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?