The Day it Rained Forever

Mark the date

2012-02-01T12:19:00.000-08:00

Apparently I’m now a person who goes on dates, so if you want to set me up with anyone you know or go out on a date with me, do it now, before I get fed up, go off the grid and sequester myself away with a bunch of cats.

Posts about dating to inevitably follow.

Flowers and candy and chocolate hearts, oh my!

2012-01-19T22:19:00.000-08:00

Why I'm not romantic

1. I'm allergic to flowers.
2. The only people who have ever told me I’m beautiful, specifically using that word, are my parents and my best friend.
3. Writers try to avoid using clichés. But really, no one should ever use one. Find another way to say it.
4. When I was looking at my first boyfriend one time, he said, "Stop looking at me, it's creepy."
5. I ruin moments by asking inappropriately timed questions, like "So do you sleep around?"
6. The only good romantic movies are either also heartbreakingly sad and depressing or foreign or both.
7. I choose Indian food for dinner and have to call it an early night because my stomach hurts.

I started making this list a few years ago, back in college I think, when I was on some kind of mission to prove that romance and being romantic were ridiculous and stupid and cheesy and trite. And now, a few years later, I have no reasons to be more romantically inclined. In fact, I have ample reason to continue adding to the list. But by some happenstance of nature, somewhere along the way—I couldn’t tell you when or where or how--I no longer want to. I don’t want to add to the list. I want to acknowledge, instead, that I, in fact, no matter how hard I try to deny, fight or stop it, just might be
romantic.
(oof, writing that was hard.)

I’m not the kind of girl boys write poems about, or make mix tapes for, or daydream about or cry over. And I’m generally perfectly okay with that. In fact, most things considered traditionally or general-consenus-ly romantic I’m not a huge fan of, and they make me uncomfortable because they feel like disingenuous, unoriginal acts. But I think somewhere at my core, there’s a mushy heart that wouldn’t terribly mind a sweet gesture or two.

Here’s my problem: I equate softness or gentleness in myself with weakness, and I equate romanticism with weakness. Ergo, you get it. Even though I admire these traits in others.
And here's the other problem: I don't know what it's like to be romantic. At least not in a reciprocal capacity. I can count on one hand the "nicer" moments I've had, but most often any time I've expressed something romantic or acted in a way I consider romantic, I get shut down in one way or another. And I guess it's the type I attract or am attracted to, or some vibe I give off that shouts "don't be nice to me." And this isn't some kind of pity party post for myself; I think part of the problem must be me, whether for putting up with it or for not demanding more or not creating an environment where I can fully express myself without fear of rejection. I guess it comes down to Choose Wisely. or something.

And I'm not sure I even really know what I consider to be romantic. And I'm not talking about How Can You Impress Me romance; I'm talking, we-both-like-each-other-so-we-are-free-to-act-according-to-those-feelings-in-whatever-way-it-manifests-itself romance.
It seems silly or stupid, I know, but for all the things I know about myself, this is a realm I've not yet been able to fully explore. And I'm sure at some point it will happen, but in the meantime all I can do is write pondering, ponderous blogs on the topic.

so here goes something. or something.

2012-01-10T15:01:00.000-08:00

I write to find out how I feel and what I think; I avoid writing because I’m afraid to find out. Writing is discovery. It’s acknowledgment. When I start writing with a vague feeling or thought, I usually find out much more than I expect. And then it’s there in front of me, and I have to see it; face it; know it; accept it. Ignorance is bliss, or something, so I don’t write. Writing is saying it out loud, and there are some things that you just can’t say out loud. Not now, not yet, not ever. But I’m trying out this thing where I’m more vulnerable. And that means writing. Writing the things I don’t know, the things I do know, the things I find out, the things I want to find out. Being vulnerable means knowing myself and sharing it. Knowing myself first comes from writing. Writing is easy; knowing is hard. Sharing is almost impossible. Sharing means other people can know you. And that’s scary.

a year in review, sort of

2012-01-03T22:44:00.000-08:00

It’s been almost a year and half and I finally found the perfect song. After feeling the impact of every sad/love/sad-love song like it was written just for me but knowing it wasn’t—there was no love; god, was there absolutely no love—I found it, and it’s bittersweet in every cliché way, and it’s funny how little it all crosses my mind now except every now and again and when I talk about it, it’s not like stabbing myself in the chest, and do we ever really learn from anything, anyway, or are we—am I—doomed to go on and on and on like we do, hurting people in our way, getting hurt by people who put themselves in our way, or maybe they didn’t ask to get in our way at all. But we can’t stop, cutting a swath on our way to what? to success? to accomplishment? to freedom? I hope you don’t end up in a ditch somewhere, but I guess you got what you wanted, and I finally feel free and happy and I wasn’t listening at the Christmas church service, but the one thing I did hear was when the pastor said that it’s almost a new year—and once it’s here, there’s no point in worrying about everything that happened in the year past; it’s over; no point in dwelling on it, and he’s right, and there are so many things I’m tired of dwelling on and there are some things you have to do and be done with and it’s hard, certainly, but it’s Over. and Done. and if they weren’t you surely would have buried me by now. Germany probably saved my life or at least my sanity. If I hadn’t of had to slow down I don’t know where I would be right now or how burned out or how strung out or fried—I couldn’t have kept going, and as I’ve said more than once in the last 48 hours, both teary-eyed and drunkenly in the dark and sleepy-eyed and laughing in the sunshine, this year has to be better than last.

I’m finally coming to terms with the idea/fact/concept that I’m not the same as I was, or maybe I’m still the same but I’m allowing myself to feel and be the things I never let myself before. I worked so hard to be so tough, and so strong, but I don’t think I ever was, but I’m tired of berating myself for everything I think I shouldn’t be because, as it all turns out, I’m soft. And I’m weak. Metaphorically and literally, and I’ve got scraped up knees to prove it. We get fucked, we get fucked with and we get fucked up but I guess we do learn at some point to know better, or at least our reaction time gets a little quicker each time and maybe the universe wants to balance itself or it’s just playing a terribly slow game of see-saw since the end of 2010 started to slide down and down and down and the end of 2011 started to tip up and up and maybe not quite so up, but after all, she sings, it won’t take long to fall in love, and starting the first few days of the new year with the people I love, nursing a hangover; eating chilaquiles and cinnamon rolls; sitting in a tattoo shop; laying on the couch watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer, is all I really ever wanted to do.

"are you on your period or something?"

2011-12-29T22:04:00.001-08:00

Cramps got you down?

Feeling shitty because your uterine lining is falling out?

Just remember, you’re the gender that gets paid less in the workplace, harassed and belittled for simply being your gender and told you’re crazy, irrational and silly on a regular basis.

So cherish this moment.

An analogy is like a writing desk

2011-11-29T20:24:00.000-08:00

I have my reasons for the wall. Some people have gotten inside it simply because I opened the gate, and they strolled on in like it was an open house, kicking stuff over and knocking things around and generally fucking shit up and never paying for the damage. Some people have tried to pry their way in, removing brick by brick by brick, only to find I’m adding more bricks as they take them away. And some are in the entryway, standing somewhat awkwardly with their coat in their hands, wondering if they should get comfortable or just put their coat back on and leave. Some people talked to me from across the moat, listened to me, shared things with me, maybe they swam across once or twice just to hear me better, and eventually were invited inside. Sure, maybe they accidently knocked over a lamp once or twice, but I can get over a lamp. I can’t remember how some people have gotten inside because it seems like they’ve always been there, giggling and whispering and playing and crying with me since before I can remember.
I have my reasons for the wall. But I wish I didn’t have to have it in the first place. I wish I never built it. I wish you never built yours, either.
We all have our reasons for being guarded, some more than others. And it’s not a terrible idea to have some alarm systems in place. But I’m tired of keeping it up, of worrying about it. Bored, even. I don’t know what it means to not have those walls up; how to do that. But people aren’t paying attention to each other, anyway. We’re all walling ourselves away so that—what?—we just end up alone in a room by ourselves.

I’m tired of feeling delicate.
I’m tired of pretending I’m not.
I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.

Your Assistant girl

2011-11-21T15:19:00.000-08:00

Remember when I had that brilliant idea to start that one work-related blog and I was all excited about it, and then promptly forgot about it? Me, neither.

-warts

2011-11-18T15:18:00.001-08:00

I'm a worrier.

You've heard of us before. Your mother or father is probably one, maybe your weird aunt cindy who collects cow figurines--but you know who we are. We're the ones who fidget in our seats, crossing and uncrossing our legs; the ones who do that annoying clicky thing with our fingernails when we're anxious; the ones who ask you a million questions? about when it's going to be done? who's taking care of it? if you have everything you need? is there anything i can do?

We can't help it. I can't help it. Half the time I think I'm not actually worried or anxious, I'm just so habitually inclined to demonstrate the mannerisms. (Which is to say, I'm probably deluding myself into thinking I'm more laid-back than I really am, or I'm severely misunderstood, and most people are not, so ergo, I'm delusional.)

I don't know when it happened, or where it started. I don't know where to pinpoint the dawn of my obsessive tendencies. Are we born high-strung or do we just end up that way? And that's what it is, too--worry is just obsession. And both (or "it," if we can agree they're the same thing) are tiring. Tiptoeing is exhausting. Framing your questions the right way, wording your email just so, making every move with determined hesitation because Don't Fuck This Up runs on repeat on a banner across your brain like a stock ticker or a digital display in Times Square.

At some point you fuck up anyway. That's normal, it's natural and it's unavoidable. But for you, the worrier, it's not. Because other people fuck up. But you're careful. You're detailed. You're good at multitasking. And you worked goddamn hard to cultivate your precision, your craft.

But what's the point? If it's inevitable that your perfection can't last (and was never there to begin with), why bother? The stress you hold in your back and neck and shoulders isn't benefitting anyone, certainly not you. Your carefulness can just as easily be maintained. So you know what, go ahead, let's grant ourselves permission:
We can chill the fuck out.

joshua

2011-11-18T12:25:00.000-08:00

The desert was our playground.
We ran, we jumped, we climbed, we hid, we wandered away and back and crawled through crevices and scaled boulders.
We dug our fingers into the dirt and watched giant beetles crawl into our hands.
We left our bodies behind. We left our worries, our anxieties, our apprehensions and our deadlines.
We played make-believe. We played hide-and-seek. We hopped from rock to rock and on your mark, get set, go, we raced across the sand to see who was the fastest. We walked with our arms at our sides like penguins and we sprawled out on the ground to soak up the sun.
We got lost and we got found. We came back alive. And we ate kebabs.

Ramble on

2011-10-21T14:11:00.000-07:00

Oh you know, just sitting at my desk, polishing off a burrito after I’ve already eaten a Chik-fil-a kid’s meal, planning on where I’m going to source some chocolate from (vending machine, co-workers, purse, …trash?) so I can continue today’s tradition of eating nonstop since I had a giant chocolate chip Vietnamese pastry for breakfast, feeling, among other things, sorry for myself—not because I’m some sort of fat om nom nom monster today since I’ve already come to terms with that, but maybe for some reasons I don’t know, though I know, mostly, and I can’t stop listening to St. Vincent even though she’s all I’ve listened to for about three weeks straight now, but her music is beautiful and discordant enough to be just the right amount of imperfect so that it’s perfect.

There’s a bottle of children’s cough syrup on my desk because a company sent it to a name of someone who works here who doesn’t actually work here, and it looks sort of like I have either a childlike disease that requires a child’s medicine or like I’m trying to prove I don’t have a drinking problem, “See? I don’t have to have it to get me through the day,” but then again I also had a plush bumblebee with an asian baby’s face sitting on my desk for a while, so maybe I’ve inadvertently been sending signals for people to stay away from my desk/me, but nonetheless, awkward IT people seem to think it’s totally fine to randomly walk up to my desk apropos of nothing and grab my box of peanut butter Puffins cereal and read the label and go, “hm.” and walk away.

I’m starting to wonder what I look like to other people. How I seem. I used to be so wrapped up in my head and so “self-aware” and touted my “self-awareness” as some sort of badge of honor or a reason to think I was better than other people or maybe just a way to say, “I know I’m like this, I’m sorry.” And over the past year or few years, I’ve lost that overburdening false sense of self—because you can know as many things about yourself as you want, but you still end up missing everything around you anyway and you think you know how people perceive you and what everyone’s thinking and you don’t because you’re just selfishly balled up inside your brain, berating yourself and judging others and you somehow don’t see that you’ve been upside down this whole time even though you “knew” you were upside down or that everyone else was upside down—and now I just … am. I be. I exist. And now I selfishly wonder what that I am be looks like to other people. Maybe I’m just using it as a way to analyze myself because I’m missing something about myself? I see a dichotomy between who I am and what people think of me, but maybe everyone sees me exactly how I see myself. But I don’t see myself anymore because I. am. myself. What were we talking about?

I’m on a mission to stop saying sorry about things I don’t need to apologize for.

Mmm, brains

2011-09-21T13:06:00.001-07:00

I took a left/right brain quiz on some stupid random website, and the result was surprisingly (and unfortunately) perceptive.
An excerpt:

Your natural ability to use your senses is also synthesized in your way of learning. You can be reflective in your approach, absorbing material in a non-aggressive manner, and at other times voracious in seeking out stimulation and experience.
Overall you tend to be somewhat more critical of yourself than is necessary and avoid enjoying life too much because of a sense of duty. You feel somewhat constrained and tend to sometimes restrict your expressiveness. In any given situation, you will opt for the rational, and learning of almost any type should be easy for you.

In conclusion:
I am German.

Triple word score

2011-06-23T21:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I feel I'm thisclose to discovering something about myself artistically.
And then I
fall asleep
start thinking of last night's dream about making out with Enrique Iglesias
get distracted by the new issue of Wired
start a new game of Words With Friends on my phone
opt, out of laziness, not to open my unbearably slow PC and just write one damn sentence
combinations of the above

In conclusion: foiled again, self-inflicted.
I am a pathetic little fool in my small, yellow, tv- and internet-less apartment.

At least im winning on WWF.

Nightlighttenment

2011-04-29T07:56:00.000-07:00

You stop reading for a while, maybe accidently, maybe purposely, maybe both. You maneuver—both subtly and sharply—into a land where there is no time for such things; exhaustion wins, iPhone games overrule. Then you read something great and think, Holy Shit. You read an article in Wired and think, My god, that was well put-together. You aimlessly—finally—browse those piled-up, unread issues of Harper’s and laugh, almost cry, and remark—out loud—to yourself, “Fuck.”

For the past few weeks I’ve been doing everything in the dark; someone flipped on the switch, and I now see, Oh yes, everything’s much better this way.

It’s baffling I could forget the enjoyment of words, the turns of phrases, the dichotomy of diction. Do you write to live or live to write? I’m sure that’s some well-worn cliché—but suspend the rules: Isn’t it both? Ignoring the financial implication and taking it literally: Wouldn’t I die if I didn’t write?
Don’t I start to every time I forsake it or ignore it because I’m too busy; too stressed; too distracted? So I feel like I’m experiencing the Age of Enlightenment from a short story about a father, a fishing hook and a rabbit; from a list of descriptions of the sun compiled by Alzheimer’s patients; from an essay on modernity’s twisted take on happiness and suffering that reflects what I’ve been saying all along but of course says it a thousand times more eloquently and articulately. And—because I am Enlightened!—I must finally write, because I’m writing in my head as I shower, afraid I’m going to lose the Enlightment!, so I must get it down on paper (albeit virtual paper); must overuse semi-colons because Why not? this is writing and it can be whatever I want. I could BEGIN WRITING IN CAPS IF I PLEASED, MERELY BECAUSE THE OPTION HAS BEEN PLACED BEFORE ME AND IT IS YET ONE MORE WAY TO CONVEY MEANING.

But of course, the fervor, as it must, as it always does, won’t last. It will retreat slowly, unnoticed as time passes, because Enlightenment! cannot last—if it did I might die from sheer pleasure—because it comes in waves, rolling in and out, sometimes the tide lasting longer than others. So I hope, probably naively and uselessly, that this one can last; that I can read and recognize the well-done as I devour; that I can appreciate the crafting and refining—the shaping of the big: the theme, the angle, and the minutiae: the nuances, the subtleties, that without them would render words just letters on paper (virtual or otherwise)—before the light gets turned off, and I am once more unaware.

sometimes your brain melts

2011-04-12T10:39:00.000-07:00

e-quail
(ˈkwāl\) n.

A technologically savvy avian that has learnt to use its talons for internet pursuits, whether work or personal, and contributes regularly to online quail culture (commonly known as quailture). Most likely proficient in QuailPoint and C++.

hunger

2010-11-01T20:08:00.000-07:00

"The more financially independent, in control of events, educated and sexually autonomous women become in the world, the more impoverished, out of control, foolish and sexually insecure we are asked to feel in our bodies."

-Naomi Wolf, The Beauty Myth

sunrise

2010-10-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

occasionally, the drive to work isn't terrible.

Because you can't do work at work all the time, and sometimes you look at lolcats

2010-10-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

M: I'm assuming cats need special keyboards since their dexterity is limited.
B: It is? I thought they were nimble, quick and always ready to pounce.
M: They are, certainly, but that lack of movable digits will be their ultimate downfall, because if they can't keep up with technology, they'll be obsolete.
B: So birds will be fine but not dogs and cats?
M: Unfortunately.

This is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

2010-09-09T21:41:00.000-07:00

After not being touched or touching someone for a while, accidently brushing hands or arms or knocking knees with a stranger is foreign and uncomfortable for the first few seconds, and then like being hugged tightly and having sweet things whispered in your ear, and ultimately like being pushed out of the car and left on the side of the road.

Dandelion Wine

2010-08-23T16:17:00.000-07:00

I'm going to go back.
I'm going to go to the old places I used to wander, play, hide.
I'm going to get coffee and have tea with old friends, old neighbors.
I'm going to spend time with the girl who's really not just my cousin, but my older sister, the only person my age who's known me since I was born, the girl I would do anything for--like eat dog food at age 7 when dared.
I'm going to see the house I grew up in, the woods, the rope swing over the creek.
I'm going to cry and cry and cry and cry.
I'm going to start figuring out what's wrong with me; why I'm stuck; why I let people hurt me over and over; why I don't know what I want; what I want.
I'm going to read and read and read
and write and write and write.
I'm going to get drunk with my cousin while floating on the lake.
I'm going to run around barefoot in the woods and wade through creeks and climb trees and discover the spaces not so often tread on.
I'm going to go to a show by myself at some tiny bar downtown.
I'm going to talk to people I don't know and ask them about themselves and watch their faces and hands while they talk.
I'm going to be alone.
and I'm going to be okay.

off and on

2010-08-05T18:45:00.000-07:00

SENTIMENTAL X's
Broken Social Scene

A friend, a friend you used to call
When your back me up was gone
A friend, a friend you used to call

Off and on is what we want
What we want is off and on

A friend of a friend you used to call
Or a friend of a friend you used
You used to call

Why couldn't they leave us where they found us
When we were neither one the wildest
We're taken along, is it timeless?
Shouldn't we keep it as a promise?

All for one and one for all
A friend, a friend you used to call
All for one and one for all
Everyone you knew

Sentimental, all of you

I love you

We're men, MANLY men, we're men in tights. Yeah!

2010-07-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

Everyone knows I love men.

I love to look at them, think about them and daydream about them.
Especially when they're tall
and cute
and handsome
and clever and witty and intelligent
and maybe have a sleeve of tattoos or some piercings and mmmmmm.

Hold on, where was I going with this?

Oh yes, I love men. But in theory, not in practice.

They are full of themselves.
Seriously, no one likes to talk about themselves as much as a man does:
"Hello, I am so ____ and ____ and ____. Did I mention how ____ I am? Let me tell you more about how amazing I am at ____."

They don't know what they want
(even though they pretend to).
Then they wander around the globe
or their room
reading Nietzsche and Kerouac and Sartre
and somehow end up back in the same place,
though at first perhaps claiming to be newly Buddhist
or vegetarian
or atheist
or some combination of the above.

They show you glimpses of their humanity;
of sweetness;
of tenderness;
of kindness;
but then quickly help you forget they are capable of being vulnerable
and go back to being selfish, self-absorbed and apathetic.
They ignore you,
and then they write stories and poetry and blogs and lyrics about finding love.
And then, after four weeks--
or three months,
or two years--
of fucking around, they call you
or text you
or email you
or show up uninvited
and don't understand why you seem upset.

In conclusion:
Just because you say you are something doesn't make it so.
Be nice.
SHUT UP.
Don't ask me out 100 times if I've said no twice.
Don't bother texting me after you've blown me off twice.
Goals. Have some.
I'm staring at you because you're my boyfriend and I think you're cute, you asshat.
You're less self-aware than you think
and more transparent than you think.
And I will love you anyway.

Happy is as happy does

2010-06-29T14:03:00.000-07:00

People are like marshmallows. They get hard on the outside when they're under fire, but inside they're just soft and squishy.

Okay so people aren't really like marshmallows, but I like analogies and I wanted to make that one worked.
It has nothing to do with anything. This blog post is going to wander, so I wanted you to have visions of marshmallows dancing in your head in case you get bored.

It's hard to take a stand on what you want for your life when you don't know what you want. It's hard to make decisions when you honestly don't know what would be best for you. And when your options are so scarce or non-existent, it becomes more about taking whatever you can get over meeting your needs. But if you don't know what you need, then…this discussion is already over.

My best friend recently asked me if I missed college (even though she already knew the answer).
No, I do not.
It's surprising to me that even though there's so much uncertainty in my life, and I can get so anxious about all the instability and not knowing and HOLY CRAP WHAT AM I GOING TO DO FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE, I'm not unhappy.
And it's because I'm not in school anymore.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like to go to a different school or to have not been miserable at mine, but everything brought me to where I am now, not to sound overly philosophical. And I probably wouldn't have two ridiculously amazing best friends if my college life had gone any differently.

I don't like the word "happy." It's all semantics, sure, but happy feels shallow and selfish. I'm "happy" I just bought a new pair of jeans that are really soft, even though they were expensive. Eating curry makes me happy. I'm happy when children are not annoying.

But being motivated or ambitious, getting a callback from a job, writing a kickass short story--that doesn't make me happy. It makes me joyful, excited, fulfilled. And to me, those words imply so many other feelings than a simple "happy" does. Happy means happy. Happy doesn’t mean anything. I'm totally off on a tangent here, I know, but hear me out.

Who cares if you're happy? People are so worried about being happy. I worry about it, too. But it's more that I make sure I'm not unfulfilled. And if I am, I make sure I’m doing something about it. If you were paying attention, I used the word unhappy earlier; It's hard not to. I feel like I check up on myself to make sure I'm not unhappy--but what I'm really doing is making sure I never feel as depressed and disheartened as I was. I don't think life is about being happy. I think it's about being put or putting yourself in challenging situations. And you find, fight, work and grow your way out of them. And you become a more fully realized person--and happy has nothing to do with it.

I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, actually. I just want to erase "happy" from my vocabulary. It's like how the Greek and Hebrew words for "love" or "peace" encompass so much more than what they mean when translated into English. I need a word like that to explain what I mean.
Semantics. Yes, I hear you. But words carry weight. It's why I write, after all.

What the Frack-tion?

2010-05-17T15:59:00.000-07:00

Today at work there were far too many numbers for my brain to compute.

If a company sends out 5,000 direct-mail coupons and 1,300 people respond, making the redemption rate 26 percent, and a list of 3,400 clients is collected, and ultimately the response rate, through viral marketing, grows to 15,000 people,
how long does it take until Michelle's brain explodes?

Someone do the math on that and get back to me.

I had to have the CEO of a company explain these numbers to me about four different times until I understood what was going on. I felt like I was in kindergarten. At least he didn't talk to me like a child, I guess.

Not to mention I also had to try to figure out the percent margin on what one hotel makes on their markup of Macallan 12-year scotch. I need about three, $12 1.5 oz shots of the $42 bottle after trying to calculate their margin. SPOILER: I fail to calculate the correct number.

Speaking of Macallan, I know how much many different bars across the United States charge for a shot, so if you're into countrywide consumption of scotch, you know who to call, my friends.

I can also give you the names of some premier mixologists in the Vegas and Denver areas, as well as let you know which bar some of the details of the JPMorgan Chase buyout of WaMu occurred.

And did I mention I AM READY FOR A VACATION? NOW.

Forever Young

2010-04-12T13:57:00.001-07:00

So I just voted for my top ten favorite young adult books on Persnickety Snark. After submitting my votes, which I used Goodreads to help me out, I realized I completely left out some of my favorite books o' my youth.

Which brings me to a very important question: How can I even begin to choose my favorite books?

Most of the books that have meant the most to me/stuck with me/made me giddy with glee are books I read when I was younger. Granted, I was reading books above my reading level at a young age, so books that are considered Young Adult (about 13 yrs or older), I read before I qualified as one such Young'n. In fact, I had to look up what books are considered Young Adult and it all seems very vague to me, because Twilight, Maniac McGee and Catcher in the Rye all fall under the category of YA. Really, they should be grouped as such: Suckfest of terribly bungled writing of a semi-interesting concept but really has no redeeming qualities; middle school book that was kind of cool; AMAZING.

Seriously, what constitutes young adult? Is Chuck Palahniuk's work considered YA? What about Watchmen? I NEED ANSWERS, PEOPLE.

Most of the books considered YA are written for younger kids, yes, but the good ones (i.e. Catcher) are the ones that are timeless. That you re-read and still relate to. I just recently re-read The Phantom Tollbooth, which is unarguably one of my top three favorite books of all time. It's the perfect book for people like me who revel in words and language and the use (and misuse) of it all.
One of my favorite lines (I love a good play on words):
"Oh dear, all those words again," thought Milo as he climbed into the wagon with Tock and the cabinet members. "How are you going to make it move? It doesn't have a--"
"Be very quiet," advised the duke, "for it goes without saying."

Alice in Wonderland/Through the Looking Glass, The Little Prince, Great Gatsby and Brave New World are all books I try to read again every once in a while. They really aren't just for "young adults," after all. Alice particularly has always resonated with me no matter how old I am when I read it. Other childhood (young adulthood? That just sounds gross) favorites included The Voyages of Dr. Doolittle, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and the Narnia books. Yeah, I loved me some fiction.

After all that, here's the list I submitted, which totally isn't comprehensive or even really what I would have put if I'd given it more thought. After No. 2, they aren't in any particular order (because I can't remember what order I put them in on the survey). Among other things, I'd take Mixed-Up Files off, although it's still my ultimate fantasy to get locked inside the Met, and maybe add James and the Giant Peach and Alice in Wonderland. And Brave New World, which I am ashamed I forgot about. Oh, and Heart of Darkness. THERE IS NO WAY TO CHOOSE JUST TEN.

1. The Martian Chronicles by Ray Bradbury
2. The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster
3. Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
4. The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery
5. The Magician's Nephew by C.S. Lewis
6. A Wrinkle in Time by Madeleine L'Engle
7. The Giver by Lois Lowry
8. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
9. Lord of the Flies by William Golding
10. From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg

Man, this post is a jumble of thoughts.

What would you guys list as your fave YA books?

2010: A Spatial Odyssey

2010-04-02T14:48:00.000-07:00

I'm not going to lie to you, I love you.

You're amazing; You're smart, funny, full of random information, and I know I can count on you.

But sometimes you give me a headache. Sometimes I just want a simple answer, and with you there's no one answer for anything. It's overwhelming, and you often go off on irrelevant tangents. You have a great memory, but I just don't need to know half the stuff you tell me.

You can be malicious at times, too, freaking out and going haywire. I don't know what to do when you get like that. I've had to call in a third party more than once for help with your temper.

And remember when we were in England and tried to download and watch Cloverfield online? That didn't go so well, did it? We broke up for a few months after that. Studying abroad without you around wasn't easy for me, either. I had to lean on the support from my roommates. Did it make you jealous that I lived with five boys?

I'm sorry, though, for all the times I mistreated you. I know I can really push your buttons.
And it's not fair to you when I turn you on and then walk away, leaving you to sit idle while I go attend to other things.

You can be really sweet--sending me notes and pictures. Sometimes I don't understand them, though.
Why do you need me to deposit money in the Nigerian Prime Minister's bank account? Also, I'm definitely not going to order male enhancement pills. And that "funny picture of Lindsay Lohan?" I brought that up, and you just shut down.

But, computer, do you know what I like best about you?

When you sit on my lap, you really get me hot.

Like Water for Chocolate (Dogs)

2010-03-19T13:38:00.000-07:00

So Eve, the fabulous woman I sit next to, got a press release today about Water4Dogs, a facility for doggie physical therapy or plain old doggie recreation. Um, here's how the pitch to Eve started:

"I wanted to share news about Jodi Richard, a woman entrepreneur whose passion for animals led her to put aside her corporate-minded projects for an entrepreneurial pursuit that could really make a difference in the canine world."

I've already begun to ask "WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?"
Animals are great, okay--they're fuzzy and fun and whatnot--but making "a difference in the canine world?" Really?
Water4Dogs is in New York and--HOW CLEVER--combines the "urban environment" with swimming.
NOW DOGZ CAN HAS SWIM.
And those old, rickety, raggedy dogs can heal their creaking bones with hydrotherapy and massages.

So here are my complaints in an organized list:

A. I know I sound like an insensitive A-hole, but shouldn't we be first focused on HUMANS and then on animals? Obviously a lot of people would disagree with me (hello, vegetarian and vegan friends), but I've always held that view. People > animals. Which means that yes, we are responsible for taking care of all other living creatures. But not before we take care of our fellow human beans.

B. A one-hour "rehab" session is $160 bucks. I get massages for WAY LESS THAN THAT. ME. ME THE HUMAN BEAN.

C. Self-explanatory, from the press release: "Birthday parties are available in the pool, with party favors and birthday treats for the guest of honor all included in the package deal."

D. The NY Times wrote an article on it. Okay, let's see a different publication pay for a writer to go swimming with her dog and then stay in a posh doggie hotel. I shake my head at the absurdity of the expenses.

Okay, so--I actually think it's an interesting, somewhat innovative idea, but the fact that it's as upscale as places for people triggers my gag reflexes. I think people paying craploads of money for state-of-the-art this and that is overkill and often a waste of money unless it's really going to be beneficial to their health/for their sickness/disease/debilitation/politically correct words.
I just imagine really thin women with upturned noses saying, "Well DAH-ling, my poor ickle poodle, Dudleykins, just CAHN'T go without his 30-minutes-a-day recreational swim at Water4DAHGS." (Full disclosure: I think poodles are weird, ugly and scary.)

But I guess if you're really close to your pet, and they've got arthritis, this might seem like a viable option for them to "feel better."
But then I think it's weird to be really close to your pet.
But then that makes me feel like I have no soul.

I just feel like people who love animals this much should be volunteering their time instead of asking us to pay them mounds of cash.

Thoughts?

The Duel

2010-03-06T15:38:00.000-08:00

Dear Andrew,

Thanks for challenging me to a writing duel. Now I get to look through my myriad folders of crap, semi-crap, crap that could be good, good stuff that could be great and collection of writings that only have the first sentence to pull out something I can fashion into a story I'm not embarrassed to share and would at some point consider submitting to McSweeney's.

Not to mention I only have until Wednesday and I don't want to give you five bucks if I don't meet our deadline. I will gladly take your money, however, should you fail to meet your end of the bargain.

Your friend,

The King of Mexico

P.S. How I feel

Things that aren't fun in the morning

2010-02-22T14:13:00.001-08:00

1. Waking up.
2. Discussions on intense topics, like depression, death or sexual experiences.
3. Shampooing your hair three times because you forgot the second time that you'd already shampooed it, and the third time you thought you picked up the conditioner. But you didn't.
4. Zits in the formation of constellations on your face.
5. Cat hair in your tea.
6. Cat hair in your cereal.
7. Realizing you accidentally bought rice milk instead of soy milk.
8. Surprise! Another student loan you need to start paying off.
9. Bank of America email: Low balance alert
10. Menopausal mothers

Call me Mr. Flintstone

2010-01-25T11:04:00.000-08:00

I suppose that when your blog sits idle for so long that you get spam comments in foreign languages, it's time to update. I suppose it also helps that the office is dead because everyone is in Miami, and when you're an intern, you don't get to follow along.
Sometimes it's easy to forget that the people you love the most are beautiful. You know it in the back of your head and in your heart, but it's not in the forefront of your mind. And then something as simple--and, in the grand scheme of things, technologically silly--as a Facebook message reminds you how wonderful someone is. Someone pours their thoughts out, and you realize, oh yeah--they are absolutely beautiful.
I'm realizing that lately I've forsaken things that bring me joy for things that don't matter. Forsaken is a strong word, but I'm referring to the fact that I zone out to crap TV instead of reading. I play on my iPhone instead of going for a run on the beach. And then I have moments where I walk by the cliffs, watch the sunset, and realize I'm still working out who I am. It's so easy to settle into a routine--and for now, that's okay--but I can't keep forgetting to pursue things that make me ultimately me. Some of those things are still up in the air (and winners of Golden Globes), but it's the seeking that is important.
I feel like this is starting to get too reflective and esoteric, so let me just end here.

Cake Mix

2008-11-10T11:50:00.000-08:00

Aaaand here I am promoting someone else's blog again:
Cake Wrecks

We have the good:

The bad:

and the ugly/weird/deer in hell:

I went through EVERY post last night instead of sleeping.

It was totally worth it.

K.C Masterpiece

2008-11-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

Wow, I'm really good at updating, right?
I got back from Kansas City yesterday (for the College Media Advisory Conference), in one piece save for the original insides of my stomach, which were violently expelled from food poisoning caused by Chipotle chicken.
That was a purposely long sentence. I'm experimenting with sentence length to improve my skills as as writer. (I dunno, I feel like I owe intelligent explanations for my choices. My head still hurts from vomiting so much, OKAY??)
So Kansas City is...okay. Not the most interesting place in the world, but it was pretty rad to get out of the smog in California and breathe in some different air.
Also, meeting people from states other than California is kind of fantastic. It's so easy to forget some people are actually genuine.
Besides being violently sick to my stomach the last night in K.C., I had a good time. I didn't think about homework or school or friends (okay I thought about them a little) and I was surrounded by weirdos like me.

2008-09-25T15:57:00.000-07:00

I haven't updated in a while, I know.
School has been busy, and when I have down time, I like to zone out in a book or play Snood on the computer.
Which reminds me, I think Snood causes hallucinations because I see Snoods in front of my eyes when I blink or look in certain directions. Probably not okay.
One of those "isn't life funny" things:
When I try to write "slut" in a text message (of course, I'm not actually using this word in a text. I'm just, uh...remembering how to spell it. Yeah. I would never use language derogatory to women.)
my T9 spells "plut" and then recommends the word "plutocracy."
I feel like there's irony in there somewhere. Maybe something about rich sluts, I don't know.
My first issue of the newspaper came out yesterday morning.
It's pretty scary, realizing I have hard evidence of my status as editor-in-chief. I can't hide now. It's my paper and I have to take responsibility for the good and the bad. And the ugly typos that still get through the editing process.
Anyway, that's all I have to say.

Clever title

2008-08-18T00:17:00.000-07:00

I sometimes forget how hard it is for me to be vulnerable.

Today I had a reminder, when I felt like I was prying open my chest, and I was uncomfortably aware of how everything inside it ached and burned and prayed not to be stabbed.
I know it's not easy for anyone, but why is it really hard for me?
It's good, healthy, blah etc blah, to talk about feelings and address issues, but sometimes I can't and don't want to.

I'm starting to feel again, and it's strange and uncomfortable.

Dinosaur Tales

2008-08-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

I'm a fan of this music video:

Also, I'm Ray Bradbury's lost soulmate.
I just discovered:
"But as for now I accept the fact, and proclaim it quietly, that without dinosaurs my life would have been nothing at all. Dinosaurs started me on the track to becoming a writer."

The Day it Rained Forever

2008-07-21T08:41:00.000-07:00

There's always a time that comes when you have to let someone go.

I've made every excuse to keep holding on and on, but it's finally time to
let
it

go.

I was let go a long time ago, and I've allowed myself to be continually hurt in a one-sided friend/relation/i-don't-know/ship.

Maybe it takes something that makes you forget to think about them, or maybe it just finally happens in an Aha! moment, but one way or the other, I am through.

I give it up.

I am realizing that an old hurt is making its way into my life in a new situation. I'm scared of trusting my best friend; how ridiculous is that?

A few months ago, I lost two friends and two sets of trusts. And I'm afraid that friendship means nothing if a boy gets in the way. It makes me feel silly and juvenile, but apparently, it's not a far-fetched insecurity if it happened once.

I don't feel very productive right now. I feel like life is going on outside of me and I'm sitting around, biting my fingernails, reading short stories and watching movies.

I can't be running around all the time, but sitting has made me miss the running.

Looking at Becca Pratt's travel pictures (on http://www.beccapratt.blogspot.com/) made my heart stop, and now there's an ache inside to be doing, moving and traveling.

I'm so proud of what's she is working towards and who she serves. I desire to have that drive for whatever it is I can accomplish with the skills and talents I've been given.

Maybe right now is a waiting period.

Maybe right now is a resting period.

Whatever the case, I'm changing again.

It's never going to stop.

Also, I may be sitting around, trying not to bite my fingernails and reading short stories, but Ray Bradbury never ceases to astonish me with his unbelievable writing:

Excerpt from Fever Dream:

"He felt the walls of his body change, the organs shift, the lungs catch fire like burning bellows of pink alcohol. The room was lighted up as with the flickerings of a hearthplace.

Now he had no body. It was all gone. It was under him, but it was filled with a vast pulse of some burning, lethargic drug. It was as if a guillotine had neatly lopped off his head and his head lay shining on a midnight pillow while the body, below, still alive, belonged to somebody else. The disease had eaten his body and from the eating had reproduced itself in feverish duplicate. There were the little hand-hairs and the fingernails and the scars and the toenails and the tiny mole on his right hip, all done again in perfect fashion.

I am dead, he thought. I've been killed, and yet I live. My body is dead, it is all disease and nobody will know. I will walk around and it will not be me, it will be something else. It will be something all bad, all evil, so big and so evil it's hard to understand or think about. Something that will buy shoes and drink water and get married some day maybe and do more evil in the world than has ever been done."

13 Going on 21.

2008-06-03T14:34:00.000-07:00

Turning 21 isn't really that exciting, save for it makes me sound older than 20.
It's true, though, isn't it? 21 sounds so much older than 20. Turning 22 will sound even older.
My "big night" consisted of dinner with my mom and dad, followed by another Prison Break marathon. But not before we all had an argument that turned into a let's-talk-about-our-feelings, why-don't-you-tell-us-how-you-feel, you-know-you-can-always-talk-to-us-about-anything conversation. (Hi, mom. Yes, I know you read this.)
It feels weird that it's summer, because after Oxford ended and I traveled the globe, trying to slowly make my way home, it felt like it was time to go back to school. In fact, I would have willingly gone back if it meant finishing college earlier. Instead I have a whole summer in front of me, when all I want to do is get senior year over with.
After being in Oxford, I feel really unproductive if I'm not writing a paper or reading for a gazillion hours a day or walking half an hour just to listen to some boring lecture on the British economy and then walking half an hour to get back home. Sitting in the jacuzzi at home makes me feel brain dead compared to what I was doing this past semester. I'm trying to tell myself that what I'm doing and where I'm at right now is acceptable, but it's a strange adjustment. No one's expecting excellence from me in the categories of secretarial work or sunbathing.
I think I'm coming out of the transitory phase of being abroad to being home right now. I didn't enter the phase until I was in New York, 3ish weeks after actually leaving Oxford, and then one day, WABOOSH, I'm crying into my pillow WAH WAH WAH I MISS MY FRIENDS I MISS MY ROOMMATES I MISS LIBRARIES AND SCONES.
I still miss scones, and I still miss the people I became close to, but it's fading more lately.
I have realized I'm still angry about some things I thought I was almost over, and I'm almost over some things I thought I was angry about.

FEELINGS. I'm talking about my FEEEEELINGS. Is everyone proud?
Thank you.

edit: There's no way for me to mention Oxford without feeling or sounding pretentious, so I'm pretending to ignore the fact that it bothers me.

The sequel is called Arrogance and Racism.

2008-04-11T16:17:00.000-07:00

Today was the end of everything.

I had my last art tutorial this afternoon. We had our British history and culture exam on Wednesday. I am

Tonight was a Pride and Prejudice marathon night (the BBC long version), complete with tons of snacks and scones and sugary sweetness. It was a nice finish to my morning, which consisted of trying to get through the rest of my giant books on Surrealism and conjure up a paper on Giorgio de Chirico and Rene Magritte before 2 pm.

But now I am free. Tomorrow I am sleeping in and reading books and doing whatever the hell I feel like doing. Which will probably consist of eating chocolate at some point.

Monday is our last day in Oxford. Which I'm getting my head around, because it's so strange to think I'm out of here in about 3 days. We have a "final symposium" on Monday, where everyone talks for about ten minutes each on one of their tutorials, and we're all having lunch at Pizza Express (which, contrary to images the name might evoke, is actually a nice restaurant).

Tuesday I fly out to Spain with Daniel and Amanda and we're in Barcelona for about 4 1/2 days. Ironically, Spain was the last place I wanted to go while I was abroad, but I'm actually looking forward to it. There are sweet museums that feature Surrealist art I just studied, and there's a Dali museum, too. And the beach. The beach is good, too.

After that I fly back to Oxford to collect all my crap, fly to Germany for about 3 weeks, and then fly to New York, stay there for 10 days and then FINALLY get home.

I miss the sun, I miss the beach, and I miss the beauty of Palos Verdes. How cheesy am I?

I have hair dye in my hair and it's time for me to go wash it out...Au Revoir.

Here's a picture of Brit and I doing something.

Update

2008-03-02T13:41:00.000-08:00

Here are some pictorial updates. More will appear soon.

This is my house. Well, the right half is.

We can be pretty tough. You wouldn't want to meet us in a dark alley.

Londi's is a life-giving source we rely on for sustenance. and Kit Kat bars.

Janel and I.

Janel and I went to the Absolut Ice Bar in London.

Woo, bar made of ice!

It's pretty cold in there; hence, glasses made of ice.

Us looking tough in our parkas.

Pre-London. I don't know why it.s sideways, but I can't fix it. Just turn your head very to the left.

Yesterday was a field trip to Hampton Court Palace, where Henry VIII and his wives lived. It's very beautiful, although we were there for a little too long. We entertained ourselves by taking copious amounts of pictures, of which I will post as soon as I have more time. This week is going to be the last week for our tutorials (unless some people carry them on into 9th week, but typically this week is the last for Oxford students of this term).

I am currently reading Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis (the first book in the Space Trilogy-- of which I need to read all three books), which I have to present on for my seminar on Tuesday, so I should get back to that.

Adieu and Bonsoir, mon amis.

My life in pictures

2008-02-19T03:25:00.000-08:00

Bino, Janel, Ryan and I went to a Verdi musical concert over by the Bodleian Library, and afterwards decided to take some family portraits. The results? As follows:

Port Meadow is just down the street from my house. Pony time on a whim? Count me in:

Sunday, we went to the Black Country, famous for its coal mines. And black soot emissions. Wow, was that ever the most interesting place I've been to so far.

No, no it was not:

However, Janel and I were called a floozy and a hussy, respectively, by the school mum. We had fingernail polish on, which qualifies us as such, I guess. And Ben and I volunteered (unknowingly) to be reprimanded in front of the class. Best part of the day, I'd say.

And we press on.

2008-02-19T03:12:00.001-08:00

Hello, all.
Sorry it's taken me so long to update. This post will be followed by one of the ever-favorite "My life in pictures" post.
Lately I feel like someone dumped about 3 tons of bricks on top of me and I'm trying to climb my way out or carry them around or somehow deal with having a copious amount of bricks on my person. In other words, life is hard.

The learning part is the good part. I love what I'm studying, especially the modern art part of it. I've been looking at Mary Cassatt, Edgar Degas, Eduoard Manet, and other Impressionist artists, as well as reading about Avant-Garde art and feminism and sexuality in modern art. I'm finally studying something I've been wanting to learn about for at least 5 years. My tutor and I meet at the Ashmoleon Museum and go to the print room and look at original prints from the artists I'm studying. Last week we looked at original Degas sketches and, like OMGZ, it's absolutely amazing to think I'm holding and looking at something Degas once touched.

Apart from that, life hurts right now. Out of the overflow of the heart, the mouth speaks, right? My heart feels like it's full of toxins, and everything I'm feeling keeps bubbling over.
Because I'm so much more vocal than most people about how I feel, it seems like I'm the only person around who is a mess. I feel so much more broken than everyone else, when I know I shouldn't because everyone is broken. I'm so tired of feeling. Sometimes I wish I could take my heart out of my chest so I could cease feeling. But is feeling what keeps us alive? What keeps us human?

I'm struggling. I'm okay, but I'm struggling.

Can we really find all that in London?

2008-01-20T12:14:00.000-08:00

Note to self:
Spell check entries before posting.

Well, yesterday was London calling.

Oh ho, I'm so clever, using the name of a song by The Clash to describe my adventure. That's never been done before.

Ben, Janel and I got separated from the group, so we clung together for the day, and I had a very enjoyable time with the two of them. Even though I love everyone here, it was nice to be away from them. Sorry if that sounds terrible; it isn't meant to be insulting.

London consisted of the National Art Gallery, National Portrait Gallery, Trafalgar Square and Westminster Abbey. Oh, and partying with David Beckham and the Spice Girls.

Okay, mayyyybe that last part didn't happen. But I can dream, can't I?

Oh, and chocolate everyday? Check!

PS If you can tell me what movie the title of this blog is from, I'll share my chocolate with you.

As usual, here are pictures:

Janel and I.

Bino and Ben being Big Ben, har har.

My housemates. Or as we like to call ourselves, Sausage and Meesh.
(L-R: Bino, me, Ryan, Ben, Zach, Daniel)

All the girls!

Westminster Abbey

My fave.

London ninja.

London Eye(s).

Trio.

Duo.

Cliche, but necessary.

Trafalgar Square.

Medium John?

In Trafalgar Square.

Westminster Abbey at night (with a bus going by).

Again in Trafalgar Square.

Fountains?

My life in pictures.

2008-01-17T10:17:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since the last post, sorry (mom).

So far, so good:

My modern art tutor is nice, knows his stuff, and is passionate about it. After some brief reading, I decided I want to learn more about Surrealism. You should check it out-- it's pretty sweet.

My British journalism tutor is wonderful. He worked for the BBC for about 30 year, has taught in India, and traveled all over the world. He's retired now and gives tours of Oxford, and is going to take me and two other girls he's tutoring on a tour sometime.

I've been at the Bodleian library a lot, mostly doing pleasure reading, which is what I've been doing a lot of since I've been here. I think I've polished off 5 books now. I'm currently reading The Waves by Virginia Woolf, How We Are Hungry by Dave Eggers, and I have about 7 more on reserve in the library. It's so fantastic, I can't even tell you. I could just live the rest of my life devouring books.

I'm still absolutely enamored with my housemates. Yes, enamored. I love my little family of five brothers. We keep staying up watching movies together or looking up weird youtube videos called "Pickle Surprise" that make us afraid to shut our eyes at night or sitting in the stairwell of the second floor talking about snuff films and what scary movie character we'd be in a horror film (I, naturally, am scary possessed exorcist girl).

The construction going on at the side of our house keeps waking me up every morning at 8 and keeps me restless until I actually have to get up. I don't think there is any getting used to it: am I going to be in a perpetual state of tiredness?

Thank goodness for caffeinated tea.

Would you like some pictures? Okay!

It was freezing outside (me, Janel, Ryan).

Christchurch College

Nighttime romp in the streets with roomies.
(L-R: Rye, me, Zach, Bino)

At Daniel and Amanda's engagement dinner!
(L-R: Sam, Kyle, Steph, me, Courtney)

And the engagement after party with Meg and Bino

Janel and I: English pirates?

Outside the library I'm always reading at.

Ben, me and Ryan. Before watching "The Gauntlet," the reason I now hate Clint Eastwood. And that movie. And my roommates for wanting to watch it.

Just being as cool as we are.

Outside St. Mary's church

As promised.

2008-01-08T11:42:00.000-08:00

Hello, sunny Oxford.

Cliche, but necessary.

At the Eagle and the Child, the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien hung out
(L to R: Bino, Zach, me, Ryan)
(Zach with his hand on Bino's leg? SCANDAL!)

Me, Zach and Janel about to begin our tour of New College.

Bino, me, Ry and Janel. We're so just cute, aren't we?

...well?

Cheerio, mates.

2008-01-06T13:52:00.000-08:00

Fear not, my fellow Americans: I have arrived.

As promised, I am now writing to you from Oxford,England.
It's quite chilly here and I'm learning to wear mittens all the time. My poor fingers weren't prepared.
Everything is expensive here, so ignorance is bliss when it comes to looking at prices.
Ah, and everything comes in pie form.
We all know how much I love the word pie, right? Right.

I live in a house with 5 other boys. Don't feel bad for me-- it is magnificent. I get my own room (which, of course, is at the very top of the stairs on the third floor. Thanks, Oxford. Are you saying I need exercise?)
Our house is, as Bino so aptly coined earlier, called "Sausage and Meesh."
(Get it? Sausage and Mash? But I'm Meesh? Got it? It's clever.)

We have a sweet dungeon basement straight out of The Cask of Amontillado. I think the jester is still walled in down there, but I'm afraid to look.

Classes don't start until next week, I think. My tutor for History of Modern Art just emailed me, so now I am partially in the know of what's going on. We are sitting through a lot of lectures right now, though. Which is my favorite thing to do. I'm not ancy. I can sit still for hours on end.
Right?

I'm starving right now. I could really go for some chicken pie or something similarly grossly-named.

Pictures will be up soon.

Good night, England, and good luck.

If they have a lady cake, then yes.

2007-12-23T23:09:00.000-08:00

Ah, to England I go.

Jurassic Snore

2007-12-20T18:42:00.000-08:00

My mind feels pretty blank, considering I'm nearing the beginning of a semester abroad.
I feel like the panic attack should have kicked in by now.
Instead, I'm tired all day and don't want to do anything but lay around and read one of the trillion books I took out from the library.

(note: if you have not returned Lullaby, you're looking at some late fines, and I WANT TO READ THE DAMN BOOK so hurry up and return it. Also, J. Miller, you need to pick up Fight Club from the hold shelf because even though I tried to steal it from you, the library wouldn't let me check it out while it's on hold for you: PICK YOUR DAMN BOOK UP.)

Of course, there is also the old take-pictures-with-the-dollar-store-plastic-dinosaurs activity that consumes some of my time.

Lighthearted fun.

2007-12-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

I do believe Edward Gorey is my hero.

Bliss

2007-12-14T14:30:00.000-08:00

I ventured into my backyard this afternoon,
a rare occurence because of my grass, weeds, molds and tree pollen allergies.
I layed on my back on the grass, the cat on my stomach,
and watched the clouds tumble and roll.

The rash I got on my legs was well worth it.

Lovers and Friends

2007-11-18T14:37:00.000-08:00

This post is straying from the norm of my posts.
I miss my friends.
South Africa, Australia, New Zealand and Lithuania are holding hostage the people I love dearly.
This year has been another tough one, and made tougher by the absence of my best friends.
And on top of everything, I get to see them for maybe a few days when they get back, and then I leave for Oxford.
I'm sure this is a lesson in something.
Great. I love lessons.

On the other hand, I've gotten closer with people here that I have come to love even more.

And I am grateful to have that support, and the chance to get to know beautiful, amazing girls.

Yeah, I'm anticipating Oxford.
But more than anything,
I just want to see my friends' faces, hug them tight, hear their laughs, listen to their stories and love who they are right in front of me.

Recoup. Regather. Relax?

2007-10-28T17:15:00.001-07:00

Last week, Monday night, I freaked out a little bit.
And by a little bit, I mean I had a panic attack. or something equally scary and disconcerting.
And I couldn't do anything. I had homework to do, but I just couldn't do it.
And then I woke up in the middle of the night with a terrible sore throat, and could barely swallow without crying.
Health office diagnosis?
Tonsillitis.
Yes, yes. You're allowed to be jealous. You can only wish you too had tonsils that were red, puffy and had white mucousy globules on them (Oh, I'm sorry, was that too descriptive? Are you eating dinner?)
So I took a few days off from my life. I went home and just rested. Yeah, I did homework, but besides that, I just was.
I think sometimes you need something like tonsillitis to get you to slow down and be.
It might be hard to get back into my busy schedule, but I needed to chill out for a few days and re-gather myself.
And because of it, I feel a lttle less insane.
And that's always a good thing.

See this. Feel good.

2007-10-28T16:56:00.000-07:00

Director Peter Hedges made a fantastic choice with "Dan in Real Life."
Hedges last movie was "Pieces of April", which I don't know if anyone saw, but all I remember about it was a punked out Katie Holmes on the cover.
Before that, though, he did screen adaptations of the books About a Boy and What's Eating Gilbert Grape?, which were both great books and great movies.
"Dan in Real Life" (go here for apple trailer) stars Steve Carell as Dan, a widowed father of three girls, who meets Marie, played by Juliette Binoche, at a bookstore and starts to really like her, but finds out she's dating his brother Mitch (played by, yes, Dane Cook).
Even though it's a bit off-putting that Dane Cook is in this movie, there is little wrong with this film. It's heart-warming in the non-cheesy way that some movies can be. Everyone in the movie played their parts well, except maybe for one of the daughters, who was a little over dramatic (although delivered one of the best lines- "YOU'RE A MURDERER OF LOVE!")
Oh, and Carole, Ross' wife from "Friends," well, her lesbian lover Susan (no, I don't know her real name) makes an appearance.
So you know. I don't think that's incentive. But, whatever.

Don't Choke.

2007-10-21T17:04:00.000-07:00

"What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction."

Chuck Palahniuk must be one of the most talented writers I've read, if only because his stories are beautiful despite how ugly, graphic, dirty and vile they are.

Choke is about a sex addict, Victor Mancini, who makes his living by pretending to choke in expensive restaurants and then collects money from those who "save" him. He visits his mother, who has Alzheimer's, in the hospital and pretends to be someone different each visit in order to find out how she really feels about him.

Despite that he is by all accounts an insensitive, unfeeling bastard...he isn't.
Palahniuk won't let the reader write Mancini off that way.

Palahniuk's books always make me remember that even people who are incredibly fucked up are still human, still have a heart, and still feel, no matter how infinitesimally small those feelings may be.

In Rainbows

2007-10-14T12:57:00.000-07:00

I spent the better half of last night by myself, downloading every Radiohead album.
ever.

The I found out that their new CD, released October 10, is available through their website, and you can name whatever price you think it's worth and pay that much for it.

In Rainbows is the name of the new album, and it's characterised by the band as "almost embarrassingly minimal," "sparse with lots of bass," and, more recently, "lush."

It's much more mellow than some of the other albums, and lead singer Thom Yorke
described the lyrical concept of the album as, "It's about that anonymous fear thing, sitting in traffic, thinking, 'I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something else'... it's similar to OK Computer in a way."

A band allowing buyers to name their own price is an interesting concept (It will eventually hit stores with a set price). Radiohead has been pretty quiet about their revenue for the new album.

I wonder what music would look like if we payed what we thought it was worth.
Would musicians appreciate fans more? Would they strive even harder to produce an album that they thought was worthy or amazing?
What would be willing to pay for an incredible album?

I'm not surprised that Radiohead is making a statement by essentially asking what music is worth.

A panda walks into a bar...

2007-09-30T15:41:00.001-07:00

This blog is making me feel extremely self-aware that it seems like all I do is watch movies.
I do other things, I swear. I actually am really busy.
I'm done being self-conscious now. On to better things:
The last book I read was Eats, Shoots & Leaves, by Lynne Truss.

It's a New York Times Bestseller that calls itself the “Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation.”
Both witty and educational, this book is a must-read for those of us who still care to keep punctuation alive. The book begins by using a commonly used sentence to demonstrate how punctuation greatly affects the meaning of a sentence:
“A woman, without her man, is nothing.
A woman: without her, man is nothing” (9).
This book tackles the use of periods (called full stops in England), commas, colons, semi-colons, apostrophes, parentheses, question marks, exclamation points, hyphens, dashes, and a few other common punctuations. Each one is given its brief history, famous writers who fancied them, common misuses, and proper forms and uses.
Truss’ wittiness is subtle and well-placed. When noting how a misplaced (or lack thereof) comma can entirely change the meaning of a document, she writes,
“Between the 16th century and the present day, [the comma] became a kind of scary grammatical sheepdog…It tears about on the hillside of language, endlessly organising words into sensible groups and making them stay put: sorting and dividing; circling and herding; and of course darting off with a peremptory ‘woof’ to round up any wayward subordinate clause that makes a futile bolt for semantic freedom” (79).
One of Truss’ most-hated punctuation misuses is misplaced apostrophes. She gives examples throughout the book of humorous, cringe-inducing misuses. After giving many examples of correct usages, she writes,
“I apologise if you know all this, but the point is many, many people do not. Why else would they open a large play area for children, hang up a sign saying, “Giant Kid’s Playground,” and then wonder why everyone stays away from it? (Answer: everyone is scared of the Giant Kid)” (41).
With the wide use of the internet as a means of communication, traditional punctuation has become a mere option for many.
“Before the advent of the internet,” writes Truss, “our punctuation system was very conservative about adding new marks…Anything new is welcome today” (196).
She goes on to describe how symbols like asterisks and brackets are used in place of proper punctuations.
This probably isn’t a book for everyone. To appreciate it, you might need to have a basic love of grammar and punctuation, and let’s face it, not everyone does. There are some, God bless them, who like to write without commas colons apostrophes dashes line breaks and other marks, and who enjoy having their sentences look like the above line.
For those of us who care to keep proper uses of punctuation, however, this book is marvelously insightful and validating. It is also clearly-written and easy to read. I haven’t laughed out loud from reading a book this much since Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones’ Diary.
Truss quotes author Thomas McCormack from his book, The Fiction Editor, the Novel and the Novelist on the purpose of punctuation, which splendidly sums it all up:
“Punctuation to the writer is like anatomy to the artist: He learns the rules so he can knowledgeably and controllédly depart from them as art requires. Punctuation is a means, and its end is: helping the reader to hear, to follow” (202).

(Note: the book comes with a “punctuation repair kit,” which includes stickers of various punctuation marks, if that’s incentive…)

Best schmest. Leave me alone.

2007-07-30T10:32:00.000-07:00

You know what's nice? Happy people.

Oh no...wait, sorry...

NO IT'S NOT.

Carl: "So aren't you excited to be going back to school?!" *grin grin grin*
Me: "I don't really care one way or the other."
Carl: " What? Well, my kids are just so excited to go back. They can't wait. Oh, boy, college is just the best years of your life!" *grin grin grin*

I can't even make you understand how sick I am of hearing that college is the "best years of your life."
So far, it's been the hardest years of my life, and possibly the worst. I wouldn't change anything that's happened or anything I've gone through, but I am sick of feeling like there's something wrong with me for not enjoying college as much as I'm "supposed" to.

And yeah, I know, I don't need to be worrying about what anyone *thinks* I should do, but it's tiring to constantly hear the same thing over and over. And I've stopped disagreeing because most people won't be dissuaded. They enjoyed their college years so, clearly, CLEARLY, you must be as well.

People don't want to hear that you're not happy, people don't want to hear that you don't like your school and people don't want to hear "I have no idea what I want to do" because what people want to hear is "Oh golly, college sure is swell. I love my school and I'm going to be a Journalism major and I know exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life."

I'm not writing this post for validation of my feelings. I don't need any "VIVA unhappiness!" sentiments. I've already come to terms with the fact that people are going to ask me questions I don't want to answer, and when I answer honestly, they're not going to want to hear it. I really didn't need to write this post, huh? Go ahead and ignore it. Oh wait, you alread got this far, suckaaaaah.

Share in my untitled joy

2007-07-23T21:01:00.000-07:00

So if you've seen Transformers, you've seen the new super sweet preview for the untitled J.J. Abrams movie coming out 1-18-08.

I, personally, am obsessed. My inner nerdiness has surfaced once again, as I've been scouring website after website looking for information about this movie (which, by the way, is rather scarce. Abrams has done a good job keeping this hush-hush while stirring up publicity), looking at people's comments on every sort of blog on the matter, watching the trailer over and over... I hear myself saying/writing these things and I know how strange I am, don't worry. I'm aware of my oddities.

(Abrams, if you don't know, is the writer and exec producer for "Lost," "Alias" and "Felicity.")

So here's what I know about this movie:

Fake names are Cloverfield & Slusho

The actual title is going to be released Thursday at Comic-Con by Abrams

The singer from Yellowcard is in the trailer (hahaha) (he's the guy on the right behind the bar in the beginning at the going-away party)

General plot synopsis: Something or Someone destroys/terrorizes NYC and the video camera of what happened is found in the aftermath, apparently on Coney Island, and the movie is part flashback style. However, it's not going to be all hand-held and Blair Witch "what the hell are we looking at? I'm naseous from all this camera shaking." (Although at first, it was said that it was all handheld, so maybe this is a disputed point).

The film's budget was only around $30 million, which isn't much for a monster/massive destruction movie

Some of the cast include Michael Stahl David, Mike Vogel and Lizzy Caplan (aka JANIS IAN FROM MEAN GIRLS. check out her IMDB pictures, she looks crazy different)

The only official websites are http://www.1-18-08.com/ and http://www.slusho.jp/ (So quick explanation on this one: Slusho is a drink mentioned in Season 2 of Alias, A guy in the trailer for this 1-18-08 movie is wearing a Slusho t-shirt, and it appears the website has vague clues to the movie and as to what the monstery thing might be)

A lot of people are speculating whether this is a.) a monster movie and b.) what monster/creature it will be. It really doesn't look like it's going to be a remake of Godzilla (there's a 3D Godzilla in production by another company, actually).A lot people seem to think it's going to be the Cthulhu (pronounced Koo-thoo-loo), which is this sci-fi creature fictionalized way back in the day by sci-fi author H.P. Lovecraft. Some people think it's going to be an end of the world, apocalypse type movie. Some people even think it might be a "Lost" movie, or a trailer for the next season of "Lost." (I think this is definitely incorrect because the preview says "In theaters 1-18-08" at the end. I don't think Abrams is trying to be that misleading.)

Personally, after having checked out all the info on this (And believe me, I got sucked into this whole thing until God-knows-when in the morning, more than once), I think it's going to be an original movie by Abrams, probably with some monster or creature that he's created, not any kind of remake. And I also think he's sitting at home, chuckling to himself, tapping his fingers together Mr. Burns style, at how people are wildy speculating over his movie until wee hours of the night, dissecting his trailer, reading into his statements and etc.

Whatever the case, I'm so pee my pants excited about this movie. You don't even know.

edit: i forgot to mention that the monster is referred to internally as "the parasite."

Can you experience blog at first site?

2007-05-17T01:22:00.000-07:00

Oddly enough, Sex and the City inspired me to create a blog. I may be no Carrie Bradshaw, and I'm certainly no sex columnist, but I decided to try something new. I am now a blogger.
But you can just call me Michelle.