We were drawn from the weeds
We were brave like soldiers
Falling down under the pale moonlight
(rob thomas makes me swoon, yet again.)
is everywhere else in the world this surreal? i hope so. kind of.
Weekends have been growing more and more ridiculous since my return to Madison this year of 2006.
Ridiculous Weekend # 1: arguments in the den, with revelations [ending at approximately 6 am.]
Ridiculous Weekend # 2: chuck norris roundhouse kicks me in the face with a jug full of blush rose/ cabernet savignon
Ridiculous Weekend # 3: mexican food segweys to brazilian dance parties that escalate into terrifically dramatic/awkward treks back to sully
i am writing a (pseudo)short story for class, and i intend to enter it into a creative writing contest, hopefully awarding a certain amount of prize money in my general direction. (when it is done - at least as done as i ever make them - i will put it on this here blog. you can read the thing if you would like. it will be rather long. i believe i'm up to 6 pages, single spaced, 10 pt. font [in gill sans] at the moment. good luck with that.)
still have nowhere to live.
my mother likes to send me boxes full of tea and espresso beans for valentine's day. included: little post-it notes with smiley faces all over them. conversation hearts. mike'n'ikes. RENT.
speaking of which...valentine's day fast approaches. still no valentine. and it's not bothering me this time. ! are you surprised? i bet not as surprised as i am. i might have changed my mind by tuesday, but as of this sunday evening, i'm happy solo. although i wouldn't mind having someone to speak to me as samson does to regina spektor:
samson came to my bed
told me that my hair was red
told me i was beautiful and came into my bed
my hair isn't red, but the verse is too pretty not to sing that part. try it sometime...it'll make you cry. i swear. [regina spektor: samson] i think there is actually something stirring, something chaotic, but i haven't uncovered all of the details, and they keep fluttering away like infinitesimally tiny flecks of gold on the breeze. sometimes boys are just as skiddish as horses. maybe if i go slow and easy, talking softly the whole time [and carrying treats? i hear boys like food...] i can get close enough to find out the truth. i'm afraid of what i'll find...but at this point, self-preservation is a dull substitute for actually living. (as masochistic as this sounds...coming from an existentialist, it isn't that terribly bad. consider me warned. you have all survived, and i have grown from your stories.)
-i still hate econ
-samba dancing in spanish class = amazing
-girls make friends with their enemies, boys beat them up
-i need a chiropractor
-dick cheney is an idiot
-postsecret (it's VD themed this week...)
"You start out with a good relationship with the wristband, you know its there for you and you respect it and love it...then slowly it starts to get a mind of its own, ya know? Like, it gets a little tighter, and maybe it starts to cut off the circulation to your hand. Pretty soon, its so tight, you're fuckin' dead. And then you get your arm amputated, and you see the wristband with someone else, walkin down the street all happy together, just like you used to be, and you're like fuckin' be careful, man -shows (pretend) horribly disfigured arm- fuckin' wristbands...YOU GUYS ARE THE SHIT! Aw man, you know it. Fuckin' sing! You know this...sing! Sing! Aw shit. Y'all made this the best date of the tour man, have a fuckin' happy VD. Enjoy your VD!" - Matty, 2/14/04, Ascot.