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.