m.i.a.

*My thoughts are racing and I'm using this as a pressure valve. So chances are it won't make any sense and is just a bunch of mental vomit*

Almost everybody I know is out of town or going out of town this weekend. My sister is going out of town to visit grandparents and enjoy a practically free mini-vacation in Vegas. My friend Jen and several other people are at Burning Man near Reno...so basically Nevada is the place to be and everybody I want to be with is there, so a big middle finger to Nevada. I'm really curious about this Burning Man thing. The whole point is to escape the hustle of our "real" lives. I'm fairly certain cell phones don't work, I'm sure there isn't much call for television viewing, I seriously doubt that there's wi-fi or that The New York Times delivers...so do the attendees know what's going on out here? Do they know about the devastation from the hurricane? Are people finding out what's happening?
When I was in basic training, we weren't allowed to read newspapers, watch television, or listen to the radio. The outside world ceased to exist and the world that did exist was something designed to constantly keep us off balance. We didn't know anything unless they (the drill sergeants, the Army, the government) decided that we needed to know something, unless you were lucky enough to have people writing you letters regularly. One day during one of our classes, a drill sergeant came in and told us Iraq attacked us again (this was in 1994) and we were going to war. Then he showed us a body bag and said that at least some of us would end up in it. I remember not being afraid, no questions to ask, just resigned to my fate because at that point there was nothing I could do to change anything. When they told us they were lying, I was astounded. I actually thought that if I were willing to relinquish control of myself over to them, they wouldn't deceive me. And yeah, to this day, I am still THAT naive. Now that lie is somebody else's truth and I'm sitting here wondering if it's better to know nothing than to know too much. Knowing nothing makes life easier to accept.

conjoined

I heard it could happen. But honestly I thought it was just some unsubstantiated rumor designed to make cool kids feel even cooler. Then it happened. My iPod and I have emotionally synced. Even though there are nine hundred songs, most of them dance and other fluffy fare...lately the shuffle has been choosing just the right emotive wailing to provide the soundtrack for my self-loathing. I have almost achieved iPod jedi status.

funny guy

On the news yesterday morning, a newsreporter said to another reporter:"I can hear people walking behind while you're being blown."
HAHAHAHAHAHA! I've had a good laugh about that for two days straight.

roller disco

What could possibly pull a person out of an emotional slump? Why ROLLER DISCO OF COURSE! And when I do a thing, I do it right. Check out the socks and the old school quad-skates...no inlines for this girl. If I wasn't afraid of skinning my legs from ankle to hip (and if I had the appropriate legs and ass), I totally would have sported the super-shiny short shorts with contrasting ribboning.

I've decided that roller-disco is my new metaphor for life:
You get back on that rink after being off of it for a bit. At first you're shaky and can barely keep your balance. You're worried about falling and even more worried about somebody witnessing the massive meeting between hardwood floor and ass. You hang on to the walls and the seats that encircle the rink and feel way too insecure to just let go and roll. But eventually, your confidence increases and before you know it you're rushing out to join the fast skate and your friends and family are cheering you on (and probably being sincere about half the time). Somewhere in this metaphor there's a part for sweat dripping down the crack of your ass and trying to do the chicken-dance on skates...but I haven't gotten that worked out yet.

hustle and flow

I could say that Fate is a cruel mistress but that doesn't quite cover it. Fate is a six foot, raven-haired dominatrix. One who wears six inch spiked heels and then steps on your testicles...and she is terribly ironic.I feel a little strange today. One day so consumed with wasted hope, pain so palpable that I could feel it picking at me like a buzzard and the next day, empty.Empty is so still, if I didn't know any better I could confuse it with calm. Except the empty will eventually become stagnant and have the putrid smell of dry ponds.Most people are a lot more comfortable with the empty, whether within themselves or in others. I'm not, underneath it all, I want volatility and drama, I'm an addict jonesing for my next fix.And with Fate being who she is, I know there's more to be had soon...Fate is my pimp and my dealer and I'm in deep.

old man river

Yesterday at the gym a man old enough to be my grandfather flirted with me. I guess he was impressed by the amount of weight I could squat...or at least that was his approach point.

"Wow, that's a lot of weight."
"Yes it is, I've been working up to it for a while."
"Wow, I can't believe it."
"Well, I'm a big girl."
"No, you're a STRONG girl."
-Smile-
"So what's that picture tattoo on your leg?"
"It's a fan, a Korean fan...I'm half Korean."
"Oh yeah? Anyohasayo?"
-leer-
It's good to know that for the rest of my freakin' life, I'll have to listen to the same tired ass lines. There's always some comfort to be had with familiarity I suppose.

keep hope alive

Generally, I consider myself a person who stays on top of things...but lately, I've regressed into somebody else entirely. What kind of complete lack of any discernible intelligence or rationale allows a person to want something that they will NEVER have? And it's not as if I don't know that I won't and can't have this thing, because I do know that. I know it more than I know how I take my coffee or which way I like to part my hair. Yet, I cling desperately and stubbornly to the hope that if I want this bad enough, I might actually get it. Who made that bullshit up anyway, if you want something bad enough, you'll get it? Did they mean that specifically or in a more general sense? Because if they meant it specifically, well I've got news for them...it doesn't work...so frankly, whoever that person is can shove their sage advice up their ass. And in a general sense, it's still crap advice because then you're not really wanting anything really, you're just hoping for positive results in any aspect of your life. I wish my hope would die, because if you ask me, hope is just some bullshit optimistic way of avoiding reality. I wish somebody would beat my hope with a sledgehammer until it shatters into tiny shards of defeat. Then they can pour gasoline on all that wasted hope and light it on fire until it is consumed in a pale blue flame and the ashes blow away, never to be seen again. I've taken a few steps in this direction, but to no avail. But then again, I kinda hope that it doesn't happen.Edit: Hopefully this will be the last of the woe is me crap. We should be back to the regularly scheduled program of sarcasm, vitriol, and general crankiness soon. Thanks for all of the comments.

dead air

Sorry about the lack of updates. I've been a little under the weather and I'm working out some things. Hopefully I'll perk up by the end of the week, although that's unlikely because everybody I know is heading out of town and I really wish I could be going with them. Somewhere between taking care of my responsibilities and taking care of myself, there is a happy medium...and maybe I'll figure out how to get there.

20,000 Leagues

The unknown is already frightening enough without having an imagination as vivid as mine. I imagine these elaborate scenarios of how events are going to transpire...usually ending in gunfire or suicide pacts. Then I convince myself that my imagination is really a premonition and wait around for these things to happen. Maybe I should use my powers for good and make my stories more fun, replete with happy endings. Though less likely than the usual scenarios, I'd feel a whole lot better waiting for them to happen.

ways to know your week sucked

o You come home and find out that your dog pooped on the carpet...in three different rooms
o Your supervisor wonders whether they should extend your training period because you're having a bit of a hard time (and also because the training program is absolute also poop but it's probably wiser not to mention that part). Lucky for you it is the hardest thing to do, so you only look moderately stupid...even luckier that of all the new people that started about the same time, you got to be first
o The only guy to have called you is the one you rideshare with and his kids are older than you are
o Some guy calls you a "stupid fucking bitch" because you're driving the speed limit
o You get sick, get your womynlies, and get kicked off a horse (metaphorically) in a relatively short span of time
o After a week, the total shit-sucking pain of rejection and a massively bruised ego continue to sting like you've had a run-in with a hornet's nest
o Six Feet Under ends
o You're pissed that you're throwing yourself a pity-party so you decide to go out for drinks instead...

all aboard

The old man with the suitcase was out this morning, but today he was scary. He went on and on about death and dying and sacrificing himself and how he wasn't scared. I tried to walk slowly, make sure I was at least four paces behind him so that if he turned on me in a fit of insane rage, I could have that little bit of a headstart. Then there was another crazy woman who stood on the corner and looked to be miming a check-out person putting groceries in plastic bags. Lately I've been feeling like I'm on a one-way train to crazytown...but after seeing all these people who have made the trip repeatedly...I know that I haven't even gotten off of the platform.

tragically hip

I mentioned that my workplace is near the trendiest, hippest part of town. During my breaks, I go for walks rather than wasting one more minute in that evil dungeon where feeling like a drooling moron is part of the job desciption that they didn't advertise. I walk up and down Broadway, Pike, and Pine and every day I fall in love with Seattle a little more and more. There are a bunch of cool stores, restaraunts, and of course you can't go two blocks without running into a coffee joint or a homeless person peeing out in the open. I also get to see all the urban hipster chicks walking around in their baby-tees, low-rise pants, and black rimmed glasses so that by the time my walks are over, I feel completely inadequate. Well, since I won't go the meth route, I've decided that I too will become horribly emaciated through anorexia. I'm telling you, when I have the body of Fiona Apple (whose album is being released finally) it'll all be worth it, especially when the hunger pains that double me over and the random fainting in alley ways cease. Because there is nothing more important than completely fitting in when you are trying to set yourself apart.

work it girl

I don't know why people go out and have massive Pamela Anderson sized saline filled watermelon rinds inserted in their chests. I'm naturally well-endowed and I HATE IT! My greatest wish is to have the waifish breastless figure of a heroin addict...but with better hair and teeth. Back pain, shoulder pain, people assuming your IQ is inversely proportional to your cup size...who needs it? And today I made the mistake of working out in the room with the mirrors. Despite wearing two sports bras to exercise in, I caught my reflection in the mirror...and I still look like I'm juggling two puppies. Man, a b-cup would be heaven in a wonderbra.

on the down low

Somehow intoxication creates a level of candor that you don't often find in "real" life when people are ever vigilant about keeping up appearances. This is why I like to get drunk with guys, I learn something new each and every time. Especially when it comes to the games they play with the ladies. This weekend somebody said something about wanting discretion. They said that they were all about discretion, not wanting anybody to know their business. But aren't you really only discreet about the things that you're ashamed of? You don't boast about your drug problems, your porno addiction, your fifteen foot by seven foot altar dedicated to Alan Cummings. So is discretion basically cowardice disguised as privacy? Or am I missing something here?

scheduling conflicts

Well, I had planned on curing cancer, rescuing shivering little puppies from wells, and creating a soy & seaweed based malt-o-meal that would feed all the starving people in the world. But since God is busy laughing at me and crushing my self-esteem, I'm too self-conscious to do it now. So I guess I'll go smoke some crack and have sex with random homeless men instead.

wishful thinking

Have you ever wanted something badly? Not anything you necessarily needed, just something you thought would give you some momentary happiness, a respite from the big ball of blah that is your usual life. And the thought of having this thing, this relatively unimportant thing, just consumes you. All the while, you're thinking that you'll be left with nothing more than the carcass of your craving, knowing that what you want will never happen because you fell into the quicksand of cynicism and self-doubt so many years ago.But then, surprisingly, you get what you wanted. You may even get more than you wanted. And while that momentary happiness fills the empty inside just a little, you spend so much time overthinking and dissecting the gift that you rip the positive energy away like wrapping paper. And inside you find a one-way ticket back to where you started.Sometimes, I really wish I could be the kind of person that just lets things be, strictly a surface level life. In the words of that amazing chanteuse and philosopher Avril Lavigne, "Why'd you have to go and make things so complicated?"

location, location, location

I may not be enjoying my job but it is in a great part of town. I swear, every single time I go walking around during my breaks or before work, something interesting happens. Today for instance, on my way to one of the three Starbucks' in a half mile radius, there was an old man waiting for the bus. He had a HUGE suitcase with him and he was talking to himself, crazy person talking. Then he starts applauding and screaming, "Bravo, bravo" to an empty street. So in the Starbucks I said something about it and apparently this guy rides the bus every single day and he talks to himself the whole time he's on the bus. I wonder what he has in his bag? Then on my lunch break, I walked to Rite Aid and there's this huge commotion. One of the clerks is throwing out this meth-head woman who I had seen throughout the day. He's screaming, "You fucking bitch, don't ever come back." And she screams, "Fuck you." Then as I'm walking up to the store, she's looking inside all crazy-eyed and pointing at the guy and saying, "You're gay, I'm telling everybody that comes in here that you're gay." THE DRAMA!

scratch and sniff

Jesus! I'm on the shuttle between work buildings and somebody really smells! Like a cross between a homeless person and a nursing home. Don't people realize when they smell that bad?

bad day

You know, nine hours is a lot of time when you're wearing uncomfortable undies, and it feels much longer. I literally had my panties in a bunch today, and ended up in a pissy mood because of it...you can only pick a wedgie so many times before it becomes lewd conduct in a public place. In fact, I was in such a foul state of mind today that I felt an impending rant chock full of terrible generalizations and filthy four lettered words. I was going to moan about work and social beauty standards and the predictability of people, even the ones who consider themselves on the fringes of society. But then I argued with the rideshare guy the entire drive home about date rape and gender roles and other feminist-lite subjects, so that took a lot of the steam out of my engine...lucky you. However, let it be known that I have decided that I definitely HATE my job. It is giving me the much needed motivation to get my shit together and study for my GRE so I can have a useless graduate degree to go with my useless undergrad degree. But next time around I'll have student loans to default on, so it'll be that much better.

bad day

You know, nine hours is a lot of time when you're wearing uncomfortable undies, and it feels much longer. I literally had my panties in a bunch today, and ended up in a pissy mood because of it...you can only pick a wedgie so many times before it becomes lewd conduct in a public place. In fact, I was in such a foul state of mind today that I felt an impending rant chock full of terrible generalizations and filthy four lettered words. I was going to moan about work and social beauty standards and the predictability of people, even the ones who consider themselves on the fringes of society. But then I argued with the rideshare guy the entire drive home about date rape and gender roles and other feminist-lite subjects, so that took a lot of the steam out of my engine...lucky you. However, let it be known that I have decided that I definitely HATE my job. It is giving me the much needed motivation to get my shit together and study for my GRE so I can have a useless graduate degree to go with my useless undergrad degree. But next time around I'll have student loans to default on, so it'll be that much better.

traveling man

So this guy I rideshare with...he's a talker. And like I've said before, no topic is sacred with this guy. We've talked about religion, homosexuality, politics, finances, relationships, sex, drugs, rock and roll. He's recited his poetry to me and he's offered (threatened?) to bring cd's of his music. But his big thing now is figuring out what I want to be when I grow up. He's on that whole "What Color is My Parachute?" journey, so I guess if he asks me just the right questions, in the space of a month, he'll manage to do what I haven't been able to do in thirty years (though I'm pretty sure that at least the first eleven don't count). But lately, he's decided that my problem is my attitude. According to the guy, I just need to accept my lot in life, realize that I've probably got it better than I ever will, and just deal. To which I said, "PHOOEY!" Well, not really...what I actually said rhymed a lot with "duck fat." I told him that advice was so bad, it was practically insulting. Accept your lot in life...who says that? Does anybody actually do this? Isn't the point of life that you don't only have to play the cards you're dealt (or whatever other nifty little colloquialism I can remember for those AA meetings)? Or am I just crazy and this is actually good advice?

soy un perdedor

I am such a social reject. I have absolutely zero skills in interpreting the actions of others. According to Cosmo and Glamour and even Star magazine, you are supposed to tell what people are telling you through their physical actions. But I can't, I am a socially inept disaster.

Scenario: a person or persons who you are briefly introduced to, who you find particularly attractive, finds you staring at them and raises their glass at you. Does this mean:

A. They noticed you are staring and by raising their glass, they are positively acknowledging the attention?

OR

B. They see you staring at them and the raised glass is a secret signal to the bouncers and bartenders that some psychotic loser girl with no chance in the fieriest of the fiery pits of hell is obsessively staring at you and to kick her out if she gets within ten feet of you?

OR

C. I am thinking way too hard about an innocent, friendly little gesture because I am a hard-up L-O-S-E-R who has hormones raging harder than a thirteen year old boy with a National Geographic magazine.

And just to reiterate the loser point, the title for this post...the Beck song? When it first came out I thought he was saying, "Sore from head to toe...I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?"

revenge of the nerds

I went out last night to see Jen play a great set at the Baltic Room. She was amazing. I got to meet a lot of her friends, of which she had many. The introduction usually went something like, "Hey, I want you to meet my friend from high school." And everybody thought it was awesome that we are still friends after so many years, which it is. But about two-thirds of the time, people would say, "God, I was such a geek/nerd/dork in high school." I can say emphatically and without hesitation, I was a big nerd and a dork in high school, for god's sake I was on the Math Team and I was (and am) a big girl with feminist ideas and a rock solid anti-touching policy. But I wonder, can all the people who are claiming high school nerdhood really have been nerds? First of all, there are way too many people claiming to be a part of the band geek brotherhood...the numbers just don't measure up. Are we confusing nerdorgeek with just not being popular, because those are two completely different things. Second, if they were nerds, puberty must have hit them in college or something. I mean they fought really hard to break out of the geek mold because most of these people were very good-looking and cool as hell (*cough*Robb*cough). Third, if all the people out in clubs are former nerds, where are all the old cool people? Don't they go out or are they still sitting at home reliving their high school glory days, maybe they're still having parties at each other's houses? Or are there actually elite cool kid clubs that you have to prove your secondary school popularity...a secret society of cheerleaders, jockeys, and preppie rich kids

?

So is it a good night when you've seen a stranger's boobs and it wasn't at a strip joint?

there's always room for j-e-l-l-o

Jello shots are devilish little concoctions. They're deceptively tasty and hell who isn't happy tonguing a glob of jello out of a plastic cup? But those little suckers really sneak up on you! I don't think that something so yummy and so associated with childlike glee should cause a hangover headache. It just doesn't seem right.

meme time

Go to Google images
Enter ALL of your initials and click Search.
Click the first picture that comes up, then click "See full-size image"
Post your initials with the picture (or the url to the picture) and explain how it relates to you.
Post these instructions on your website, blog, etc.



My result:



A hotel in St. Petersburg, Russia.
The acronym bears the same letters as my initials.
Oddly, the hotel's description fits me pretty well too:
"a dreary 1970s concrete block, but it does offer affordable, clean, and unpretentious accommodation."

six feet under

Does anybody watch this show? It was great the first season. I knew I would forever love this show when Brenda suggestively said, "No, not that kind of ride." Nevertheless, it did experience a wee bit of the sophomore slump and flagged a bit the second and third seasons, but even at its worst it was and is still better than 99% of the other shite on the tellie. But by the fourth season, they came back like a lion. The whole Lisa storyline, George losing his shit and gaining truck-fulls of somebody else's, Claire finally coming into her own through hilarious sexual misadventures...and I immediately forgave them the last two seasons when they had Justin Thereoux as a bondage loving band geek. Now, the final season and it's bittersweet. I think it might be better than the first season. The writing, the acting, the story arcs, I'm so involved in the characters, except for Maggie...that calm, tranquil, zen bitch should have stayed in Arizona. I cannot believe what just happened this last episode, my heart shattered into a million tiny crystalline pieces of pure devastation. I can't wait for the next episode, but then again I don't want to be watching the last few episodes because then it will be done, no future seasons. There will definitely be a hole in the already vacuous land of television that will never be filled when this show ends.

gag me with a spoon

Bulimics are very specific about the foods they consume when they binge and purge. Definite no on the tortilla chips, too many sharp edges that could reak havoc on the throat. They pass on the spicy food because spicy plus stomach acid does not a happy esophogus make. They don't indulge in bread either because it clumps too much, and vomiting up big wads of bread is probably similar to pushing a baby out of a vag. But bulimics love stuff like cake, soft cake and smooth icing...mmm mmm good both down and up the hatch. They love cereal (but not Corn Pops or Raisin Bran) because the milk is so much the better for upchucking. But the all-time fave of most bulimics is ice cream...it's just as good coming up as going down, soft and cool...a real pleasure for the regular purger. But bulimia just doesn't really work for everybody. Take vegans for instance, they can't have the milk or the cake or the ice cream, and lactose intolerants, well I'm sure you can just imagine. Plus, the foods for bulimics are just so darn unhealthy. So I think we should institute a healthier more organic bulimia. Judging by today's unfortunate turn of events, I've found that tofu is ideal for puking, whether self-induced or not. The consistency makes it easy to hurl, it doesn't leave too bad an aftertaste, and you don't get as much stomach acid as you would trying to break down a big hamburger or something. So now everybody can be on the bulimia bandwagon and not just celebrities and sorority girls.

adventures in babysitting

It's not that I don't like children...well okay, maybe I don't like children who aren't blood related. But mostly, it's the responsibility involved in caring for children that I don't particularly enjoy. I watched my brother's girls yesterday and it wasn't as much fun as just going to their house and visiting. There were many responsibilities and too much rule enforcement. I admit it, I'm totally selfish and frankly I just want to be the fun aunt. The one they can play Barbies with and who will join in when they have fart contests. I want to recklessly chase them around the house while they carry scissors. I want to make toast while sitting on the ledge of the tub as they take their nighty-night baths. I want to teach them dirty words and slip them a twenty so they can go out and buy make-up for their first clandestine meeting with the boyfriend their parents hate. I don't want to yell at them and create boundaries. I don't want to not buy things because of the choking hazards and mercury filling. And certainly, I don't want to be in any kind of situation where I have to take advice from Dr. Phil. What's fun about that? Kids should be more like dogs. You love your dogs, they love you...even when they're in their teen years. You can leave them in the car with the windows down when you need to run into the drug store for one of mommy's little helpers. You get to leave them at home when you want to go out and eat. They lick their own butts so bathing is optional. Seriously, it doesn't get more perfect than that.

skeletor

There's a girl at the Y, she can't be more than 25. She is disgustingly, revoltingly thin. Her bones stick out all over the place, you can see each little bump of her spine. Her face looks like somebody recently deceased who hasn't been pumped full of embalming fluid. And she's like some mad-woman on the exercise machines. Obviously she is determined to burn every calorie she has EVER consumed in her entire life each and every time she works out. I find her very frightening. If I had to choose between being her and being 400 pounds, I might opt for the 400 pounds. At least that way you can kill yourself by being a lazy, orally fixated hedonist. They should institute a law at the gym similar to the ones they have in bars. Once a person gets too drunk, you have to stop serving them...so once a person gets that sickeningly thin, you should force them out of the gym, drag them down to the vending machines, shove hohos down their throats and make them sit there until they digest.

hair-raising

Somebody needs to talk to the lady training me. How am I supposed to pay attention and concentrate on what she's explaining to me when she has the thickest mustache I have ever seen outside of Sturgis? Not just thick but long too. And she's got a little soul patch growing, which can almost distract me from some horrendously crooked lower teeth. Seriously, how can I think about the proper way to use the machine when her chin-mole hairs are trying to ensnare me? It's impossible!