I Smoke Myself to Sleep.

This day is possibly the most perfect fall day weather that I have ever experienced: sixty-something with no clouds in the sky, and I was lucky enough to score an outside seat at Espresso Royale, where I sit in my raddest hipster-outfit... writing on my angsty blog. Sometimes I am just too much for myself! Artsy and such with lots of exposed calf-muscles.

Of course, the man to the left of me was just as lucky with his large pack of mentholated Newports that he insists on smoking incessantly. The woman next to me is smoking as well and "not well" as she (a landlord, I gather) is on the phone with her lawyer. The wind is changing directions and either way just results in ashes on my jeans. I have turned up Joshua Radin to irritate them away and, thus far, have failed in my attempts.

I don't have much to say, but sometimes I just enjoy letting my thoughts flow obnoxiously long (like the voicemails i leave on ridiculous answering machines).

Interesting tidbits in the life of John:

Xu (my accounting TA-guy) decided to announce when our first surprise quiz is occurring. However, he wouldn't tell us what it would cover... except that we should "pay attention to chapter 8 and make sure to look over pages 396-411 in our textbook." Oh Xu, you are so sneaky. How will I ever decipher your cryptic emails? I'm surely doomed to fail your course. However, your simple class is leaving me with an A- sitting at 95%. There is something illogical about those curve numbers.

Someone chose to "deface" the phone book attached to the pay phone in front of me, changing "Dex" to "Dextrose". If that isn't offensive, I don't know what is. Note to science-nerds (I'm not claiming immunity): when you choose to deface anything, try to throw in some sort of racist or sexist slur coupled with a signature marking your territory. It will convince people that you are actually hardcore... and spreading ignorance. Isn't that the point of graffiti? No, I think not.

On top of that, an Escalade driver is trying her very best to parallel park into a spot clearly only wide enough for a Prius.

I am now officially into changing into a completely new outfit at about 11:30 every day. I just can't stay out of my own closet!

I got the new Dashboard CD (and it's like they put a new one out every time I start a new relationship). That's a weird thought, actually, because it's actually about right the more I think of it. "Would it kill you breathe?" Maybe it would, Chris. Maybe it would.

"Don't pull that bullshit with me. Canadian twenty? This is America." I enjoy catching tidbits of cell phone conversations.

I want a daffodil. I want to always roll my pants up, because it makes people wonder if I actually bike or if I'm just a big douchebag. I would obviously regret to inform that it was a little bit of btoh. I want a Cabernet Sauvignon-fueled dance party. I want to be able to weave together a Halloween costume in the nick of time. I want people to wonder why I'm wearing a tie. I want to be notorious like James Dean and JFK and Elvis. I want to be so famous that I have to have my babies in Africa. I want denim and denim and denim and True Religion and Rock and Republic Seven for all Mankind and other brands that sound like social uprisings or post-hardcore bands. I want to not be asked on a date at work. I want to be so alive that it feels like my pores are splitting and giving life to everything around me. I want to reek of awe and wonder and Thanksgiving dinners. I want to be the colored-page of the newspaper, even if that means that I have to pose as the funny-page. I want a week off. I want to be credit-card debt free and decaffeinated and fueled by something other than grande lattes and franzia and anxiety.

"and I want life in every word to the extent that it's absurd."

I believe in clean breaks. Chris just made me think of that. I have recently said (and maybe always known) that I can never promise anyone I'll always be in their life as long as possible. I'm not like that. I'm a train who constantly switches tracks. I'm more of a helicopter: loud, roaming, all-seeing? Maybe not, but I'm trying to gain some perspective or something.

I believe in spirituality and karma and karma and religion that is more of a guideline than a hard-fast rule. I think everyone understands their own religion completely, especially those that just don't believe in religion at all. I believe that you can appreciate what you have without ever losing it. I believe that not everything happens for a reason. Somethings just happen. I believe in emo haircuts and self expression and leopard print and maybe even juicy couture sweatsuits and Uggs. I believe in forging your own style. Julie told me today that even though I don't match I was "starting my own trend." Maybe that's the key. Maybe, you always match and you always know what's going on... because at least you know that you don't know.

Scratch that helicopter thought. I'm more like a grasshopper. See how small my line of vision is? Every now and then I can jump to see so much more, but never everything... just everything I see.

Style is about being confident. If you think you're pulling it off, you're pulling it off. That's probably the only thing Banana Republic will teach me. If you think your shoulders look big in that blouse, they do. If you think combat boots match with caramel cashmere dresses, well they probably do.

I think that I'm done for now. Sometimes, I just need things like this to be stable and all-encompassing and karmically-inclined and open. Glasnost. Etc.

Close your eyes and I'll kiss you. Tomorrow I'll miss you. Remember I'll always be true, and, dear, while I'm away I'll write home everyday... and I'll send all my loving to you.

All my loving.

Wonderful Or Something

1 :: I will not frown just because I feel like frowning.

Lately, I haven't been able to breathe for more than a minute each day, and I'm not sure if this lack of spare time is really such an awful thing. I'm not happy unless I'm on the verge of something (whether it be a vacation or a mental break down). I always need something to look forward to.

I am looking forward to halloween and notre dame and losing to wisconsin and first paychecks all over again and christmas and rainy day mixes and my wife's notes and being home for the weekend and crying during movies and new york and my dad making me coffee again. These are the things I think of when my oxygen supply seems to be dwindling.

Otherwise, I just consume an obnoxious amount of caffeine and it seems to get me through.

2 :: I will do things that make me smile.

I am learning how to smile when I want to. I can sing michael buble at the top of my lungs while riding through the rain. So, maybe I will. And just maybe I will drink campagne and throw dance parties all by myself. Expect phone calls and listening to me using up my family's rollover minutes, because why would I want to call you only during nights and weekends?

I will stop buying things to feel better, maybe. I will pretend that I am Kara Nesvig and wear leopard print whenever I feel like it... even if it is just a pair of leopard print underwear. I will reveal too much to people that I don't know, because I like to feel exhibitionistic. I will stop fearing bright colors.

3 :: I will never stop checking my hair in semi-reflective surfaces... even if I go bald.

Constant As A Northern Star

I have been boiling with impatience this week (the emotion, not the simple flowers that remind me of my mother). I am not tolerant of ignorance or defense mechanisms or joy.

I am this turbulent hurricane of emotion, and right now I'm standing in the eye of the storm. There is an eerie calmness about the silence of my kitchen at this time in the morning. Of course, at some point, my roommates will stumble in loudly and break another of my cheap possessions. Regardless, I feel like I can absorb all things from all directions (empathetic as follows: the way I imagine sea turtles to be [arms outstretched and such]).

I do this to myself every now and then (but mostly now). I, exhausted, have stretched myself thin into the night (with a strand of several long days behind me, and longer ones ahead) to accomplish nothing but almost-perfect peanut butter cookies from scratch and darker black circles under my eyes. Nights like this wax and wane introspection with a slight emphasis on my ego. It is Saturday night (or Sunday morning, for the nit-picky) and I have opted to ride my bike to Lund's (more details later) to bake. Why? I wanted to bake. I wanted to be Giada De Laurentiis whipping up some gelato for the surprise dinner party I happen to be throwing tomorrow night.

On my bike... (on the way to Lund's of course, because I feel glamorous there), a number of odd things happened in the fifty-block-total ride through one of the worst neighborhoods in Minneapolis. 1) I was called Lance Armstrong; 2) I was offered a blowjob (from three drunk girls, undeniably freshman looking for a ride); 3) I was almost hit by a car; 4) I was told by pedestrians to get off the sidewalks; 5) and by cars to get off the road; 6) I got two bad feelings (one each way in the same spot, in between 12th and 13th on University).

I hate fucking up. Probably more than anything, because I'm a real Virgo: critic, narcissist, perfectionist, constantly unhappy. I hate A minuses and cookies that are crunchy in an unpleasant way and dirty kitchens and fumbling over my words and shoes that don't match and not opening up credit cards. In review, if it isn't perfect, I'm not really a fan. At least I can acknowledge my flaws (though, if I fail to attempt to change, is it acknowledgment at all?) I confess. Virgo, Libra rising.

I believe that everything happens in threes.

I was asked on three dates today. None of them very conventional.
- To learn chopstick fluency at a sushi bar.
- To try on cowboy boots at some store on Lake Street (seriously.)
- To an opera (the only one I considered, before I realized the nature of the excursion).

Right now I only want three things:

I want to wear a scarf and not look stupid.
I want a four-point-oh.
I want to feel like I don't need caffeine to transfer oxygen to my bloodstream.

"I could drink a case of you, darling, and still be on my feet."

We're Busy Still Saying Please

So. Thirty minutes until accounting.

My 'karma for the day' was simply "play."

I wrote and re-wrote this twice, but syllables are failing me. I am overwhelmingly happy and sad and not even sure that's possible, but I'm ready to take on the world's problems and remain tranquil and spread more happiness than sadness and bake more and hug more and smile more and shrug less.

Oh, how I would love to shrug less and speak more.

Today, I will dress for success.
Today, I will get involved.
Today, I will give a damn about something

(or nothing as long as it's something).

In other news, I don't like being twenty.
It is pretentious and pompous and makes me feel the same.
I'm already ready for Botox and collagen injections, but barely out of diapers.

All You Need is Uggs.

This wind and my resume and the way
you look at me on Nicollet mall
and in your mirror

(my shirt is still on)

are pins
on ties
on shirts
on chests.

This button?
Unbutton!!button.button.

You are argyle
and I am plaid
and together we are adventurous
like high fashion magazines

and those boys in the cafe
pressing fingers on knees
pressing eyes into eyes
and thighs into thighs.

Those boys were youandi
who just happen to match
without planning.

like salesmen and workers at Williams-Sonoma.

Mood Rings, Bracelets, Beads

I've been reading back through a few of the letters that I wrote last summer, and while I'm so different I'm totally and completely the same. It's like no matter how much I grow up, I'm just a grown up version of my younger self. If that sounds confusing, it is. I am ready to be someone new.

Autumn.Autumn.Fall.Fall.
F-A-L-L

I'm READY for fall and different colored leaves and different colo[[red]] hair and windy Washington smoke-filled Avenue air. I'm ready for coffee shops and listening to my iPod too loud and not remembering everything and waking up backwards on my bed. I'm ready for Williams Sonoma and Pottery Barn and TJ Maxx and Salvation Army and Everyday People and Paper Denim and True Religion and Cole Haan and Nicollet. I'm ready for Stone Arch and the Format and the number twenty and Christmas music and kisses whenever I want them and As and Cs and forgetting to do assignments. I'm ready for writing things like this twice a week and getting text messages and dressing up to go out and staying in to watch Mean Girls.

I'm ready for dates and italian restaurants and chopsticks and Burberry keychains and Jonathan Adler and Michelle's bangs and orange and black 'I.D' cupcakes and buying shoes at thrift shops and wholesale and less pipetting and more latte-making. I'm ready for matchy-matchy and full-size beds and striped sheets and making you pancakes in the morning.

I'm ready for fitting rooms and rooftops and backseats of cars and golf courses and your bathroom and my shower and your roommate's bed and the balcony of every hotel and apartment in the tri-state area. I'm ready for nicotine and caffeine and angsty music and coffee with my wife and sugar-free vanilla lattes and being able to say "grande" and "venti" on a regular basis.

I'm ready... I'm READY[exclamat!!on po!!nt] . YdAeR m'I. I'm RE(a)Dy[insert question mark here] Yes, I think so.

And with three days to go I've got lists of things to pack and things to buy and things to miss and things to sing out loud and things to look forward to and things to make lists of.

*** {asterisk}{asterisk}{asterisk} ***

"So, whatever, I'm spilling my guts as usual. Uninvited, but it's like therapy for me... In a weird, let's-talk-about-our-feelings sort of way. So, you don't have to listen or try to understand. It's really disjointed, because I keep thinking of points I want to add, so I just go back and stick them in randomly, hoping it will sound smooth (it doesn't)." [[07.24.06]]

Lilies and Such

Things that make me happy ::
Getting pictures in the mail, voicemails from someone I love in New Zealand, running in the rain, resurrecting near-death flowers, lists of unparallel items, matching fish, driving for three hours to see someone for two, laying around on gloomy days when you never have to feel bad about being unproductive, kissing quickly and checking to see if anyone saw, laughing to yourself, getting flowers, giving flowers, growing flowers, singing lyrics that don't make you sound ridiculous, one-hour road-trips, cobra lilies and jack johnson (preferably in conjunction with one another), wovens for nineteen-ninety, leaving the fitch on august 17th, etc.

There are so very few things that can make me feel as perfect as I do when I'm peeling off wet clothes after a run in the rain.

Things that make me feel like crying ::
The number thirty five and the letter double you.
Em. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Ess. Ess. Eye. Pea. Pea. Eye.
Seventy hour work weeks.

So, when the things that make me happy grossly outweigh the things that make me sad, why do I still feel a little sick to my stomach?

The Story So Far

There are a few seconds every day when any work is too much work.

The summer so far has been an emotional bungee jump, and I'm waiting for the cord to tighten and August to wheel me back into the city. I am ready for everything new: new apartments and new jobs and new classes and bus routes and pencils on new pads of paper and new hair colors and shoes and birthday presents and new boys with nothing to lose but lung-space and youth. I have so much to lose, but I'm wagering it all on September.

I am so ready for that perfect summer-lighting-sunset on Washington Avenue. The one that only lasts those perfect first few weeks of fall until the Earth, tired from it's straight salute all summer, slouches into winter and the sunset crawls North into downtown.

=== === === ===

I was asked the weirdest (read:best) question in the longest time a few days ago:

"Are you happy, John?"
"With what?"
"Are you happy with... everything?"

It was in reference to a more specific 'everything', but for a few seconds I was completely stunned by the thought that anyone has felt happy with the greater everything. So often, I feel like I'm only happy when I have something tangible to be unhappy about. Those drab, lingering feelings of undirected happiness are frightening, and they suggest that there is more to be upset about than a missed call on the other end or a particularly bad hair day.

All I want is everything.

It's Been a Year, Now

So this is it.

I was running downtown. Tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, I almost fell flat onto some punk's graffitti scrawled in white spray-paint. "We are the real terrorists." It stood out against that overgrown grass and a plank-board bench. I couldn't help but smile at this personal truth. A fifteen year old has said more than some middle-agers have in their entire life. Declaration.

This is the part of the story where I, like that kid who was probably angry about the state of something a lot less consequential than terrorism, break out of everyday life syntax and puncuation rules. This is that segment where I do something stupid like smoke three cigarettes or lay out on my deck naked or down a third of a bottle of Jose. I like feeling trashy (read: badass) every now and then. So, why am I suddenly censoring my life? I'm trying so very hard to fold my quirks back into a box for the summer. Clean-pressed John is not yet back from the cleaners, so which personality should assume for the time being?

I have several options. I'm trying on my chef-hat and my motorcycle jacket and my dewrag and my gucci sunglasses and I just can't decide what make of it all. Should I arm myself with a cane or a cigarette or an umbrella-ella-ella? I don't know and I hate rihanna for ruining that word for the next few months. I haven't been able to arm myself with this keyboard for so.very.long.

I am where I am, and sometimes I forget that. Where are you?

May Day with Tulips, Two Lips?

Happy May Day!

Of course it would be beautiful out all week. If you get a chance today, you need to stand in the Mall at least for a few minutes. These are my favorite days: when the grass is so green that the munchkins would be impressed, and the sky bows to shake the horizon's hands. The 20-somethings pretend not to notice, but I like to think it makes their day, too.

The crazy man outside of Smith Hall makes me smile. Even though he's crazy, his conviction is admirable. He is standing on a garbage can wearing a boa and camo pants: shouting.shouting.shouting. Does he know that we're not listening as we mosey-on-by? I hope not.

Yesterday, the rain was a refreshing break. It was the kind of rain that they use for kisses in movies. We almost braved it; armed with only an umbrella. In the end, though, we ducked into something silver. (Liz Phair hops to my mind again: we're already wet, and we're gonna go swimming). That rain is what has done me in for the week. It is the rain's fault that my world it bursting with color (I wore grey to counteract my distracting delight, but it's not working as well as I had hoped).

I can not focus on focusing. I can, however, talk for hours and avoid all forms of productivity and drink coffee like it's more important than air and write blogs like it's nobody's business... when in fact I'm making it their business.

Summer is approaching at a gallop, and I can't say I'm entirely ready for Rochester again. Two weeks ago, I could have left in 20 seconds, but there are always complications: some are delightful and others are awful. I can't wait to leave every weekend... just for the weekend.

I will now return to the physics hole that I have dug for myself. Promise me you will stop and admire a flower just for me?

Step by step, we make our way
walking through a crowded place.
The shining streets soak my feet.
You push the doors, I'll buy the drinks.

Don't Bring Pajamas

Let me just pre-empt' this one by saying that I wrote it on Thursday in the computer lounge at coffman. When the computer spontaneously shut down, I didn't even think that this would be saved. I was frustrated to say the least.

=== === === ===

I haven't written anything in over a week.

I guess "anything" isn't true. I have written two papers and somewhere close to one hundred wall posts. I am not able to indulge in that exhibitionist poetic fetish I have, though. There is no ink pouring from my ears or spouting from my fingertips. Instead, I'll just paint you a picture of my current life. It, as usual will be black and white with the occasional splash of green. I try so very hard to appear abstract and modern.

I was going to meet with my cultural studies professor. Actually, I would be on my way there right now if I wasn't a chicken shit. In general, I feel that I usually need to have some sort of presentation prepared for when I go meet with him (or any sort of authority figure). There is absolutely nothing intimidating about him except his exceptional knowledge of gay, French philosophers. I mean, I could easily beat this guy up (and everyone knows I'm not exactly the hulk... I do consider myself pretty feisty though, haha).

One thing that possibly made me afraid to write is the fact that I am actually starting a paper on the medium typically noted as "journal" or "memoir", and how it can and can't be considered literature. The readings from class were written, obviously, by gay Frenchmen, and so I question their applicability to the more general form of culture (however, not to myself... not that I speak French). I don't want to be psychoanalyzed. I just want to expel some of this built up energy and maybe entertain someone else once in a while.

Anyway, I made my schedule for next semester. I should say re-made, because I've had this done basically since the course schedules came out for fall 2007. I dropped Medical Terminology to take Intro to Drawing. I figure that if I don't start taking classes I want to take, I might never know what I want to do with my life (not that it would be all-to-surprising if I never really figured that out). I see Erika working and I would love to be a design major, and then I sit down and write something I really like and I want to transfer and major in Creative Writing, and then I think about all the possibilities of medical school or pharmacy school or opening up a bakery or a coffee shop or a shoe store or cineplex etc. (Update: I'm not doing drawing, because it fit really poorly into my schedule).

More than a week ago, Megan told me something so true. I suffer from restless John syndrome. It is because of this that I'm nearly certain I may never find something that I enjoy doing for the rest of my life or someone that I enjoy being with for an extended period of time. At this moment, I think I could totally handle being a temp. I would change jobs every few weeks and write a book about it and suddenly be thrown into fame and fortune. It would be like a really crappy lifetime movie. The love of my life (possibly/probably my Alaskan Husky/Collie) would get cancer and I would have to make it through the days of eating only jars of peanut butter and chocolate frosting and into a new light where I could appreciate the "little" things in life. Ah, if only I were a director of crappy lifetime movies... I wouldn't know what to do with myself.

It should be noted that this is being written to stall. Everything I do is just to stall until I figure this crap all out. I just hope I figure out what I want to do before I stall my way into medicine.

=== === === ===

Saturday Morning and who's gonna play with me?

I got a little more than five hours of sleep last night. The sad thing is, it was voluntary. Everyone else is asleep and I’m awake pounding on the keyboard as quietly as I can. I haven’t been sleeping very much lately. This may be attributed to the fact that I'm not getting enough done, and so I can't go to sleep and it wakes me up in the morning.

Honestly, I don't enjoy being so nerdy that my school work is one of the first things on my mind at all time. I would rather have other things on my mind, like william carlos williams, margaret atwood, or ayn rand.

This string of gorgeous days is determined to ruin my GPA, and it might just succeed in doing so. I lay out in the mall for a couple of hours doing nothing... more than once a week. Yesterday, I indulged in a little more of The Fountainhead, which apparently no one has heard of. That damn perfect sun lulls me into complacency and all I can do is use my chemistry book for a pillow and smile excessively.

I would write more, because this is effectively two entries, but I feel that everyone might need a little break. I promise I won't wait two weeks until the next one!

=== === === ===

Liz Phair knows what I'm thinking.

Americana? Tropicana.

I'm waiting for my own personal exodus, deliverance, transcendence, exposition, exhibition, social liberty, reality show, sherlock holmes, paparazzi, perfected defense mechanism, etc. I'm not equipped with the gloves to take my life into my own hands. (It's prickly and entoxicating!)

Karma-of-the-Day:
"Recognize ordinary, everyday activities as opportunities to awaken."

It's Tuesday (Twos-day), which means that I will be drinking more than two cups of coffee, taking four classes in two subjects, standing on my own two feet, staying up until two in the morning, and putting in my two cents everywhere possible.

Restore my faith in the human race and tell someone 'thank you for being' today.

That Melody I Love

Sunny South Dakota. Other than the fact that I'm near death due to the pending sore throat and possile ear infection, I am wonderful! Let's have some fun, shall we?

I like writing for myself. I can write about whatever I want: angst and sunflowers and jose cuervo and car dancing and regular dancing and south dakota and spring and truffles and even dirty socks. I can write haikus if the wind blows me that way:

.that wind, you know, is
tired of howling away.
sleep, Tempest, and dream.

I can write IN ALL CAPS or forget tousespaces. I can etirw sdrawkcab. I can write you love songs and doodle lyrics and scribble down chem.notes. You can use words and words and swords and hoards of words and herds of birds or chords and curds.

If you stare at a page for long enough you can melt the letters into lines like ice into water. No, no, that's not right, is it? I must rearrange. Rearrange. If you melt at ice enough you can stare into a water lines the long letters into page. There, much better.

Sorandom.edu What can you do with words?

Warm Days Are Near!

I’m on your futon with my green eyes budding dreams like leaves.

I’m serious. Last night you and I were willow trees at dusk on the brim of an overfull lagoon. I was drawing from some scene on Pocahontas, I believe. Our slender arms bent from lack of energy, and the sun had long since set. All the while you leaned toward me, and the wind pushed me away. My leaves whispered. “It must be!”

Here, I am a seventeen-year-old Czech girl flirting with the Russian soldiers: short skirts and heels. I am pointing something much worse than a gun at these celibate fools. In short, I am declaring my victory and freedom over the mundane norms. I am walking barefoot in the hallway. I am living on caffeine. I am coloring outside of the lines and drawing tattoos with magic marker and lying in the quad with my shirt off. No one is leering.

=== === === ===

the colorless rain
slowly titrates the grey earth…
Equilibrium!

=== === === ===

From the mattress, I am budding like a sugar maple: stretching limbs in all direction. My pale, peach leaves grasp for oxygen with the intensity of new life. I wake each morning refreshed and vivid. With every active moment, I grow grey and wilted: waiting for the youth to creep into my veins in sleep.

And so on. And so forth. You know I’m illustrating these vibrant metaphors in varicose mediums. April showers bring May flowers, and Mayflowers bring Pilgrims. To whom do we owe the credit for the April showers? Let us trace the train of events.

Unknown.Source: April.showers: May.flowers: Pilgrims: Is it November already?

=== === === ===

rain.storm.eruption
of grass bouquets and yellow
dandelions for Mom.

=== === === ===

I am a Spring.motif waiting to happen!

Only Hearing Negative

You said that I was naive,
and I thought that I was strong.

I must graciously express my gratitude to the sky today for it's compliance. Many days, it tries to fight my mood, but this greyness suits me very well, thank you very much.

Of course, there are specks of color impading upon this grey matter like a magnificent song implanted in your eternal consciousness. So, you are stuck playing this song again and again through your words and tempo of step and that way you gesture with your palm facing upward.

These colors are infinitely penetrating: red rainboots, blue raincoats, the yellow lines painted upon the curb. However, this brightness only exists in relativity to the drab rain. On an exemplary spring day, the yellow lines pale in comparison to the sun. And so, due to their complete subjectivity, we can dismiss the colored flecks invading our navy canvas. We can fully regard them as sharp flecks of white noise trouncing upon our "perfect" silence of being.

A man in the Northrop Mall stands on his garbage can pedestal reading a newspaper satire, and so illustrating his own satirical nature. He condemns the rain with a newspaper, and thereby offers himself to the eternal consumption of everything grey and khaki and suburban. I truly hope he can feel the electric regret charging in the air like I can.

"We can never know what to want, because living one life, we can neither compare it with our previous lives, nor perfect it in our lives to come... If we only have on life to live, we might as well not have lived at all."
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Acorn to Oak

and.now I am an oak tree in centralPark.
my roots are pushing.pushing into spring soil.
Now,you may ask me:
'to what purpose do you grow?'

halted, i am pondering the question.
i have grown without remorse
and budded and sprouted and rooted and wilted
for nineteen years over.

never have i asked the Question: "Why?"

'i suppose,' beginning steadily,
'that I must live to grow.'
'that the sun coaxes only me from slumber.'
'that there is space to become larger, so larger I will.become.'

'For God himself has ringed me in an azure sky
(like some stately king),
and all remaining for me to do
is grow.and.grow.and.grow.'

==== ==== ====

My spring break is coming to a close so very quickly. At this point, I had hoped that all snow would be completely eradicated. I am so very ready for spring and robins and pastel colors (actually, ew) and bunnies and daffodils and daisies. I am ready to wake up from Black&WhiteMinneapolis with its black snow in the gutter like homeless men and silt on the sidwalks.

Technicolor Explosion of grass so green it looks fake and squirrels everywhere and bright-colored-rainboots and hooded sweatshirts and walking outside and spring.Gel.Gems and boy bands in my iPod on the way to class!

Building Houses Out Of Matchsticks

Fact #1: If you are left with terrible coffee (aka "Eight O'Clock Coffee" from Target Boutique), if you heat it up enough, your taste buds can't tell how terrible it really is! Beware though, because as it cools off, the bitterness creeps back in.

Fact #2: It works just as well with terrible people! Heat it up until you can't tell the difference.

So I'm in Walter Library as I am apt to be on a Wednesday afternoon. I am fed, caffienated, slightly motivated, and ready to begin some serious homeworking. On today's agenda: Chemistry. I wish I could just take alchemy instead. Since it isn't true, you can just make it up as you go!

My legs are already taking revenge on me for this morning's workout. Even when I used to work out, I rarely ran for long periods of time because my knees give me shit for the next two weeks. Well, I have ran for the past four days and them knees are giving me hell.

Oh you're everything I'm wanting... come to think of it, I'm aching.
On account of my transgression, will you welcome this confession?

Yesterday, I had two 1/2 pieces of cheesecake at the same restaurant with two different people. Cafe Latte is possibly the best cafe in the entire world (obviously, I'm still in the honeymoon stage). Let's just say today I am ninety-six pounds heavier due to the cookies-and-cream-cheesecake and turtle-cheesecake oozing from my pores (now there's an excellent visual!).

I can't write today.
I think I'll try again later.

If they say "nothing is forever", what makes love the exception?

You Can Hide Quiet As A Mouse

There is a big block of cheese in the way of my writing, and I have been gnawing for the entire past month. I have hardly made a dent. I can not climb over it. Instead, I will begin a long journey around it. Sit tight, folks. It might be a while.

It is 12:26 on the first Saturday of Spring Break. I am in bed right now. I know, I should be somewhere in Mexico doing illegal drugs and taking tequila shots. Instead, I am in Rochester, Minnesota between my navy blue comforter and forest green sheets (and the cotton is pilled from overuse the last few years).

I need Sufjan Stevens to come sing me to sleep.
Casimir Pulaski Day is seamless and perfect on repeat.

For a while I wished that I would get insomnia when something was really bothering me. That way, I always had some sort of excuse for when I sucked at everything all day. Instead, I get eight hours like clockwork, and I am forced to face the day with an optimistic attitude. (Sometimes, I just hate those!)

I want money right now, but not because I want to impress anyone. I want to reinvent myself. I want a new me clothed in something interesting and powerful and ME. I know that I could probably do it without money, but that would take more work. Abercrombie really was the downfall of me... because all I have to show for last year’s work is a closet full of clothes that someone told me to like. Later, I can count on fingers and toes how many things from there I want to keep.

This next week will enforce all of my awkwardness and tiredness. I swear… I could dye my hair a million different colors and never find anything I like. I could read The Fountainhead for the rest of my life. I am trying to compile a mental list of things to do while I am in Territorial for a week. Laura told me to find a story. I would very much like to do so.

I want perfectionism and materialism and God and dark chocolate to meld into a single, technocratic structure to support me in my endeavor to find out what is making me tick like that fucking alligator in Peter Pan.

"Oh, the glory that the Lord has made and the complications you could do without (when I kissed you on the mouth). Tuesday night, at the bible study, we lift our hands and pray over your body, but nothing ever happens..."

And I Won't Even Know What To Say...

I will walk barefoot in the dirty dorm hallways if I want, because barefoot is only a stone's throw from flip flops. I will dance in the social service building elevator. I will write Johanna love letters even though I've only just met her. I will listen to angry girl music, even though I am not a girl. I will be angry when I want. I will dye my hair three times in a month. I will whisper Ani Difranco lyrics when I'm on the bus sitting behind you.

"I think I'm going for a walk now. I feel a little unsteady. I don't want nobody to follow me, except maybe you. I could make you happy if you weren't already."

I will watch you sleep, and accidentally wake you up (so sorry, I had to pee!). I will write lyrics on your spine (methodically, like some web I'm weaving). You will be the secret I keep, and when someone asks about you I will say "fine" and think "fantastic". I will trace your freckles. I will forget what you told me. Twice. Three times. Sorry, could you repeat that? I swear I was listening, you just mumbled!

I have just erased a page of something you'll never see. I can't write. I wrote about adultery and contagious smiles like HPV and thank-you notes and the angry March temperature and sarcasm. Those things are not cohesive. They do not blend to form a tasty, Vitamin C-filled smoothie. It's chunky and grey-ish... like the metal frame of an airplane.

Will you be happy on Saturday?

I fear you will.

Always One Foot On The Ground

Today is a double latte sort of day. It's a double latte, Gucci glasses, Newport Lite sort of day. I haven't been very artistic lately, but today I have until 1:25 to be artistic, so I think I can cough up some enjoyment of life.

Yesterday, I went to Ash Wednesday mass at Grace Lutheran Church. I've got to say that Protestant mass is so completely altered and sometimes it makes me a little uncomfortable. I don't mean that in a superiorism sort-of-way. I was slightly uneasy because it wasn't what I was used to, and church has always been one of those places that I can count on to change so so slowly.

I have been to Ash Wednesday mass once a year for the past nineteen years, and I don't know if I've ever really understood it all completely (and I don't know if I ever will). It (as many other churchly things) remains a mystery. I really can't explain how good it felt to go after staying away from church for so very long. I am not religious, but I can find things in every mass that makes me feel a little better for a couple of days.

I can't sing. I don't sing anywhere but alone in my room (and sometimes you can hear me, but I pretend like you can't). I sing in my car. I don't sing at church or on the street or in the hallway or the shared bathroom. I don't sing at the airport or on the bus or when I'm listening to music in my headphones. I can't sing. You won't see me sing often, but I do sing, because there is no such thing as "being unable to sing." If you can talk you can sing. I can sing, but I can't sing.

Also, I am enjoying playing with matches. I think that if everyone knew anything I thought, they would just giggle to themselves and carry on with their life. I am not as smart or stupid or shallow or deep as everyone seems to claim I am. The only surprising thing would be how apathetic I really am.

"Must have been kind to kittens and birds in a previous life. I must have thought happy thoughts in a previous life."

People Are Just People Like You.

I've always felt like the meaning of life is like the definition of a difficult word. You can look it up in dictionaries, read about it on wikipedia, and ask everyone you know, but you don't really understand until you can use it in a sentence.

Today is a good day already. I had a minor revelation on the campus connector (where my minor revelations so often place themselves). I know why I'm going into medicine, though I'm not sure what exactly I'll be doing. I feel this growing sense that when you have the ability to make the world brighter, it is your duty to do so. How do we define "good people"? Those are the people who are able to open up oppurtunities for others and place smiles where they weren't before. "Bad people" are those who take advantage of chances to make the world darker, to build walls and create corners and sections and stratification.

If I have the ability and desire to lighten lives, how can I justify stifling it?

The two saving graces of the living human race are service to others and art (all forms: visual, verbal, and spiritual). When you have the oppurtunity to create either, you should always always always take it.

What's Written in Braille

I am lighting Washington Avenue
with white sunglasses and my newest assumed attitude.
I'm so enamoured with those looks of disgust and glances
((trying.not.to.be.obvious))
while
waiting
waiting
waiting
[[for that luminescent man calling 'walk']]

For $ 1.50 I am
riding[read:writing] the 16 to Nicollet Avenue
where there is a man requesting thirty cents for bus fare.
I can see the bulging plastic.bottled.vodka in his pocket,
but I smile and offer a quarter (he could use some change)
wishing he had somewhere to go besides the bar.
Across the street, a woman tightens her scarf
and for a brief second her lips are revealed
like red flags flapping a foreign language.
She is approached but cannot find the words.
(denial? yes, please.)

There is no hair risen on your ice-cold body
that I will not trace like braille engraved on your back.
I would not waste deciphering
the frozen peaks,

because now I am melting ice from my eyelashes in a cafe.town
warmed by burning lastyear's yule logs.

and there are girls giving life to the breathless
phenomena of life lurking behind their mascara
{ and I only have kissed three girls
and my favorite coffee is dark roast
and I have a plant named Olivia
}
and the boys are wearing wax ears and smiling
to pass the time while tracing lips
{ and which base will this lead to?
and can I keep the lights on?
and there will be no trace of me tomorrow
}

And shall we ask the man on Nicollet what he thinks of Olivia?
Here, we can't ask the woman if she'll leave the lights on:
indecipherable.
(denial? no, thank you.)

And all the while I am losing contact with your skin
because the braille is melting into tired canvas.
I am not an artist.
I am not an evangelist.
I am not an interpreter.

I am illustrious.

They Don't Laugh At Jokes. They Laugh At Tragedies.

I am more out of place at this point in time than my sunglasses on the city bus. I am more out of place than a sarcastic comment at a funeral. I can't wear my heart on my sleeve, because, for once, I've got function on my mind.

The backs of my eyelids should be coloring books instead of words and syllables and letters. I have been trying to write for weeks, but (as I'm sure you noticed) I have been blocked and blocked. All I can do with my vocabulary is reverse words and find out how it looks.

What would you do if you answered the door and there was a gangster holding a gun?
What would you do if you answered the door and there was a gun holding a gangster?
What would you do if you answered the gangster and there was a door holding a gun?
What would you do if you answered the gun and there was a gangster holding a door?
Which one is most likely? Do you care? Do I?

I could be a walking thesaurus and correct you when you say ripe in the wrong context (or wrong in the ripe context). I could be a hangnail that makes you bleed in the most boring sort of way. I could be an mad cow who yells angry things without anyone to direct anger at. I could be an alcoholic who drinks wine from a box on a Wednesday night and watches Top Design. I could call you nine times and text you over and over. You don't need to answer. You don't need to call me back, because my phone is dead. My dead is phone.

I cannot be an honest man who makes promises. I could be an honest man. I could be one who makes promises. Don't ask for more. I am not divine. I am not royal. My name is not Elvis.

Words are just words are just letters out of order.

Once again my life is breaking into fragments, and I should have accepted all invitations. I told Steve that everything sounds Spanish if you add an "aciones" on the end, and only a few of the words you make will be real, but you will have invented the rest, and those are the ones that you'll forget, and those are the ones that matter. Matteraciones, I guess.

Now, please please let me sleep. Please let me breathe. Please let me make a scene. The camera's rolling, annnd...

Cut.

The Dissolution of History into Universalism.

Yes, that is the topic of my paper for "The Rhetoric of Everyday Life", and after trying to force intellectualism out of every pore in my body, I think that I'll take a break to write the way that I want... for who I want (you).

I have been on the brink of bright.and.shiny, lately.

All I can really do is brace for hell as school closes in on me like a trash compressor (at least it's not the on-switch of a garbage disposal, I guess). My life is only one anticlimax after another. Rising action, rising action, rision action, anti-climax. I can make new year's resolutions, but the thematic resolutions really never take any physical form.

I am home again. I came home to surprise my family, and my sisters knew (because I told them). My sisters knew that I wanted to take them to a movie, but they went to the basketball game anyway. Of course, I was told that I would have ditched them anyway, so I shouldn't be upset. I am disappointed to say the least.

There are certain things that I just really don't need. I don't need any more shorts for spring, or any t-shirts (as my mom likes to remind me), or new shoes, or another coat. I don't need grey snow or wind. I don't need a pat on the back of confirmation or motivation. I don't need to know that anyone cares about my GPA. I need to know that people care about my sore throat. I need to hear something positive. I don't need cookies to help me gain weight, because I am very capable on my own. I don't need to hear that 19 credits is too much or that I'm being hard on myself or that I should take a break. I need a break. I need a theme song. I need a night where I can have fun without worrying about getting caught or vomit or school or a test tomorrow or how much I should really be doing. I don't need skepticism.

All I can do is take a deep breath, put on some Regina, and keep on trucking.
(t.r.u.ck. keep on trucking all the way)

With My Shirt Tucked In And My Shoes Untied.

I really need to sleep right now (because getting up at six in the morning has never really agreed with me), but I think that maybe I need to write a little more.

I am missing something ("something" like a point or the key to my perfection or a box of cheap wine). It might just be the fact that I really, really miss going to church. It's a weird sensation that I haven't felt for a while, but I always feel so grounded after church. I feel a little lighter, because I really do have the world by the ass (like my mom always tried to inform me).

I need some perspective. I need some more scotch tape to mend and coagulate and temporarily suture my life back together. I need millions of dollars. I need to live in poverty on the corner of Nicollet and Seventh. I need I need I need I need I need. I need Sufjan Stevens and Regina Spektor and Chris Carrabba. I need to stop being so vindictive. I need to destroy my hate list once and for all. I need to organize the junk drawer of my memories and grudges and frustrations. I need to Feng Shui my life. I need a fucking moral compass. I need to stop saying "fuck." I need to stop thinking "fuck." I need to stop fucking around.

I stuffed this semester's schedule full so I won't have to deal with all of the angst that I've internalized from Christmas vacation and summer vacation and that awkward period that I'm trying to leave behind, known as my "formative years." I've got class evenly spaced out to consume my entire life and persona. It was a bad move on my part. I thought that it would make me focus on success and my future, but all it does is draw my mind back to tired thoughts of failure and dark clouds and swirly angst and really long bangs and how no one, like, gets me and other things emo kids think about frequently.

Seriously, though, I'm a pair thick-rimmed glasses and Converse All-Stars away from being the perfect portrait of an emo kid. I already have the tight jeans, hair, and attitude.

And maybe the whole truth behind this purposely over-dramatic entry is the fact that I'm starting my volunteering position tomorrow and this is about as nervous and insignificant as I have felt in the longest time.

Maybe since last February.

You're Totally Right, Every Action Was Well Rehearsed

Classes began today. I've got 45 minutes before I've got to meet Bridget for dinner, so please excuse the possible-hastiness of this entry.

It's interesting how tired I feel after around an hour and a half of class today (don't worry, I've got almost four more hours of sociology tonight). I'm getting a little sick, and (because of break and damn Rochester) I've become reaccustomed to eating 52846+ meals a day. I need to get used to eating three meals again. I need to get used to sleeping on a chunk of slate that the U tries to pass as a "mattress." I need to find a happy medium. I need to find any medium, really. I need to become rich and famous. Or at least rich.

This semester is going to be the definition of "long day" with days stretching 9-6, 11-9:30, and 11-8. I sat down and did some physics homework earlier today (which is purely ridiculous, because that would mean I'm actually ahead in a class for once). Plus, I'm working really hard on fitting volunteering at the Region's hospital in there somewhere. Needlesstosay, I need sleep because I get tired simply thinking about how busy I will be soon. (PS: If something actually is needless to say, why say it?)

I feel weird about everything. Today, either everyone is noticing me, or everyone is ignoring me, and I'm really not sure if I care which is correct. ((I am tired and hungry and totally useless in this department.)) I need carbs and chocolate and more caffeine and some tequila and 600mg of ibuprofen, and a really good hug. I don't get (m)any of those when I'm up here.

For some reason, I feel less inclined to believe that I can handle this semester with equal or great ease than last semester. Maybe the Smarch Sadness is setting in unnecessarily early this year. "It's colder than it ought to be in March." Probably because it isn't even March yet, Chris Carrabba. That's probably why.

Anyway, I'm off to obtain at least 3 of the 6 things mention a couple of paragraphs ago. I'll let you be creative and decide which.

"I Hope You Get To A Beautiful Film This Weekend"

I know that it seems premature, but I am already looking toward Spring Break. It isn't that I am too worried about class or living back in the dorms. In fact, I'm more excited to go than I was fall semester.

Instead, everyone is leaving for spring break, and it is my personal goal to be one of the lucky chaps who has a blast on break. I am planning a road trip. Actually, it can't be considered a trip, because there is no set destination. That's correct. I want to finally fufill a goal on my list of 50 things to do before I die. I am planning on packing light, hopping in the car and speeding off toward some perfect place. I am not concerned with comfort or luxury. I am looking for a partner in crime and a few amazing entries in this little puppy.

Today is the first day that I have shared a Caribou table with someone that I don't know. She is fragile and thin and we haven't spoken yet. Her short brown hair bobs tightly around her head, and her protruding black glasses make her look (but not look, the word should be feel) like the artsy English teacher that everyone loved in high school. I can tell that she is smart and determined from the four or five glances that I have stolen while she sipped her coffee.

So, I am reading the Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (and I really shouldn't try to begin to analyze it because I'm hardly half-way through. I just want to discuss one point that I feel Rand makes very evident. While I can't remember who exactly says this, it is brought up that everything important you can possibly know about someone is in their face the very first time you regard them. You should be able to read how the person thinks, and what protrudes from their mind when they are alone.

The subsequent meetings and conversations sometimes betray this first thought, but the initial feeling should trump all forms of rhetoric the person enlists. Anyway, there is my philosophical plug for the day.


Things that make me smile:
The fact that I order differently depending on which coffee shop I am in (grande nonfat sugar-free vanilla latte vs. medium sugar-free vanilla latte with skim), the woman across the table from me (she is thinking to herself and smiling and I hope that it is because of a joke she remembered or some remark her child made when he was still innocent), coffee and caffeine and lattes and espresso and coffee mugs.

French and french teachers, the irony that I am not religious but my three favorite teachers from high school taught religion, old music jams in the car (when you still know every word to "independent women" by destiny's child), haikus, looking for apartments, kitchen appliances (call me weird, but having my own stove seems like it will be the highlight of next year), run-on sentences like this one, thick-rimmed glasses, making presents for Steve, giggling and kissing and fighting and most action-verbs, wishing others a pleasant day (even though the weather is wishing the opposite), the color brown (which may possibly be my new favorite color for no apparant reason). I like that this list is much much longer than the next one in my head.

Things that make me frown:
Soy milk is more expensive, my horoscope (that I usually read every few days) told me that a confrontation will change the way I approach my professional life and career, mittens and coats that are the same color but don't match.

While writing this, that wonderful woman that I mentioned earlier and I bonded over how we think that some places lie about actual fat contents. Then, she spoke of theatres and beautiful foriegn films and directors and how rochester could never compare to new york city. She then said good-bye and put on her large black overcoat with a daisy pinned on the collar.

I don't think she realizes how much better I feel.

Tell That Freak To Take It Off (Represent Your Coast)!

So, I am currently listening to the rap group Teriyaki Boyz. I stole them from my new favorite movie: The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift. Let's just say that half of this song is in Japanese, and I'm in love with it.

I get in such weird moods, sometimes, where I listen to music that I can't understand (it doesn't stop me from singing along, though).

There are so many entries like this among the few items that I feel proud of. Those odd, ramblings that make me look like an awkward, pretentious preteen with a fetish for internet frenzies. It seems like on the days that I want to write, I end up cranking out shit like this (and when I have hundreds of other things to do, I pump out this thirty-nine-page masterpiece in like fourteen and a half minutes).

I want to write. I want low-carb Jose Cuervo. I want a British accent. I want a Japanese school girl to be my faux-girlfriend who lets me dress her in wicked clothes. I want to be Gwenny GwenGwen. I want to be blonde and tan and muscley. I want muscley to be a real word. I want to be colorful and earthy and spaced out. I want to believe in karma and reincarnation and heaven and hell and the triumph of good over evil. I want to live in poverty in New York City with a loft that overlooks the whole city. I want to sing and sing and sing about my problems instead of writing in silence and angst.

I want to be allowed to feel excited and depressed at the same time. I want to make that money. I want to be injected with intelligence because actually learning is overrated. I want to write a book called "male, middle-class, and white." I want to scream until I cannot be silenced. I want to be a magazine editor. I want a vivacious red-headed best friend who I know like the back of my hand. I want to finish someone else's sentences. I want to take my clothes off for money. I want to make a mix CD for the Pope and Madonna and Prince and Beyonce and everyone in existence with only one name.

I want to dance until my legs break. I want to travel the world as a famous popstar. I want to hide from the paparazzi. I want a lifetime subscription to Vogue and Nylon and Vanity Fair and GQ. I want jeans from every designer ever. I want a closet that's all white and flourescent. I want to lose my chin and gain some biceps and keep my ass. I want to play the piano. I want three emails from T-Hall that say "You Have A Package" and an email from my boss telling me I got a raise and an email from Kanye West. I want a national holiday dedicated to me.

I want my own elevator. I want it to snow forever. I want this entry to delete itself, because I cannot bring myself to delete it. MaryAnn's a bitch.

And in the words of the immortal Missy Elliott:
"It don’t matter where you from, it’s where you at,
and if you came to freak-a-leak, you better bring your hat."

Okay, I actually don't even know what that really means.
XOXOXO

You're Young Until You're Not.

Today, I am the only laptop in Caribou. The girl at the register, who usually frowns, smiled at me. She is wearing a black turtleneck sweater, and her curly, red hair is up. I think she may be smiling because she messed up my drink the first time. She didn’t really mess it up, though. I did. Today, I ordered decaf, because the doctor said caffeine would cause the stitches in my mouth to bleed. So, after a week and a half of ordering the same drink, I changed my order, and she still made it correctly.

There is an old woman sipping her black coffee and eating a large muffin (possibly the muffin I had my eyes on earlier this coffee break.). She is wearing a Christmas-red sweater with black-and-white checkered pants and tennis shoes. It all clashes in that way that makes you love her like your own grandma. My mom’s mother wears leopard-print stretch pants and baggy sweatshirts with wolves on them. This woman is alone, though, unlike my grandma. She is reading the paper. She is not my grandma, and so I can not comfort her.

The two business people in front of me are just getting back from their vacation, and I envy them. I miss being stressed about things that half-matter (instead of those things that matter too much). He is in a brown suit with a light blue, woven shirt, and he does not look as professional as he could. The woman is blonde, and looks tired. Her glasses are only a little crooked, and her face is flushed red (maybe from the cold). I think she is a nurse (because I cannot recall where the dark blue scrubs are worn, and this may be sexist). They are analyzing a survey, where several people strongly disagree with the accusative statements made about the clinic.

I am not so bored yet today, but it is not even 10:00 yet.

--- --- --- ---

I am spinning the strands of silver that grow and drift from her head. My mother combs her hair each day with that red pick in her tired hands, finding a few more strands of silver-grey.

I have transformed my inner-dialogue from an exhausted fantasy into a spiraling faux-reality where everyone is facing what I am facing, swollen-faced. She is growing her mother’s silver hair, and he is fighting politics with his eyes closed. They live to name what they are searching for.

I, however, am wearing on their thin nerves. They are consuming solid food and sleeping until eleven. Her mother’s sliver is that of an ancient, wise woman, not a wolf. His father has long since abandoned the structure that I have sought.

--- --- --- ---

Yesterday, I cleaned out my entire room, and began throwing away those things that I only pretended I wanted in the first place. There were some things that I still cannot part with.

I threw away notebooks and notebooks that were only one-half or two-thirds full, they were filled with information about the history of the Catholic Church, the Spanish Inquisition, and world hunger. I threw them away, because I could not even bother to thumb through them. I disposed of most of the graduation cards I received. It was a terrible thought, but, for a second I wished that everyone had saved their breath and given me the 1.99 they wasted on that card that I read once and emptied. I deleted the baseball caps and Boy Scout books and plastic things that sort your money and a book on children’s mass and broken pencils and magazine clippings and Dallas Cowboys’ magnets and hats. I took my Dallas locker (finally emptied) down to the entry way, because it was an unnecessary fixture that collected dust like my old magazines, which I could not resolve to throw away.

The man behind me is condemning the book he is reading, because he is bored.

He has only read eight pages.

I am not even eight pages long.

Legs Are Required For Jumping, Dancing.

What's a fire, and why does it (what's the word?) burn?

So, I cannot amuse myself today. I woke up in a rage, and I forgot my cell phone at home. I left my computer at Nick's yesterday, so I cannot faux-live in Caribou today either. Instead, I will be holed up in this desolate, windowless, ninth floor lab, alone, making my friends on the South park character generator, and half-heartedly working on a poem where I shall subtly reveal the meaning of life (but not really).

--- --- --- ---

"When you chose your wisdom teeth,
You stood in line four times."
(The doctor chuckled.)

Through his perfect, gritted teeth,
He told me I had a tough bite
(something about my bark, as well).

One week later,
When the anesthesia bit into me,
I shuddered into a colorless, poppy-affliction.

Awaking bruised and shallow,
I was some victimized man, robbed in the blunt silence of daylight,
Or a woman in the back of an unmarked van.

Their pain was not mine.
Their dignity was lost among the concrete
(and my wisdom was floating in the jar next to me).

--- --- --- ---

I apologize for that poem. It's the best I can do in fluorescent lighting.

I am also being a cheap designer whore (eBay is my love). Someone finally has the Dolce necklace I want up, and it's only eighty bucks! (Haha, I say 'only' because it was in the severe hundreds before.) However, I have absolutely no money. Even after working at this ridiculously high-paying job, I am still paying back money that I used for splurges at the U (and Target). I feel like there will be less of these next semester (along with less starbucks dates and just less friends in general <3 ).

You get me oh so simply.

A Pair Of Dull Scissors and The Yellow Light.

New Year's Resolutions:
=>> Cut back on caffiene. (This one's probably already broken, depending on what you consider "cutting back," especially because I'm sipping my latte at present. Vague resolutions are the worst kind.)
=>> Work out twice a week. (Hopefully, my body stays vicious, too, Fergie.)
=>> Accept the fact that I can't constantly please everyone. (However, this doesn't mean I'll give up trying!)
=>> Four steps to stress relief: Breathe, Stretch, Shake, Let it go. (Man, I think I'm born to win. Me, Broke? That's an oxymoron.)

There's an interesting situation at my place of work. When I came back to work over Thanksgiving break, I got a semi-large schpeel from my boss where he told me not to transfer out of engineering, because I can do whatever I want in engineering. Wanna know what's ironic about that? I had applied three days earlier to transfer into a different college at the U. Did I have the heart to tell him that I transferred into Genetics (aka: far, far away from engineering)? Nope, I stuck it out and lied my ass off. I think that I may continue to lie and pretend to be an aspiring Biomedical Engineer. I'll only have to lie until the end of next summer (I mean "next" like 2008).

So, I picked up that Rhetoric class. I am very VERY excited for it (though I have heard the teacher is very difficult). Here's the class description: "How discourse reproduces consciousness and persuades us to accept that consciousness and the power supporting it. Literary language, advertising, electronic media; film, visual and musical arts, built environment and performance. Techniques for analyzing language, material culture, and performance."

Anyway, the exciting part is that among the books we're reading is "Memoir Of No One In Particular." While this may mean nothing to you, I read the summary of the story, and it sounds like my life (if I were paperback-bound... actually I kind of am paperback-bound...). It talks about this man, and about how his teenage diaries were selfish rantings about himself, but if you looked closer, they were also commentaries on the social structure of the time. By examining himself, he was, in turn, commenting on social issues and modern culture. Wow, could I be more of a nerd?

Apparantly, I could not. While I was lounging around yesterday with some friends/lovers/etc, I started talking about how I spent an entire day reading about starting and maintaining aquariums. Do I own an aquarium? No. My thirst for completely useless knowledge makes me a nerd in the most quintessential form of the word. (Plus, I actually use unnecessarily large words like "quintessential" in everyday writing. Who does that?)

I do wish that I could control what I remember... like you can delete useless things on your computer. What would I wipe out, though? The lyrics to every N*Sync/Spice Girls/BBMak(<<=LOVE) song in existence? Probably not. You never really know when you'll need this sort of thing. The (literally) millions of Friends/OC/The West Wing/Grey's Anatomy/Will and Grace (etc) quotes stored up there somewhere? No. In fact, I would sooner delete the useful information. I think that the "useless" things you know (sports stats, art history, The Fray lyrics, etc) are actually what make you a semi-unique being.

One thing that I would like to document is the fact that three days ago (12/30/2006), my mother actually told me that I looked nice. Aka, there is nothing that she would have changed about my clothes, scarf, HAIR, shoes, or dirty, scruffiness. While she has told me this before, it was because she had forced me through several outfit changes. I actually asked for this in writing (and she didn't retract her statement).

Until next time, lovely munchkins.
Kisses.

PS: You are my sweetest downfall.
PPS: Been a change in plans, rip your old plan up