we could save the world, if they only knew"

Next: Why is it we can say we did something shameful we did 15 years ago... or preface stories, "no but I was in 2nd grade!". I really wish we could own what we did yesterday. If we owned what we did yesterday, there would be a lot more takin responsibility for ourselves as a whole. It seems we like to run away from who we are NOW or what we just did, but we are willing to accept the freaky, embarrassing, mistake-ridden self of the past. Step up: be yourself, own yourself and go fucking love somebody (not just yourself and including yourself!).

Just an Old Fashioned Love Song

I went with my roommate to her lab (where she makes test tube babies that glow in the dark!) and I saw the rats that she works with. As I was helping her weigh them and writing down things in a notebook, I spied one of the male rats doing something curious. There's no better way to say this then to just come out right and say it. The rat was auto-fellating himself. A little nubbin like a dog's pink lipstick stuck out of the rat tummy as he slurped on it. Two other rats joined it.

My roommate was unphased and said she once saw the inside of a female rat's vagina while giving birth. Just your average day.

A rat. Sucking his own dick. Two other male rats sucking him after. GAY GAY GAY RAT ORGY EROTICA. I'VE NEVER SEEN PORN.

Phenom-ma-man

Curious trend: So, I've been to Brooklyn three times in my entire life on visits to my sister. On these three visits I have been to her nearby deli three times in my entire life. I have spent about five minutes each time in said deli. AND YET, and yet the worker there who is Americanly called Sam is completely obsessed with me. What did I do to cause this? Answer: absolutely nothing except show up in glasses and grease string hair at 1am to buy fatty foodstuffs like ice cream and cookies on three occasions over the span of two years. I wasn't even very friendly! He asked for my email address on the second trip and I gave it to him with Terri's assurance that he probably didn't know how to plug in a computer. That proved absolutely and completely true. On my third and most recent trip, I with cell phone in hand, was asked for my number. No backing down. I had the goddamn thing on me. He told me to let him call it so we could see if it worked. Since then I have received oh maybe 7 texts from him. Wishing happy holidays, asking for my email (again?? why?? what would you say?? We now sell Annie's mac n cheese and there's a 2 for 1 sale on pastrami this week??) All of these texts are in barely-there English, with just enough resemblance to English words for me to make out their meaning. I have never answered, and yet they come.

Two nights ago was a gem of unbelievable proportions: Hi hwo ar yuo i muceo

I understand this resembles a drunk text, and you're all like oh Katie that's just a drunk text. But I know beyond a reasonable doubt that he is standing in the deli and texting me. He's ALWAYS there. I THINK and by THINK mean GUESS WITH A TINY SHRED OF CERTAINTY that it says "Hi how are you? I miss you". But one may never know.


On another note, I wish I smelled differently today because it isn't.....good.

Ramma blah blah booppity boo bam shwa boopity ba

I've heard tons of funny little wittcisms over the past few days through reading a lot that I've wanted to collect, but alas, I forget them all! I get kind of annoyed at people that spout quotes instead of actually engaging in their own personal dialogue, but for some reason my meek fiction writing teacher's constant deluge of quotations about the craft of writing seems like an adorable quirk. It might get old in two sessions. I have two poems and a story due this week. Ready, Set, Creativity!

In an insanely late commemoration of the past year (I do not apologize) I will list my favorite people of 2009 and why they were good to me and my soul, and all that easter egg hopping de bopping Tappen Zee bridge jibber jabber that makes for good valentine filling:

Soulja Boy Tell 'Em:
He encapsulates three things I absolutely adore in a living human: 1. Talent and success at a fascinatingly young age. 2. dance skills and showy dance tactics 3. Self aggrandizement in non offensive doses. No wait, four things. 4. Self reflection in his art.



Anna 'Gaptooth' Paquin:
She gets a shout-out because I managed to actually become intellectually engaged with the series True Blood despite not having glitter miniskirts and manga hanging off me, and she is the hottystar. Also, she finally managed to appear to be a hottystar and not an ugly puggypiggy, in my eyes.



George Clooney:
Looks like a raccoon, voice slinks down the throat faster than a Rolls Royce. For the first time in my life I found him attractive {Up in the Air shout-out!]. Neither my period, nor sexual activity, nor my breasts, nor turning 21 ever made me feel as much like a part of the female collective as this realization does.




Neil J:
Nothing makes you feel cuddlier and more like a cast member of Boy Meets World than having your oldest and best friend follow you to college. It gets sadder in the later seasons when he goes abroad and you graduate, though.




Deborah C:
Professor of mine that I had for three semesters. Harvard graduate, personal hero, and astounding public speaker and woman. She is an inspiration for the type of moral fiber I'd like running through my bones. And, she happens to like me as a student. It's great and delicious to know our fascination is somewhat mutual. I kind of want to write her a letter of thanks.



Kristie F:
I really squeezed the juice out of this little fruit this last year, got to lap her up, and see her beautiful insides. And she is now one of my closest how-you-say bosom buddies.



Andy Samberg:
Marry me, oh Jewish humor-song prophet. Drop the whiney fiddlestick elf-cute harpy. Plllleeeeassseeeeee.



Terri:
Obvz.





Michael Showalter&David Wain:
Fuck you Michael Ian Black, you have garnered too much public attention. The real true sweet ass candies behind dorkhot comedy and testicle screwball humor are your better two thirds. I still like you, though. A lot. I saw Michael Showalter live in his beloved Brooklyn and I swear I almost grabbed his h1N1 tissue just to be close to his bacteria.



Portia De Rossi:
HOT. HOT. HOT. HOT. Easily the best character on Arrested Development. It is so hard to choose, though! Your lesbian love with the ever-lovable Ellen is the most sincere lukewarm thing I've ever seen. I would weep over your photos, except I totally don't really care. I just think you are hot and funny and those are the two most important qualities in any human being.




Kevin Barnes:
Thank you for the blue glitter makeup. Thank you for the innovative techno-depresso cyprus lyrics. Thank you for the near-non-male-ness.


Tracie Egan:
I don't approve of no coke snifflin', but your blogs have rejuvenated my vagina more than revirginization surgery.



Holly B:
Didn't know antisocial behavior and quirky children's lit innovation could be wrapped up in one delightful being of a boss. I enjoyed every day with you. I even endured your cats, and that's saying a lot. I'll miss Collin Harrison's letters.



Stefani Gambiattlisoso (Or Something?):
Oh, Lady, I love your way. Your hooks, your planetary orbits of wardrobe, you are a rat-toothed fineness of a woman.



Sarah J:
Honorable Mention. I've kinda known you for a while. But you still read my blog. omgomgomg Blog about me! LOl.




Law & Order SVU:
In the NBC network system, late night television hosts are considered especially heinous. The dedicated actors and writers who portray improbable felonies are members of an elite cast known as the Special Victims Unit. This is their fan base. Clunk clunk.

Dot-Com Strangelove: Or How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love the Blog

I'm going to start a new segment called Irrelevant Things in Popculture That I Love:

Let's start off with my woman, Sheryl Crow. Her songs are just about as enjoyable as licking Baby-dipped dumpster turkey off a homeless man's ass, and she hasn't been relevant since like 2003 when she did that song with Kid Rock. She rarely wears bras, but sure knows how to get a song stuck in your head. She is important to me because she is such a dirty lady. A recap of her top hits will surely remind you:


1. If It Makes You Horny
2. All I Wanna Do (is Fuck)
3. Soak up the Cum
4. Every Day is a Winding Chode
5. The First Cunt is the Deepest

Next Up-- I propose a quandary-- is Lil Wayne's "Every Girl" misogynist or does it celebrate women? I'm having trouble with lyrics like...."If she let me in, Imma own that pussy" and then Drake's "I will fuck wit all ya'll, all ya'll are beautiful". All women are beautiful and they are fuckable, but I can't be faithful because they're unbelievably tempting and when we do fuck I will chop you like red meat. It sounds respectable. Drake got mad street cred for this song. I still can't get over lil Wheelchair Jimmy singing about "pussy pussy pussy", but he DID date Hazel...




Her.



Meanwhile, the song, "Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It" hits upon important gender disparities in sexual relationships. Yes, she can have sex with you "lean wit it, rock wit it" as they so cutely call it. BUT HOWEVER THERE IS AN EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCE. "You gotta suck a cock wit it". Fellatio is of prime importance in men's sex lives, whereas girls, they could dance either on the floor or on your cock, and they'd be fine either way.

I think the Teletubbies have contributed vastly to this discussion of roles of masculinity and femininity within the realm of oral sex with their breakthrough music video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbD2gXtNX94

What your transcript is REALLY saying about you

So last semester I flopped apparently on signing up for all P/F classes and only took one P/F. Which, I guess was fine. However I have the most perplexing grades. It says. PAAY Pay. Pay. Pay your tuition. Pay for this school. You will pay for attending college with no career path.

Or...

PYAA .... Pretty Young Awesome Adult....

Texts for me

I am composing a "Best Texts of 2009" list to commemorate the year. Granted I only have a thousand over the past few months to select from, here they are:

Greg: Aidan is wired

Chris (last name withheld for his own privacy HA!): Well if you. get this andm wanna make out, fuck, or whatever else either now or between 11 am and 1pm let me know cvz you mad hojt and mad fuckable baby haha
* note: typos on purpose

Neil: Six years. Greg dunn to your terry

Neil: At some point people settle but some find the volcano. Apparently i have the best hair ever

Terri Lee: American Apparel comment

Justin T: You are a sensitive girl and im a dumb boy who thinks with his libido
* note: ass

Terri Lee: All butt damage, but one barf last night. ?don't you have some soup??

Neil: Cryed during Jals eulogy but never completely warmed up to her. I will not get a black girl pregnant for that reason. How was film class tonite?

Sarah: Bring geeg to me cesare

Terri Leee: How you feelin'? Irie?

Mike: I am in a super boring class, wwhdtd?

Greg: I love your girth

Neil: Facebook sidebar smart ads :" meet single moms". Does the internet know more about what I want than I do? Unlikely.

Kristie: Then I want to smoke you

Sarah: When will you return to the casa mi amiga mujer (that means best right?)

Carter: Wuv u too see u Sion

Kristie: I am. Also, latte is alive and well.

Mike: P.S. Do you think she goes by ms. gaga?

Mike: this is really gossip girl not mike

Neil: True Blood fruit bowl at dc

Any text from Deli Sam. And many many more.

Terri Lee: huh? noo? I put up the 66 shields.

Arrested Fashion Development

Uncle Oscar and I officially have the same sweater. I'm pretty happy about it.


Yep.