“I have a prose style. I have a picture of a woman. I have the taste of garlic in my mouth. I have a love for dogs. I have a need to have my temples rubbed. There is evidence that life is a worthy endeavor. I have a desire to make things better. First for myself, then for everyone else. Hammers out!”
Ftrain.com
Snaspshots in Outline Forms
I. Abstract of the Day
Waking up way too late with soft skin and my zebra blanket wrapped around my feet. Stumbling to the shower, taking extra care for no reason, black shirt, smooth hair, the girl works. Undercooked spaghetti while reading The Poisonwood Bible on the blue couch by the window.
No transition, but then sitting at their kitchen table with Corina and Lisa, gulping Absolut Kurant and spinach salad with peanut sauce. Vodka and the bitter taste of the peanut sauce reaching up my throat to attack my tongue. Buttered banana bread and then laying on the green astro-turf floor, curled into myself, surrounded by conversations of toe sucking and Ishmael. Feet on top of my feet.
No transition, and then wandering through the grocery store in search of chocolate chips. Stopping at McDonald’s, paying for fries with loose change and smiling extra big at the drive through boy. The house. Cookies, Playboy and then my bed. Shhh. Shh. Shh. Fuzzy anxious head. The feeling in the stomach of a life blurring. The apartment with the drawbridge. Toothbrushes, Harvest Cheddar Sun Chips, curled up into black shirts, trying to break it off, but too much goddamn cuteness and now I’m back to being dizzy flaky ridiculous. Emerging to find a gaggle of tan beautiful happy girls. Standing in the bedroom doorway, pale and angsty as the day is long, mumbling about having to leave. Swift retreat, and here we are.
. . .
II. A Sense of Sound
The boats are moaning in the harbor and two gunshots just rumbled up the street.
. . .
III. Contrast
Listening to a beautiful beautiful song and falling into my “Shit, I’ve just found a beautiful song” trainwreck state, instant messaging an old friend, feeling that sad introspection that always attaches itself to the trainwreck state, and having him say, “Will you call me and get me off?”"
. . .
IV. Evaluating My Role as Feminist in a Male Driven Patriarchal Society, AKA I am a Flaky Angtsy Teen in the Deep Black Turtlenecked Region of My Soul
“Every time I acknowledge that I need something more, I desperately cling to what I have. This is what keeps me leaden, anchored to the ocean, not feeling the waves or smelling the salt, just holding my breath until I am unable to do so anymore.
My whole adolescent and young adult life has revolved around boys. They are the maypole and I am running in circles with colored banners, frightened to death when I reach the frayed end of the fabric, so frightened that I grab onto the next one before the other has run out. I sit here on nights, scared for my health, mental and physical, waiting for boys to come home and boys to write me letters and boys to remind me of my self worth.
Somewhere along the line, this has to change. Because I am nothing in this shell of myself, and I need to be something. Something more than a pretty ornament. Something more than a warm body in bed or disembodied voice on the phone. Something less ghost-like.” (orig. 07.27.02)
Her fingers ice cold, her forehead on fire, she clutched the bottle of Walgreen’s RestEasy NightTime formula to her hacking, burning chest. A wadded up tissue, the 89809th crumpled soldier in the war against her nasal passages, lay listlessly on her chest. She sneezed - once, twice, three times the la - no. Mustn’t give into repeating cheesy 80s tunes. All part of the virus. The clock ticks. The body aches. A white light appears. Cough. Sneeze. Drip. Die. It won’t be long now.
Brought to you by the president of Overdramatic Drama Queens with Gross Colds, Semi-Anonymous.
Also: Some roommates think it’s hilarious to take pictures of the nearly-dead, and of course, I posted them: Pitiful. Taking to the Sauce.
Also, again: Dane is also experiencing death symptoms. It’s not a good day for nerds.
I am so excited for Erik. He has plans to open a world class recording studio/nightclub in Minneapolis and his dreams are becoming more and more solid as the months pass. Today he drove down to meet with the realtor of the place he’s planning to rent, a prime location right on First Ave. He has potential investors, a tight business plan and a management team, with plans to open September of 2003. My little boy is all grown up!
In order to avoid complete hermit status, I force myself to leave the house today. I’m feeling a little grossed up, meaning my nose and throat are full of mucous. I’m wearing ragged jean shorts, three sizes too big (the mangled remains of a pair of jeans Matt gave me once upon a time), a RockStock t-shirt and battered sandals. My hair is gnarly and pulled back sloppily at the nape of my neck. I decide to go to school to purchase orange juice from a vending machine with the change I’ve found in my back pocket.
When I get to school, my dreams of orange juice consumption are quickly smothered by a new ice cream machine by the library. Excitedly, I waste a dollar on an orange cream pop, which I hope has the same nutritional value as orange juice since it is, indeed, orange. It’s frozen solid and crystallized, so I suck on the tip to warm it. I decide to wander the halls, to re-acclimate my body to the building. I try to imagine the crowds of eager blossoming college children that will soon be fighting for walking space. Instead, the slap of my sandals echoes loudly in the hot hallway. I pass another traveler in the hallway and instead of being friendly, I concentrate on my orange pop, which has begun to melt on my tongue. I’m surprised when I hear a loud, “Hey!”
I stop, turn around and the girl is smiling hugely at me. She is peaches-and-cream cuteness, with a blue bandana tying her hair back and denim overalls. I have no idea who she is. I say hello back, and then she walks towards me.
“Look, I’m new here - I just moved in, a freshman. You must be a freshman, too.”
Sometimes, for brief moments, I forget that I look precisely 12 and a half. I tell her I’m a senior and I get a reverent ohhh from her. We chat. She tells me she loves music, is a psychology major and philosophy minor, and do I want her number? She’s been in the dorms since August 17th and hasn’t met a lot of people. As she writes her number out for me in careful high school script, I noticed the glitter on her eyelids and the gold hoops in her ears. My hand automatically tries to smooth my hair, but ends up getting caught in a particularly bad snarl. I have a fleeting memory of being 18 and actually putting effort into my appearance.
I take her number, give her mine and listen to her chatter for a while. She’s excited to be in college, finally and what major am I? I tell her theatre, though that’s not quite true anymore, but it’s also a reality I’m not ready to let go of yet. She loves acting, she says, and did she mention how excited she is to be in school?
She waves goodbye. I stand in the middle of the hallway with orange ice cream dripping onto my fingers and think of how I woke up that morning and realized school would begin in a week, and how my heart sank to the burrows. I remember being a freshman in college; hell, I remember being a freshman in high school. How am as old as I am?
I walk back to my car, feeling grizzled and jaded. Behind me, the sun is sliding behind the library.
Don’t worry, Mark, I laughed for about ten minutes (scroll down to the blockquote).
From the vague front-line, I find myself more and more wishing people would put their nose in my business, get in my face and be like, “Duuude, what the hell is up with this and this and this?” I feel like there are elephants with collars that hold my contact information frolicking through our household. Instead of asking me why the hell I’m letting my elephants break the coffee table, it seems people are tactfully or perhaps un-tactfully not mentioning them.
I want to scream, “Just ask me! Either I’ll tell you to mind your business or I’ll answer and we’ll bond, complete with swelling orchestration.” Just ask. I talked with a friend the other night, and heard a wild batch of stories about myself that were frightfully untrue and it left me feeling upside down and wondering why people are so afraid to approach me. The friend said it was because I appear to be an intensely private person - but how private can you be when you have website such as this?
I could also be paranoid. I want to be paranoid. I would be relieved to hear that the elephants are imaginary psychedelic-Dumbo-esque animals.
School is fast approaching. My desire to continue conventional education has dwindled to a tiny percentage. I will go on, no matter because I’m a survivor and also bootylicious.
This week, I’ve learned more about wild animals than I ever thought possible. Did you know elephant seals are extremely violent? or that mimic octopi can look like flounder fish and/or sea snakes? Well, I do, and I’m a better person for it.
I think it’s time to sleep, which means, for me at least, sitting at my computer for another two hours, then laying in bed for another three before my body finally gives up its lifelong goal of sleep deprivation and allows me a few fitful hours. Insomnia! Ah, how I don’t cherish your existence.
Goodnight.
Amusement of the week:
Zosia: Okay, you know all the stories about a) conjoined twins and b) child abductions in the news lately?
Chris: yes
Chris: you think people are stealing kids and sewing them together?
I am hyper and energetic and nearly close to happy. These emotions haven’t been anywhere near my psyche in over a month and a half. I think I actually have a caffeine high from ice cream (there goes the pure diet for the day), specifically Ben and Jerry’s One Sweet Whirled, a creamy delicious treat.
Since tomorrow is Monday, I’ll cheat and give you a dose of Participation Positives:
I am thankful for my happy energy, whether it crashes or not. I’m thankful for ice cream and Doritos, even though I’m not supposed to be eating them.
More things: girly talks with my girly roommates (who are not girly, per se, but definitely girls). Veggie sandwiches and horse pill vitamins. My jeans that fit just right. The cool Duluth air. Cute smiles from friends, funny movies, hair dye and jasmine perfume. Long frustrating phone conversations, goose bumps, neck kisses and ugly shirts. Advil, blue indigo, the internet, new music, Smashing Pumpkins, honey nut cream cheese sandwiches and macadamian nut coffee.
Laughing, hugs, running, fast pulses, soft skin, glittery hair ties, stuffed animals and good vibes.
And you! Always you.
I’ve exhausted myself in one hyper night. I need to lie down. Whew.
I picked up Sylvia’s journals again, so I updated my quotation page a bit.
How annoying the party is when you’re not involved - the loud cackling giggles of drunk girls, the clanging of bottles, plates and glasses, the slamming of doors and stomping of feet and the squuueaaaak of the refrigerator being opened. How even more annoying the party is when you have no desire to be involved. I’m known among these parts to hole away in my room every now and then, but I think I’m turning into the mysterious geek of a roommate that appears downstairs briefly for feeding and then slinks away quickly, leaving behind whispers of, “Who’s that?” and answers of, “Oh . . . that’s just my roommate. She’s sort of a loner.”
It almost makes me to want to run down and explain exactly why I’m holing up here tonight, but almost is the key word. I don’t think it matters, really, because I doubt anyone has noticed. This isn’t a pitying statement; more of a realization that I am a young! self-absorbed! artsy-type! living the stereotype tonight.
Here’s what would be perfect right now: a long warm gushy bubble bath, then an incredibly spellbinding book to read, which I will read in bed while eating a delicious bag of artery-clogging potato chips accompanied by a soothing cup of hot chocolate with sixteen scoops of whipped cream and sugar, all while wearing a short girly white nightgown, with my long hair piled on my head.
Problems: our bathtub is not conducive to bubble baths. It’s conducive to attempting to wedge yourself into a tiny space meant for an amoebae and then watching in horror as dirt and hair is coughed up from the drain, all while the water level falls three inches every 30 seconds. I haven’t had a spell-binding book to read in weeks. I’ve re-read all my good ones and I’m starving for good book (on a side note, recommendations would be nice). I have no artery clogging bag of salty goodness and even if I did, I couldn’t consume it due to my new Pure Diet prescribed by my Pure Doctor. Hot chocolate? No caffeine for me! Whipped cream? Not pure! Short girly white nightgown? Don’t own one. Long hair? I chopped it freakin’ off at the beginning of the summer and there is NOTHING to PILE.
Deep breaths. Exhale negativity, inhale - a mosquito? Did I just inhale a MOSQUITO? West Nile, baby, part-tay.
I have no idea what I’m doing right now. I think it’s time to retire with my unwashed and unfed self with an old tired book, mug of water, while decked in a pair of Erik old baggy boxers and a misshapen white t-shirt.
Goodnight.
Please tell me what brain-swishing device my mother is equipped with. She has superhuman emotional X-ray powers. I’m not kidding. I will think I’ve had a good day and think that I’m in a fairly okay mood, but then she will call and just by saying, “Hi, how are you?” she will slash away my exterior to reveal the hidden emotion inside. Without fail.Sometimes, I don’t even like to talk to her when I know I might be a little upset because I know her warm soothing tones will pull out the hyperventilating flip out artist I am.
My mother called me tonight. I won’t comment on the fact that she called me at 8 PM on a Friday night, and how that means she knew I wouldn’t be out, and what that means for the young nubile college girl chained in the dusty beer laden corner of my soul.
Our conversation went something like this:
Me: [chipperly] Oh, hi, Mom.
Mom: Hi, how are you?
Me: [stunned silence]
Mom: Honey?
Me: [choking back tears]
Mom: Honey?
Me: I need to go.
Mom: Are you okay -
Me: Yyyeahhhwahhhhhhhhhhhsnortsobsobwailcollapse.
and so on.
In other news, Beth is having a party full of people that she went to Russia with this summer. I could say our house is being invaded by Russians, but they aren’t all technically Russian. I don’t know what a technical Russian would be, however. Tonight, I vacuumed my room and I’m feeling a bit wiped out. Tomorrow I’m hoping to tackle dusting my bookcase. I hope I can make it to the fourth shelf before I need a nap.
Yours in Friday night pity,
z.
Experimentation in Vitamin Consumption, A Fun Rainy Day Activity:
1. Acquire a bottle of vitamins. Perhaps your earthy hippie-esque doctor prescribed them for you and recommended 6 a day. Though you know nothing about vitamins, this sounds like quite a lot.
2. Check nutritional information on back. Discover six capsules gives you, among other things, 1417% of your Daily Recommended Vitamin C. Though you know nothing about vitamins, this sounds like quite a lot.
3. Take three at lunch. Expect instantaneous results. Check mirror for Sudden New Muscles or skin for Beautiful Sunkissed Glow. Expect to be able to run 16 miles and suddenly learn to swim. Yawn. Instead, find Sudden Need to Nap.
4. At dinner, which is technically only five hours later, take three more. Of course, worry about overdosing because you are really quite crazy. Frantically flip around Google for frightening vitamin overdose stories. Find none. Find a page that says convulsions could occur if vitamins reach a toxic level in system.
5. Tell roommate that you love him and wish him well in life. Lay down, prepare to die from vitamin overdose.
6. Feel skin start to buzz. Seriously, no joke. Feels like your white blood cells have just rediscovered their youthful vigor and have all bought fast red sports cars and are racing them down the speedway that is your skin.
7. Think about the patheticness of dying from a vitamin overdose. Think about how you will maybe be the first person ever to do so. This comforts you. Yawn.
8. Sleep.
9. Sleep.
10. Sleep.
11. “I’ve been watchin’ you, like a hawk in the sky - ” okay, just kidding.
12. Awake with buzzy feeling gone, but with a woozy loopy feeling to replace it.
13. Realize you have not died.
14. Rejoice.
15. Record it on the internet as a testament for mankind.
Fin.
I imagine I’m way behind on this and probably a huge nerd, but this particular journal made me giggle like the schoolgirl I am.
“Calm down. Still your nervous habits. Avoid knee-jerk reactions. Silence your judgments. Count your blessings. Empty your heart of expectations. Remember what’s truly important. Purify yourself in every way you can imagine.”
Rob Brezny, Free Will Astrology
Today I went to the doctor for a follow-up appointment. I went originally because my whole system felt out of whack in a million different ways and being the excellently trained hypochondriac I am, I, of course, thought I was dying. Was positive of it, in fact, even though the little guy that runs the very malnourished Logic portion of my brain was rolling his eyes and giving me a snotty, “Please.” The doctor, who was incredible and holistic and new age-y enough to appeal to that side of me, told me that I could put away the brochures for caskets. I was not dying. In fact, everything came back to indicate that I am a perfectly healthy bouncy young woman.
But, obviously, I wasn’t feeling healthy and bouncy and she knew that. So we talked, and she made me realize that my thought process is almost killing me. On the outside, I am a relaxed, laid-back, jeans and T-shirt Hawaiian shirt “Yeah man, I’m chillin” type of girl. Inside there is a middle-aged portly balding stock broker with a family to feed and sweat beads on his forehead. I am constantly, sometimes sub-consciously, running through my lists of elements that will kill me. Every little twinge in my body is suddenly a berry aneurysm or leukemia. I am constantly freaked to the point of volcanic-eruption-kill-a-small-native-village about anything to do with my future, in terms of a) what the hell I’m supposed to do career wise and b) how I can have a career when I have zero motivation and unfocused passion. I am constantly thinking about what ifs. I read so much and watch so many movies that my brain thinks those are my memories and the standards which I should live by. My relationship with my family is incredible. My relationship with my friends and anyone who might be considered a romantic type partner in my life is a wooden roller coaster with a broken track and no seat belts. I’m awful at analogies. But I suppose that’s how it feels.
Since the doctor was quite holistic, my medicine was this: purify yourself in every way you can imagine. Eat only pure foods. Take a yoga class. Clear out gunky unhealthy emotional junk. Vitamins. Exercise. All that jazzy shit (TM negut ).
So, that’s what I’m going to try. I have no idea if it will work, and of course, I’m afraid it won’t and then an advanced team of young gorgeous medical professionals will find a Previously Unknown Disease in my bloodstream and I’ll have to write up a will in a shaky haze. But we’ll see.
The physical lifestyle will be easier to alter than the emotional one. I have friends that aren’t being truthful with me, and in the same vein, I’m not being truthful with them. There are some issues, as much of a fame whore as I am, that I believe are to be kept private. Since I keep these issues private, some of my friends have chosen to pass judgment without receiving the facts, but continue to act sweet and wonderful to my face. Passing judgment is unavoidable; choosing to keep the judgment to yourself and be open-minded for it to change is ideal. This seems to rarely happen. I can’t complain about their actions, however, until I’m true to myself and that’s going to be difficult to achieve. I am suddenly a corny motivational poster - COURAGE is GRACE under FIRE. Anyway. Tangent. The point is: you begin pure. You spend years perfecting the art of getting gunky, and then when your body can’t take it anymore, you spend years trying to return to infancy.
This is my inner monologue for August 13. I don’t have a great conclusion, and I don’t necessarily feel empowered and/or like a Nutritional Prodigy, but I feel like I’ve made some sort of step.
Thank you. This has been a Public Service Announcement. Please return to your homes.
Hi. I’ve been silent because I haven’t had much to say. Or, rather, I’ve had lots to say, but my brain refuses to piece together anything coherent lately, so I gave up on full sentences and creative thoughts for a little bit.
I still don’t have coherent creativity, so you get this:
I am unable to eat an orange without completely soiling myself with its stickiness. I was finally taught the proper way to peel oranges, but I still manage to make a huge mess every time. I usually have to plan on a shower if I’m going to eat an orange.
This weekend, the members of Sunny Wicked came up to practice for their gig on Wednesday (Andrew , the drummer, lives up here this summer, while the rest live in Minneapolis , Norwood Young America and Hopkins . Andrew has trouble getting off work, so it’s easier for the rest of the members to drive up here. Just in case you were curious). I didn’t spend a lot of time with most of them, but it was nice to wake up to Andrew’s drums floating through the vents. Two months into the school year, I will be a yelling annoyed napper, but this weekend, it was sort of comforting.
I spend so much time at my computer lately, and so much time looking out my window at the house across the street that I’m starting to dream about it. I’ve had two dreams now with the Mom who lives there, and one dream with the dog who lives there. I don’t even know their names.
Also in regards to the house across the street, the kid who lives there plus the neighborhood kids thought it would be funny to light M80s every 30 minutes for two days straight. It was not.
I don’t believe I’ll be going home to Virginia this month. I want to an extreme amount, but I doubt it will happen. This is the longest I’ve been away from home - 8 months now.
I am wearing red and blue plaid boxers, a fancy low cut camel colored clubbing shirt and my big ugly glasses.
I’m starving, but the only food I have are vegan soy burgers and they scare me.
I learned in the past week that everytime I stand up, my blood pressure, which is already pretty low, drops 20 points.
I’m sticky with orange residue. I need to shower.
Love,
Girl Who Can Only Write Stilted Rather Boring Fragmented Thoughts, but Loves You Anyway
I am at Walgreen’s for absolutely no other reason than to test my ability to be one with society again. I’m walking down the aisle, and I pass a lone elderly man clutching a list. “I know what I came for!” he exclaims to no one in sight. “I have to remember to get that!” I smile. Cute. I continue down the aisle and a woman by the paper towels glances up at me, “Are you talking to me?” In horror, I realize that I have been mumbling to myself the entire time I’ve been in the store.
Today, while looking for the cordless phone, Erik found it on the bottom shelf of the fridge. My doing. I tell people to watch putting food so close the counter because the “dogs might get it.” The dogs being, of course, the ones I have in Virginia. Yesterday, I walked out of the house and down the street before I realized my feet were killing me. I had forgotten to put on shoes. To get my attention anymore, Erik has to practically stand beside me and hit me in the face with a sledgehammer. I daze off, and don’t even hear anyone calling my name.
I am now wondering if the lone elderly man was an astral projection of my state of mind. In one summer, I’ve gone from hot hip sweet young thang to a shuffling muttering absent minded old man. It would amuse me if it was, well, amusing to me in the least.
While perusing our house copy of Playboy today, my stomach lurched when I realized the centerfold model was younger than me. Either I feel old or unaccomplished, or maybe both.
So, this is the 3rd update of the day. Prolific! I just thought I would mention that in my cast list, I took off all relationship designations - i.e., “boyfriend of so-and-so,” - because, however interesting it is to see how a group of people are connected, people break up or date other people or become nuns and it’s too much pressure to decide when the tactful time to change the designation is. So there!
I’ve been feeling so blue funk-y about things the past few months, so I’ve unconsciously avoided Participation Positives. I forget that one of the main purposes of such an idea is for the days you do feel all black cloud-ish. So, here:
I went running for the first time in a while the other day. Though it only proved to me how extremely and grossly out of shape I am, it felt awesome to have sore muscles and to be able to say with a cocky grin, “Yeah, I went running.”
FriendsI hadn’t seen in a while came up this weekend, and I didn’t realize how much I missed them until I hugged them. Consequently, the new place they’re moving into has a wonderful melee of sounds outside the windows: church bells, train whistles, chirping birds (and screeching ambulances and screaming college kids at 4 AM and loud monster trucks, but that’s beside the point).
And, of course, little things: pizza and red Kool-Aid. The BBC. Tree shadows. Clean clothes. My Zebra blanket. New keyboards. Amazon’s Gold Box, though it never has anything I want to buy. My bedroom window, which looks onto the street and allows me to secretly people watch. The note Erik left on our broken toilet (It read: “Don’t use tiolet toilet,” with the first one crossed out). The free blue fleece sweater the manufacturers of Dove sent me.
Also, another positive-warm-in-the-tummy place to go is Heart’s Gladness. Fight blue funks.
How to become drunk, without the aid of alcohol:
Begin by not going to sleep until 6 AM, and then waking at 9:30 AM. Go home at 10:30 AM to nap until 4 PM. Eat a sandwich in a daze, and then fall back asleep at 7:45 PM, to awake at 9 PM. Eat a few slices of pizza in another daze and fall back asleep once more at 10:30 PM. By the time you wake at 12:45 AM, you should be dizzy, disoriented and have a stagger to your walk. If successful, you should be able to walk into your roommate’s room and fall raggedly onto the couch, prompting him to ask, “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Enjoy! Results may vary.
You are not here for the me right now, with wet hair and bare face, bleach-stained t-shirt and tired eyes. You are here for the sex kitten in the black bikini underwear, crawling towards your pillowcase. You are here for the smiling devilish girl under the orange light who licks your neck and whispers dirty words without blushing. You are not here for the me in the hoodie sweatshirt and the sleepy sad face who is scared of the dark.
So, when I think of my middle and high school years, the soundtrack for those memories is the Dave Matthews Band and that’s that. I’m listening to a song from the new album and I’m almost damn tearing up because this new album sounds so much like his old stuff, the songs I grew up on. It wasn’t like I obsessed over the band or was a fanatic; the band was just always in the background and at my school, for the most part, when the new DMB CD came out, it was almost a holiday. Dave Matthews was just a given, not always thought about consciously - he just was. He got his start close to where I lived, so I’m sure that was a factor in the school wide hypnosis he put us under.
Here’s what I remember: getting in an bona fide argument with my friend Stacie over who liked Dave more (I mean, this was serious shit); the first concert I’ve ever gone to in my life, Dave on the Crash tour, and that also being the first real date I went on with my high school sweetheart, Nick; the school jazz band doing an incredible rendition of Ants Marching, making me pledge allegiance to that song to this day (most of the guys in that jazz band went on to form this band) ; sitting in Trig class with Russ and excitedly discussing who was getting the new CD first - and a million more things.
This is a fumbled inelegant spontaneous tribute, but I just suddenly got a little twinge of nostalgia for my roots. That happens every once in a while when I realize I am a million miles from where I thought I would end up, and then get slapped in the face with home.
The scene: I’m sitting, mindlessly surfing the wonders of the internet, when I happen to catch a bright light out of the corner of my eye. I turn to the window and realize it’s the moon. I give it a nod and say, “Oh, hey, dude,” and then turn back to my computer.
It took me a few seconds to realize I just hey dude-ed the freakin’ moon.
Well, shit, guys, I haven’t been able to go to sleep before 4 AM for weeks now. So guess what treat I’ve prepared for you in my insomniac frenzy? See, in case you didn’t know, I kept a website in high school, and one of the first pages I put up was a list entitled “101 Things You Didn’t Know About Jennifer” (that would be my real name, for anyone under the mistaken impression it was Zosia). I’ve linked to the original list that I wrote in 1998, but what I did tonight was go back and comment on each item. Basically, I made fun of my poor unknowing angsty teen self. And all for your enjoyment! Go forth.
Happy August. It’s raining and the thunder is rattling my windows.
