that was a long nap. whoo.
Month: January 2004
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It Was A Bad Week.
So apparently last week I was vying for the championship in the Uber Fanged Harpy-Wench Competition, and came damn close to winning. Bejeesus. What the hell is wrong with me? I was a total creep. It was like I was desperately trying to piss everyone off. It got to the point where I couldn't even open my mouth or leave the house without causing some sort of hullabaloo, or offend random people, or just be a wicked poo.
Ok, ok, I was a poo that one time on purpose, but I just wanted to have a beer and I didn't feel like playing, okay? Grr.
I mean, I think I'm generally pretty amiable. If I lived in Oz, for instance, I am pretty sure I would stray more towards the Glenda the Good Witch end of things rather than the pointy hat and flying monkeys dealie-o. Except, I'm not as fruity as Glenda, and I'm a bit more sassy with better fashion sense, and I think those ruby red slippers are hot........stupidass Dorothy, and her little rat dog. I'll get you!!! Goddamn.
Ok, maybe that was not the best illustation for my point.
Really, I am a nice person. I was just having a bad week, or something. Like, maybe when I was asleep this really small jealous boogeyman crawled up my left nostril, into my brain, and told me to do bad, mean, snatchy things? Or maybe I stepped in an invisible mire of bad karma, and got nasty anti-matter hatred stuck to my shoe? Or it was my evil twin, in town from Tulsa for a couple days, who also ate all my cereal and broke some dishes and tried to turn my dog against me....?
Um.
So I'm really, really sincerely sorry. I would also like to add that in no way do I shirk any responsibility for my poor behavior, wisecracks about nostril monsters and devious siblings aside, and I truly feel horrible about it all. This week, I am going to make amends. Tomorrow after school I plan on making myself a Magic Sparkle Forgiveness Wand, fully encrusted with glitter and sequins, and trot around whapping people whom I have offended.
That ought to work.
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Sigh.
I have been reduced to blogging about blogging.
Long ago when I started this damn Xanga thing, nobody on earth read it. It was kinda nice, like having a perpetually protected post, my little cyberspace secret. I was oxymephorous all over the place. I didn't have to be eloquent. I wasn't here to make a point. When i was royally pissed, I wrote about it. When something fabulous occured, it went in the mix. I have used terrible cuss words. I have been mean. I have been lovelorn. It once had a green background. I have written things that were stupid. I have never used text messaging to write a blog, or typed out some funktastic hacker code, or posed as some phat hiphop scenester, or written odd, lovely-terrible poetry. I like xanga poems. But the poetry here is all borrowed, thank you. I have, however, written bad romance novels on the fly. I have also been snarky and sarcastic and sincere and rude. I have been *gasp* offensive, and incited potential trouble. I have thought about....stuff. I have revelated. I have responded. Sometimes it sounded good. Mostly I am a big fat dorkus. But for the most part, I was all by my lonesome in the endeavor, and did as I pleased. This is how it ought to be.
Not any more, apparently.
You might think this is about you. It's not. This is about me, and things which I have thought for a long while, and bothered me, and made me think about what i want to say, and whether or not I am allowed to do so. Poo on you!
What i mean is, the thing being, I can't go home anymore without hearing about something I posted last week, or some silly picture I made. People randomly refer to details I mentioned ages ago when I see them around. There was even a brief underground debate about whether i should use blue flowers in the background, or whether the tabloid look was any good. My crazy uncles gossip about me (Hi, crazy uncles). My "impressionable" 14 year old cousin reads this, and I got in trouble with the fam for saying shit (HA-HA! i just said "S-H-I-T!" I am horrible!) and for generally being a terrible influence because of what I write. And now I think my grandma even scopes it out, too. Thankfully, Kerri gives me eprop-grief on a regular basis. My friends in faraway places keep tabs on my happenings here. Former loves check up on me, apparently. Loves of former loves, too, isn't that awkward? And my current beloved reads it daily, so in the spirit of open honesty is privy to every thought I post. Despite the wicked jezebel i am, it's worked out rather well.
I suppose eventually it comes into question as to how much ought to be revealed. This issue has been bothering me lately, because, honestly, i know you're all out there, and when I write, thou shalt possibly read. Realistically, I must consider your presence. And yeah, sometimes I write to incite. So, do I write for you? Do I acknowledge the perusers and background lurking hangers-on who check The Daily out and either bless or doom me because of the absolute horror i am? Am i here to show off, and look glamorous for my teeming public? ha. When i have something touchy to say, should i make it cryptic because I don't wanna piss anyone off? Maybe I ought to get dolled up, and fix my hair first? Is my lip gloss on straight? Is this the most lovely, polished possible version of myself? Or, instead, am I allowed to suck sometimes, because y'all have nothing to do with it, really?
At the heart of the matter, this thing exists so I can come home at the end of a long, maniacal, crayon and glitter infused day and have it out with the stuff in my head. Sometimes it has to do with the mess in my space, or the mess in my life, but most often with the mess in myself. I am not cleaning up for anybody. It's mine, i made it all by myself, and it's going up on the fridge with a plastic magnet .
So I have decided, and here is my ultimatum. There shall be no further inner or outer debate here. I will never, ever stop writing what I want to write, because this belongs to ME. It is MINE. Flamed, praised, dogeared and sassy, with sprinkles on top. Listen, I don't want to start any wars. But really. If you have a problem-any of you- hear me now- you can go sod off.
Please note, I love you muchly, and whatever it is, this is the last of it. I think that is more than reasonable.
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Love Connection Update
I was recalling some romantic angst from last spring, and some angsting I did on my blog, and some angst I was having about Farah Fawcett hair, and I think it's rather funny how things worked out.
If you will please note the prior entry at this time.
Bachelor #1 was not happy about my date with Bachelor #3, but all in all took things rather gracefully (shortly after attempting to convince me he loved me madly and wanted to move his turntables into my livingroom, baha), and then gave me his blessing. A few weeks later he met the love of his life, just as I knew he would, and I am very, sincerely happy for them both. Sigh. L'amour.
Bachelor #2 still crosses my mind when I think about faraway mountains, and although I wonder what might have been, I think things turned out alright. Sometimes it's a little wierd to recall how passionately I wanted to go to colorado to see him, just shy of doing something drastic like hopping on a plane and flying to his doorstep. And then he completely vanished. I don't know where he is, but I wish him the best, from the bottom of my heart.
Bachelor #3 turned out to be so much more than I ever expected, which is often how the best things happen. We were both a little broken-hearted when we met in the arboretum, but by the time he whisked me off to Wingaersheek Beach the next week I was head over heels and ready for the most enthralling summer romance of my life. And I think that despite my initial hesitation, what with #1 and #2 shadowing me, I have found something that will endure. I love him with everything I've got.
ok, enough cheese.
blech.
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Visiting Acromatat....Achimakit....Arkiterec...Archi......ergh.
Say it:
Ark.
it.
eckt.
As our "visiting artist" for the last week of our building design studies, Bryon* came to school yesterday to show off his drawing tools, some design models, and his general architecture pimpitude. He left with a promise to come back another day and make art with us. We are all in love with Bryon.
*who apparently resembles "that guy from N'sync", according to one of the fifth graders. Then again, the same kid claimed I look like Fat Albert, and got sent to Time-Out for saying so.
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Hobbies
I have decided to take a break from hobby #8 (knitting, ie, poking myself with a needle, cursing, and getting tangled up in yarn), in order to bother about with hobby #3 (xanga, ie, typing until my fingers are numb in the endless exploit of my own public humiliation).
So this is what i was knitting:
plus:
makes something like this:
As any entymologist can observe, there is no such thing, but at least I will be fashionably unscientific.
Hobby # 325, by the way, involves red pom-poms, whipped cream, a fire hydrant, and a getaway car.
I would also like to note that there is a big difference between hobbies and a career, although I often get them confused. When you have a job which involves gluing rhinestones to bits of vintage fabric and sorting through immense bins of markers (as I did today), and getting paid to do it, the lines of reality become a bit blurred.
And I get the summers off.
Ha-ha!
Doyle's is the best pub in Boston, and my second livingroom. I am not sure if going there counts as a hobby or a habit, because although it's mostly about eating grilled cheese and drinking beer, I feel that it is generally a productive venture. A sort of soul-hobby.
For dinner tonight:
a pint of:
which goes well with:
rack of lamb, and:
yum.
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