where were you when I was in the fire?

Fuck it.
This persistent thought? Yeah. It's fucked.
I can't believe I allowed myself to get to this point, but now I know. People warned me and I hated them for it. I hated them for doubting my judgment. I suppose now is the time to admit that I was wrong. I just wanted so desperately to be right.

I still believe that everyone in our lives is supposed to teach us something....
But when will I learn?

I'm waiting for the snow to come.


Note to human race: What the fuck, man? Is Walmart the new Riverfront Coliseum? You disgust me.

I would love to dance, Fred Savage.

I never wear my seat belt. I realized this today. It's not a conscience choice. I just recklessly disregard my safety completely.I also realize my hands leave the wheel more often than I feel comfortable admitting. Again, not a conscience decision. I'm just careless, I guess.

My manager told me that when she thinks of me she thinks of a bohemian New York model; "a free spirit" she said. I'm not sure what this means. It sounds like someone I might like to be.

I found vanilla scented deodorant yesterday. Needless to say,I bought it.

Our Christmas decorations are up. The tree has yet to be festooned with ornaments, but it's up and lit. As much as I hate the holidays, I can't help but love my house this time of year. It's the only time it feels warm. It reminds me of the perfect place to grow up. This reminds me; I must buy some mistletoe so I can wait patiently underneath it.

I get to see Stella in ONE WEEK. My excitement is excessive and annoying. I suppose I should send my mustache to the dry cleaners. I should probably take my suit to the barber.

November is over. This means I have failed my goal to produce 30-40,000 words in novella form. I hate that I'm not even close. I also hate that I hate what it is I'm writing.
(Talon suggests I turn it into a Sci-fi/slasher/drama. The plot changes in mid plot. I believe my character falls in love with an alien who turns out to be her father? I also believe there was a alien cheetah/robot involved. Sadly, this might be my only option.) A friend told me that perhaps I shouldn't have written so close to home, that maybe if I made up all the feelings that it would come easier. I think she might be right.

My lip gloss is poppin', my lip gloss is cool
Yeah.
That's in my head.


And to answer your question, no.
It saddens me, but the answer is most likely "no"
As if we even had a chance....

I like whales.

Last night left me wondering a few things:
1. What is the indie scene? Because in Detroit it must mean that guys wear plaid button up shirts, sporting unruly beards that give them permission to do whatever they please. And it must mean the girls think shopping at Urban Outfitters makes them undeniably unique. I swear I saw the same 100 people over and over.

2. What is a scene and why do people insist on wanting to be apart of one and not others?

3. How do people find the audacity to approach you after seeing you on myspace or facebook?
I had several people come up to me, initiating conversation by telling me they "know" me from one of the two networking sites. I don't mind. I mean, it is to be expected. But it is awkward nonetheless.

4. I'm curious to know how people see me. I'm sure this has crossed the minds of just about everyone, but last night I really needed to know. I need to know what it is I'm doing wrong.
I wonder what I look like, dancing with my eyes closed with complete disregard of the rhythm.

I spent my Thanksgiving in bed watching the House marathon. Kelly and I are obsessed. We've noticed that almost every episode involves rectal bleeding (awesome!) or Lupus. We've also come to conclusion that we could probably correctly identify symptoms and successfully diagnose and treat someone. I want Hugh Laurie to sing me to sleep.

Dinner was amazing. (aside from the fact that my family is only mildly depressing and blatantly unfulfilled ) I'm contemplating making another plate of food. It is 10:35 pm.

This thing that I keep making reference to is still bothering me.
I'm exhausted.
It's as though my imagination is trying to kill me from the inside out. I need someone to look me in the eyes with all the honesty in their heart and tell me that nothing will ever happen and I should stop allowing myself to think otherwise. Wait. No. Please don't. I'm not ready.

Question: If I buy a pair of Levi's, am I guaranteed a free fuck with a hot stranger?

I want you to taste like a candy cane down there...

I don't have to have surgery.
This is a good thing.

I haven't written anything of quality in days.
This is a bad thing.

I don't think I'll be washing my hair anytime soon.
This is a dirty thing.

I don't have a plan.
This might not be a good thing.

How is it that one person can unknowingly define how I feel?
They will never understand how much they make me lovingly hate myself.
I am not proud, nor boastful of these feelings.
If anything, I'm ashamed.
I am foolish.

"We're constantly afraid"

Note to self: Never grow up. Ever.

"Let's play handball. Your hand my ball."

I love the word "cunt" & I cry way too much.
That is who I am in a nutshell.
Perhaps I am more simple than that.


Side note: What the fuck is this Twilight business?
I don't know what's going on.

We're not the same inside...

I have overdue library books.

I wish Quaaludes were still around.

My mother told me she used to throw water balloons at hookers in the winter.She would burst out laughing at the sight of angry hookers tugging at their fishnets as to avoid having them freeze to their legs.

I've come to the conclusion that being different is overrated.

...touched for the very first time.

“Women get more unhappy the more they try to liberate themselves.”

40 year old male classmate: You smell nice.
Me: Pardon?
40 year old male classmate: You smell really nice.
Me: Thanks?

I suppose anyone who crosses me in passing
must notice I smell like baby powder and artificial vanilla
and must be pleasantly caught off guard by the childish
combination of scents.

Madonna is in town tonight.
I think I'm secretly jealous that I can't go.
It's probably best that I'm not there.
It would be me in a vast, glittering sea of gay.

Today I was studying for Political Science in Geology
and I turned to a picture of Dick Cheney making
a squishy, squinty face so I drew a fart cloud
behind him with the letters "Pfffft" inside.
I burst out laughing.
I swear I'm 20 years old.
Really, I am.

Having said that, I realize I am both young and foolish.
But don't take advantage of what I'm willing to offer.
I'm not that type of girl.

But I suppose I'm not not that type of girl, either.

I want to look like Brigitte Bardot.
Thank you.

This is what I’ve come to expect, I said to myself.

It is official.
Winter is upon us.
And to it I must say, "Go fuck yourself."
As beautiful as it is to watch snow fall,and to see snow line bare branches and cover lawns,I can't help but feel winter is a ruthless cunt. It's nothing personal, winter. It's not you, it's me.

I dressed mannequins and bust forms at work today.
I took the most care with the men.
I removed their clothes with delicate ease
and thought deeply about what they should wear.
A sweater vest here, a tweed coat there.
I was even commended on my clothing selection.
This might be because I secretly want to be a boy.
It must be nice to say things you mean and get away with it.

I took less effort with the girl mannequins only because their bodies frustrate me.
But just because I was careless, doesn't mean you should be.
They're fragile and so are we.

Note to self: Avoid becoming one of those middle aged ladies
who refer to clothing as "funky" or "fun"
Seriously.

Everyone's A Critic

"Don't let the wolves get you, love."

Is it me, or was there a great deal of blood, vomit, and man-on-man kissing on SNL last night?
I can't think of three things that go more perfect together.

I lost my rubber band while in a department store yesterday. No one understood why its sudden departure from my wrist made me feel sad. I suppose it is stupid;
Associating feelings with a rubber band.
"Maybe you'll be given another one."

Yesterday may have been the greatest thrifting misadventure I have
had in quite some time. $20 bought me some amazing things.
No one seems to like anything I bought.
They particularly don't understand the glasses without lenses.
But then again, I never asked them to understand.

I had a flat tire yesterday.

We had our first snow today.

While at work today, some strange man (not employed by Forever 21 and quite possibly not employed by anyone) walked into our "Employees Only" room. He came out a few moments later. Then, while I was in our stock room, he walked in again to use our drinking fountain, wearing a fedora with the censor still on it. I don't know who he was or what made him think he could just walk back there, but I loved it. (I later asked him to meet me in the fitting room for a good ol' fashioned fuck. He agreed and it was spectacular.)

I had someone read my 15 pages of novella.
"It's a work in progress."
I feel like I'm wasting my time
and I certainly feel people doubting me entirely.

Wouldn't it be fun if we could wake up
and be whoever we wanted to be?
I mean, imagine the confusion.
New skin, new thoughts, same bed.
You greet the day and no one knows who you are.
How refreshing.
(Tomorrow, I hope to be Paul Rudd so I can spend the entire day touching myself. Actually, regardless of who I wake up being tomorrow, touching myself will probably take up the better part of my day.)

Oy vey.

"He sounded angry and really Chinese"

Today was a wonderful day:
"If I saw you getting raped, I probably wouldn't try and stop it."
"So what? I took a 50 minute break. I saved a baby some lady threw in the river, okay? I slaughtered a cow so my family could eat. What was I supposed to do?"
"This is a Christmas song. I want to fuck you by the fire. Unwrap my package, girl. Oh yeah. This is a Christmas song."

You know how some people say they don't care
what other people think about them?
I do not like these people.
They are pretentious liars.
Because there is always that one person you hope
notices you. That one person you want to impress.
That one person changes, day to day, year to year.
But they are always there to make you doubt yourself.
They always exist.

I've decided that I want some painfully rare and seemingly
incurable disease so I can have House diagnose me,
with his wit and his dirty, sexy limp. Oh and the cane!
That cane really gets me hot.
I was watching an episode last night where a girl had the black plague.
The plague. I know, right?
If I were to have any disease in the world it would be the plague.
Oh, or polio.
(Note to self: Add "wheelchairs" to list of turn-ons.
Fuck it. Add "Polio" too.)

Have you ever questioned your expectations?
If you have, it sure is confusing.
How do you know if you're expecting too much?
How do you know if you're worthy of what you want?
I don't know.

Tomorrow will be the first Saturday I've had off in months.
Tomorrow I will thrift most of the morning.
Tomorrow might be a wonderful day.
I don't know.

Happy Birthday, Whoopi Goldberg!

When I woke up this morning,
my hair was extremely greasy.
I then tried to recall the last time I showered.
After a few moments, I realized I could not remember.
Therefore, I have concluded that it has been 4-8 days
since my last shower.
My mind wanders.

Having said that, I have now made a bathing schedule.
I don't make schedules for schoolwork or events, etc.
But I've somehow deemed scheduling necessary for
when I need to bathe myself.
Needless to say, Thursday (today) is on my schedule.

"There's nothing sadder than wedding dresses in Salvation Army windows."
I wrote that today.
I'm not sure why.

Sometimes I think I want something to be wrong with me.
I think I want more problems so I seem interesting.

I watched a woman on t.v giving birth and she was making
the most amazing faces and noises ever.
Her eyes bugged out and she sounded like she was pleasuring herself.
Kelly: Ew. Look at the umbilical cord.
Me: That's disgusting.
Kelly: Did you know that there's a sack that comes out after you give birth?
Me: Yeah. You're supposed to eat it.
Kelly: Seriously? I rather eat the baby.

I want a boyfriend for the sole purpose
of having someone to feed me.
Not physically feed me (I actually find that disgusting)
but to pay for food whenever I want it.
I'm not sure thats a requirement of boyfriend duties,
but I assume if I keep my candy shop open, the least he
can do is buy me a fucking whopper.
I am single, by the way.
Very, very single.
I wonder why....?
(Perhaps it's my lack of bathing or my constant desire for food
or my fascination with sacks of afterbirth)

Happy Birthday, Whoopi Goldberg.
You chocolate goddess, you.



Wow.

"I will pull your endocrine system out of your body!"

"Do you listen to Jenny Lewis?"
"Um, I'm familiar, yes."
"You look just like her! Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Actually, I've been hearing that quite a bit lately."
"Well, you totally do."
"Thank you, that is very kind of you to say."

I barely know who Jenny Lewis is, actually.
Sure, I know she was a founding member of Rilo Kiley.
And that people love her voice, blah, blah, blah.

I can't take a compliment for the life of me.
When people say things like, "You look like Jenny Lewis"
or "Do you model?" I feel like telling them to fuck off
and leave me alone. Because, honestly, I feel like they are saying
these things to upset me. And I honestly think people are out to
verbally hurt my feelings by mocking me.
I should probably look into that.

Sometimes I think I dress/act like a leather crazed, biker lesbian.
I mean, sure, I do enjoy a good old fashion bar brawl now and then.
And okay, I do love the ladies.
There are times I catch myself walking with swagger and attitude
as if to say, "Yeah. I have a dick and it's huge."
No one has ever told me, "Hey! You look like a leather crazed, biker lesbian."
But I know they're probably thinking it.
(And if that is the case, they probably think I'm getting some,
which is always a major plus)
Sometimes I don't know who I am when I wake up in the morning.

Oh, I forgot to mention the obvious.
This is my first real blog.
I have had a livejournal for 5 years or so,
but I thought I needed a place
for observations, random thoughts
and repetitive attempts at humor.
I will update this daily. And I want people to read it.
(I initially wanted to make a blog about super
crazy, offensive, celebrity gossip that would be COMPLETELY
false only to gain readers and in turn advertisements
which would get me money to buy a Macbook pro)

Having said that, I heard Angelina Jolie had an orgy with the Jonas
Brothers and you'll never guess who taped the whole thing...