obfuscated girl

don't let nobody with the power to sign ever tell you you ain't got the power to rhyme

in an effort to steer this one-way train away from talking about myself entirely, here are some things that i've noticed lately. the tennessee public school district has banned okayplayer.com, claiming that hip hop is "militant, anti-authority...and misogynistic." great. here is a link to the discussion that brings that up and attempts to answer the question "what is hip hop?" admittedly they answer the question whilst plugging okayplaer artists, but it's pretty interesting anyway. and kind of enraging. the banning part, i mean.
and speaking of enraging, there is a growing movement among conservatives (backlash because cbs wouldn't air the reagan miniseries?) to get reagan's likeness on the dime. jesus christ, does it ever end? the fact that the man is dying of alzheimer's is very sad. and yes, it's very sad that the left-wing media controllers refused to allow the miniseries to air. but that doesn't mean he EVER did ANYTHING worth ANYTHING AT ALL while actually in office. does that also mean that if someone makes a film about the clinton legacy and it gets shut down his ass is gonna be on the dollar? i very much doubt that. here's an editorial about it which sums it up better than i can.
fuck. i don't know.
tonight's plans involve my sister coming up from madison and running around with her and being stupid and actually seeing (as long as they don't back out, and they very well could, as it is the coldest day milwaukee has had in five years) some of my old friends. extended multiple human(s) contact (s?????) is such a rare and wonderful thing for me these days that i'm tempted to bust out the cristal, prada and little plastic tooter horns.. wait, this isn't the sex and the city fanblog....
and the rest of the weekend will most likely be spent debating what we should do for five hours and then not doing anything. ah, tradition....

one final thing: i am, apparently, a triolet. add that to the fact that i am 47% slut and you have one very confused (but happy at not being a sonnet or some shit) me.

If they told you I'm mad, then they lied. I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive. I'm the triolet, bursting with pride; If they told you I'm mad, then they lied. No, it isn't obsessive. Now hide All the spoons or I might get convulsive. If they told you I'm mad then they lied. I'm odd, but it isn't compulsive. What Poetry Form Are You?

soundtrack: talib kweli + 5,000 guest artists, "get by."

(out.)

love spreads her arms, waits there for the needle

hello.
i have spent the better part of two days in various locations being confronted by the impending doom (doooooooooom!) that is valentine's day. the most recent was about a half hour ago at beans & barley, home of the loveliest pieces of useless junk that i have ever seen in my life. i came this close to purchasing the following, as after about ten minutes of looking at all the displays some insidious voice in the back of my head started going "get that...and that...that would be so cute...":
1 (one) coffee mug with shakespeare quotations relevant to love emblazoned on it
1 (one) bag of heart-shaped valentine's chocolates, assorted
2 (two) heart-shaped candles, pink
1 (one) wind-up monkey clashing cymbals
what the fuck?
i physically had all but the coffee mug in my hand and replaced each item after i snapped out of the trance. understand also that none of these items were for me. i sincerely hope that the person these were in fact intended for is not horribly, crushingly disappointed now that he knows he is getting none of these things.
i go back and forth on this; 98% of me realizes that it's a useless goddamn holiday dreamed up by some boardroom executive and heart shaped things are in no way going to improve or detract from my relationship. i have even told matthew on multiple occasions that if he gets me anything heart-shaped i am going to clock him. (thus deepening the mystery of why i was ready to purchase chocolates and candles.) and dude, ask him how much i get him little sentimental useless objects. the other part of me is kind of swayed by the romanticism of it all and thrives on any and all excuses to wear cute underwear and go out to dinner and make googly eyes across dimly lit tables.
jesus, i'm hopeless. and probably a hypocrite.
i think the crux of it is that i really don't have a problem with telling him i love him on a nationally appointed date but i want to do it on my own, without the aid of any hallmark sponsorship. i want to give him something that means something, goddamnit. thus coming back to one of the overriding discussion themes: i-don't-have-any-money-to-give-him-something-wonderful-because-i-am-fucking-unemployed.
and for my part the one thing that i really want in the world right now is rufus wainwright tickets, which are much more expensive than any show i've seen in like the past year ($30 for the most expensive ones; which i guess for gainfully employed people is fine, he is very much not cher). i refuse to ask anyone for help because i have this thing about making matthew go to see concerts that are "my music" unless crime and judy is playing. and even then sometimes. i am already partially breaking this rule on v-day itself. but crime and judy is opening, so it actually counts. and no one else i know has that kind of money. so aside from selling my ass on north avenue or performing fellatio on a security guard (and there are certain people in my life who wouldn't be pleased with that) or, you know, sensibly budgeting and going by myself, i am stuck.
donations to the cause may be sent to the following p.o. box:
just kidding.
so to sum up, i will quote andre 3000, who said it very succinctly indeed: "fuck that fuck that valentine, fuck that fuck that valentine, fuck that valentine's day."
but there will probably be more ranting on the subject as it gets nearer. apologies in advance.
soundtrack: the stone roses, second coming
(out.)

you little wonder; little wonder you

hello--the only thing that i actually have to report today is the fact that i have updated my links--deleted a rather useless one and added a link to (in my non-web-proficient opinion) the Best Online Game Ever, the emo game. even if you are not familiar with or are driven to violence by the term, surely you too want to save the get up kids from being sodomized and anally raped by steven tyler. (or if you are playing the mini-game you can save the alkaline trio from hell and skeletor. i'm not sure what the fuck you're fighting against in the official sequel but it involves fighting the american idol finalists; could anyone possibly not want to do this?) and if you are familiar with the genre, you will laugh really, really hard at things like the fact that atom from atom and his package's superpower is the metric system. and there are downloads! have i made my case enough yet? go. play. it's fucking great.

soundtrack: david bowie, earthling
(out.)

show me a word that rhymes with pavement and i will kill your parents and roast them on a spit

"i've been like this since i could talk. before that i just pointed and laughed."--darlene from roseanne

this is the first friday night that i have been alone in a long time. not that i mind this at all. i am tired and my ass hurts--made myself go through an exercise tape even though by the time i got home i was smack in the throes of this wave of exhaustion that was more akin to a typhoon. but the fact that my ass hurts actually makes me very, very happy. for lo, it signifies progress. like in the days of expansion towards the west. and the chinese. with the railroads. yeah. also i did some more culinary experimenting--this time it involved much tamer ingredients, but adding canned tomatoes to a lipton pasta side thing (sour cream and onion, while an excellent flavor for potato chips, turns out not so much with pasta) is...not exactly a revelation, but palatable. plus i feel like a ghetto nigella lawson, with less voluminous hair. feel me?
why am i alone and not out shaking it like a polaroid picture with my unemployed rockstar ass? several reasons:
1. the aforementioned sleepy
2. there is a fresh three inches of snow on the ground that i do not feel like picking my way through, not tonight
3. ain't nobody calling me, ain't feeling no love, so none of y'all gets love
4. the friend who i was supposed to go drink aimlessly with has canceled and rescheduled on me, so i am instead going to see this seam and crime & judy show with her tomorrow night. she promised. it's a date. whee.
note to self: mention to angelique that i should get promotional royalties, and/or become hired if and when crime & judy become Huge.
this also means that i will be deprived of matthew for two days. well, with the exception of dinner tomorrow night, but after that the demands of my social calendar do not permit me to stay. sigh.
pop culture note: they are promoting some upcoming show on nbc called "las vegas" that i could have sworn had been canceled already with "the biggest stars," who are as follows: all in the same episode:
jon lovitz (snort) (giggle)
jean claude van damme (crickets)
and miss paris hilton.
this is what i have to say about the last one: star? star? excuse me? you get a skinny blonde chick to be petulant for one season on a goddamn reality show and release a tape of her fucking someone (which is boring, frankly--if you are honestly enjoying sex and are therefore sexy you do not adjust your angle/profile in front of the camera every thirty seconds) and this makes her EMBRACED BY MIDDLE AMERICA?
jeez, money and cheekbones really do buy everything.
and now i am going to go suffer through the cold sweats of matthew withdrawl syndrome. enjoy your weekends.
soundtrack: the fire theft, "chain"
(out.)

i've been here before a few times, and i'm quite aware we're dying

hello--
i am writing this from the boy's house; as i am sure you are all aware the windchill is like negative five thousand and therefore i'm kind of stuck. the bus ride back to my side of the world is about an hour long and involves a transfer, so i have opted to stay the fuck here, thankyou very much indeed. this weather makes me thank (insert deity here) that i have a home and that i am inside. but it also makes me think about what it must be like to be homeless on a day like today. i wish that i were in a position to go out and help someone or give money to a shelter or something, but the truth is that i have enough problems of my own. god, that sounds like such a selfish copout.
am still in the grips of a quasi-depression that is heavily influenced by this lack of job and subsequent feeling of a lack of direction. i have also discovered a talent of mine to make tiny problems and tiny fuckups--like leaving the sugar on the counter--Huge And Life Altering. this scares me. i am probably not the only one who is scared by this, either. the bottom line is that i need human contact. and the fact that i'm not getting enough anymore (from more than one person--i don't fault the person that i do get it from at all, he has been wonderful through all of this) is altering my brain's chemistry in ways that i can't even fathom right now. on the one hand i really enjoy solitude, and i do well enough filling up my days. but i want so much to be doing something that i'm good at and that i like doing, other than making my way through every single book on the shelf of the milwaukee public library and watching crap television (saying it's because i need to know my enemy but really because i am fascinated by it) and bitching about the same problems over coffee. i need to feel like i am worth something. and this is true in the sense that i have the people in my life who i love and feel completely fulfilled by them and am still keeping active, both physically and in the sense that i occasionally do things outside my comfort zone (see the skiing entry).
and i used to think that was enough. i used to think that once i found love that would be the be all and end all and that would fix everything else that was wrong (granted, that was back when i had a job, but still). it doesn't. i need more. i mean--please, part of my life that is Fixed and Good, don't ever go away, but i need more.
and now for something completely different:
i found this somewhere on the vast morass of the internet, and was so amused by it that i contemplated plagarizing it, but that would make y'all have a dramatically reduced distance from my life, and i would like to leave a little bit to the imagination. suffice it to say that there have been discussions this week about the fact that i can't sleep late anymore, like ever, and there are great parallels between this and what goes through my head on weekend mornings. it's from a weblogthing called smitten and i am including a link to it just to prove the fact that i did not write it. pbbbth. this link takes you to an exact replica of what you're about to read but if you, like me, consider reading other people's blogs a great and fascinating waste of time and judge of human intelligence (obviously, that's why you're here) you can probably take some amusement in this. perhaps it is a universal truth that girls wake up before boys:
i'm awake. wake up, baby, wake up wake up wakeupwakeupwakeup. why isn't he waking up?
but i'm NAKED here, why won't he wake up? am i losing my game?
let me try to kiss his back. nothing?!?
maybe if i poke him a little, he'll wake up. hmmph nobody ignores ME and gets away with it...
maybe i'll push him. just a little. oomph. okay, so much for that idea.
should i jump on the bed? no, then he might wake up mad. but at least he'd be awake!
i know, i'll bite his shoulder. ooh! movement! no he just rolled over and fell back asleep!
i want him to wake up now and pay attention to me! grrr. maybe i should let him sleep. naah.
i give up. i'm taking a shower. i'm mad at him. i wonder if he knows we just got in a fight?
back from shower, to the sleeping mass under my covers: 'all right, mister. i tried to be nice, but you've left me no choice.' [tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap]

oh, and one more thing: the shark has spoken to me.
for those of you who have no idea what i'm talking about, go here.
soundtrack: blink 182, "i'm lost without you"

(out.)

i want my old friends. i want my old face. i want my old mind. fuck this time and place.

the rock shop is no more. being the intrepid facts-reporter that i am, i was going to provide some sort of link to it, but google is failing me, it seems. there is the more depressing alternative, also, that nobody cares about it. feh. the rock shop was a club in 'stallis that provided not only music, but apparently wet tshirt contests and mud wrestling. while that does not fit my definition of what a club should offer, it still saddens me because the news briefly interviewed the owner and he looked very young, and he said simply something along the lines of "i lost everything." according to the news report i saw they still don't know what caused it. and yes, they were dicks to crime & judy (so i heard) but that doesn't mean that their karmic retribution is to lose everything in a fire. jeez.
speaking of crime & judy: they are playing this saturday with seam at mad planet. 10 p.m., suckers. woohoo.
once again i am going mildly crazy with the cold & the being shut up inside & the lack of human contact. i have had an offer to go be a scenster tonight and as that is something i have not done in a long while i plan to take the offer.
the only other thing worth noting is that it is in fact possible to culinary-icly misstep with tofu; i did not feel like leaving the house to feed myself tonight and had to Scrounge and Improvise. as i recently acquired this tofu and did not wish it to go bad, i made a stir-fry looking thing with the following:
olive oil
crumbled tofu
cheese & garlic powder leftover from an instant mashed potato mix thing
canned pineapple
walnuts
ketchup

actually, it was okay, except i think i used too much olive oil. i tell of this and of these ingredients purely to disgust one individual out there in particular; you know who you are.
ha ha ha.

soundtrack: ani difranco, not a pretty girl
(out.)

with you in a cold grave, i cannot stay warm

it's cold.
it's really fucking cold.
and in my infinite wisdom i left one of my gloves on my apartment floor when i left on friday so i was standing on greenfield avenue this morning with one hand in my pocket, the other gloved, cursing everything i could possibly think of. it is the type of cold where it takes your breath away. whilst i am normally a fan of that phrase i hate it when it's literally true.
saw big fish with matthew over the weekend and loved it. i really can't come up with any other way to describe it other than it takes your breath away (har). it brings up issues of mortality and fathers and sons and witches and love and while i am not by any means a scholar of tim burton films this is the best one of his that i can recall ever seeing.
i have shamelessly self-promoting poetry news:
1. i now have two poems up at mister eriq's website for such things, which you can see by clicking here. there are some really lovely things up there besides my stuff, and i'm not saying that my stuff is lovely, i will reserve judgement. when i was in college i remember trying to present the argument that you are not a poet until someone recognizes you as such to a couple of my professors. i'm not sure if i believe that anymore but i am still reluctant to call myself a poet. i am more a Scribbler Of Painful Things. y'all can judge me but you can't hate on me.
2. and this is the poem that i randomly generated from (you don't say!) a random poetry generator site; it works sort of like a mad lib. i admit that when i was of the age where i was supposed to be amused by madlibs i was not. amused. at. all, but i randomly came across this in matthew's presence last night and was giggling like a schoolgirl on quaaludes once the, um, cough, heartfelt product was completed. i'm sure he either still a) thinks i am fucking high or 2) feels vaguely superior to the girfriend who is amused by such things. as well he should. anyway, you can find that link here. here's my poem:

Your skin glows like the banana, blossoms long as the daisy in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your timpani voice and leaps like a ocelot at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great sparrow wing.
I am comforted by your bra that I carry into the twilight of barbed wirebeams and hold next to my toe.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of oil.
As my neck falls from my socks, it reminds me of your belt.
In the quiet, I listen for the last cough of the day.
My heated breast leaps to my dressy. I wait in the moonlight for your secret mouse so that we may conjugate as one, breast to breast, in search of the magnificient blue and mystical domain of love.


that's all. very little else has changed. i am still jobless. very little changes around here.
soundtrack: yes, "i've seen all good people/your move," which i still can't get out of my head ever since seeing "big fish."
(out.)

forever if i could, forever if i may

feeling lazy today and like anything that i have to say is irrelevant, so i am going to let other people's words speak for me. the lyrics you are about to read are significant in the following ways:
1. r.e.m. has written a song that DOES NOT SUCK--the first time in, like 10 years
2. it sums up my state of mind lately. whether that is good or bad or whether that is a copout or dramatic to let lyrics "speak" for me remains to be seen. but here you are, read them, i need a shower:
"bad day"

(soundtrack: ryan adams, "so alive")
(out)

a public service announcement followed me home the other day
i paid it nevermind. go away.
shit's so thick you could stir it with a stick
free teflon whitewashed presidency
we're sick of being jerked around
wear that on your sleeve

broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, lord,
count your blessings.
we're sick of being jerked around
we all fall down.

have you ever seen the televised st. vitus subcommittee prize
investigation dance? those-ants-in- pants glances.
well, look behind the eyes
it's a hallowed, hollow anesthesized
"save my own ass, screw these guys"
smoke and mirror lock down

broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, lord,
count your blessings.
the papers wouldn't lie!
i sigh. Not one more

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

we're dug in the deep the price is steep.
the auctioneer is such a creep.
the lights went out, the oil ran dry
we blamed it on the other guy
sure, all men are created equal.
here's the church, here's the steeple
please stay tuned--we cut to sequel
ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times,
lord, count your blessings.
ignore the lower fears
ugh, this means war.

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

i saw the light, it can't be right...

broadcast me a joyful noise unto the times, lord,
count your blessings.
we're sick of being jerked around
we all fall down.

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

its been a bad day.
please dont take a picture
its been a bad day.
please

i live my life like i wasn't invited

hello.
it's snowing. it's very lovely. i am sitting in sweatpants and a bra which has become my, er, chosen workout apparel. next thing you know i'll be spitting and grabbing my crotch and yelling at my imaginary wife to get me another beer, bitch. whee.
today's topics have perhaps a thread of relevance between the two of them. but only a thread. i did my tae bo tape this morning after experimenting with other tapes from the library and barely being able to contain my laughter at how motherfucking stupid they are. i do not take direction from little white girls telling me "party over here" and teaching me how to dance hip hop whilst accompanied by a bad c & c music factory cover band complete with that little "squee!" effect that was so popular in that era, nor do i take well to someone telling me to "find the rhythm" because it's part of my "chakras" and that it "centers" my "balance." so it is back to billy blanks and his scary abs and scarier package.
but as i was kicking invisible things i started marveling, rather pompously, i'm sure, at how much the human body can do and how very strange it was that my shoulders were warm and how i am kicking this invisible object just by thinking "kick," when the word itself is such an abstraction, and that i rather like sweating, and that at this moment i am conscious of the fact that i am alive, even though shortly after that fact i started visualizing aaliyah's stomach (not the way it looks now) and the way that i have muscles and hip bones and shoulder blades and they just function and fit and that's totally fucking strange....
so i'm having one of those "hey-neat-i-have-a-body!"days. i need to make up my fucking mind about the way i feel about it. but you knew that part already.
and i finished a book this morning called "girls" by this skeevy looking gentleman, nic kelman (they should outlaw author photographs on book covers, it really biases the reader) and i can't decide whether it's a) pretentious as hell, b) brilliant or c) completely offensive and misogynist. it is most likely all three. (the blurb on the back is written by jt leroy, king of enigmatic pretentiousness, so that was kind of a tipoff.) it is basically a series of blended quasifictional narratives (that changes narrators several times without announcing itself and you're like, "what the fuck?!) about infidelity and fifteen year old strippers from amsterdam and fucking the daughters of work colleagues and "friction dances" at strip clubs and trying to pass infidelity off as noble because odysseus and achilles did it and talked incessantly about it and boys-will-be-boys and follow-you-dick and all of that.
some excerpts: of course reprinted without permission:
"so believe me when i tell you that love is the printing press and the arcade version of centipede. believe me when i tell you that at the very best love is a brand-new thing. because no matter often we cancel the trip, say, 'no, you guys go on, i'm just going to relax at the lodge,' decide to do something quiet instead, no matter how often we can't find the energy for other things, we always have the energy to fuck them. whenever we have an opportunity to fuck them, the energy finds us."
"so there you are. hiding from your wife. on a wednesday night in one of your eleven bathrooms with your armani pants around your ankles. a forty-two-year-old man worth hundreds of millions of dollars, a king, masturbating like a schoolboy over a single page torn from hustler because you can't wait for the weekend. except it isn't a page from a magazine. it's a polaroid of [your mistress] on the beach."
"one out of every two marriages ends in divorce. four out of five spouses admit to cheating on their partner--we don't know how many of the remaining 20 percent are simply not admitting it....so who is it, exactly, that we think we're fooling?"
i think the reason why this has struck such a chord with me is the fact that it's so graphic and so descriptive about the ways that men think about and what they do with women who they are not with and that i do not ever, ever want to end up being a statistic, i do not ever want to fall out of love or even consider cheating, yet this man basically says that i will. i can't fathom that and am quite resentful of the implication. what the fuck makes him so sure?
it's a lot to think about.

soundtrack: wilco, summerteeth
(out.)

you're gonna make me lonesome when you go

jawohl. i am back. again. i did not die while skiing. however, it seems that my personal style of skiing is as follows: [cry] [be terrified] [lose balance] [get on rope tow] [fall] [get up] [ski ten feet] [fall] [get up][ski ten more feet] [fall] [repeat ad infinitum].
i am not proud of this. however in a strange way i feel better about myself for doing it rather than never having tried it at all. or at least that's what has helped me get out of bed for the past two days. and it was a good time overall; our team won trivial pursuit (furthering the delusion that i, in fact, Know Things), but i got my ass kicked at uno more times than i can count, and i was introduced for the first time to the glory that is peanut butter oreos. a girl really can't ask for more.
i really don't have much else to report. i paid off my fine at the library which was on my card since, um, last april or so, and now have enough of all possible mediums of entertainment to keep me occupied for the next fortnight. too bad some of the things are due in a week. (the first center for independence meeting was yesterdayand the biggest revelation from that was that this finding gainful employment deal is going to take a looooooooong tiiiiiiiiiiiiime.) i also spent this morning inadvertently fucking up mattie j's keyboard, which leads me to believe that despite any and all contrary reports i should not be let out of the house, ever, and especially not around other people's possessions.
i am sorry, dear.
the plea for peace 2004 tentative tour lineup has just been announced. i can hardly contain myself.
and now i am off to kick at the air.

soundtrack: bob dylan, blood on the tracks

that is all.

(out.)

first i learn to crawl, then some other strokes

hello.
my computer de my casa has kicked...something. matthew swears it's not the bucket, but i am skeptical. i got a new wallpaper thingy yesterday and the next time i turned it on it mysteriously withheld all of my windows folders from me, up to and including my startup toolbar. so i'm mildly pissed but all it really means is that i will have to actually find productive things to do with my day until boy gets a chance to look at it ("no, i will not fix your computer." i am so sorry). like return my videos to blockbuster. and look for "uptown girls." oh, i'm so embarrassed...ever since i saw brittany murphy bumping uglies in a factory with eminem i have been sickly fascinated by her and her littleness and her blondeness while simultaneously thinking that she used to be an example of normal-girl size in hollywood (around the time of "clueless") and something very, very drastic happened and she is either very sick or very addicted to something. because changes like that just don't happen naturally.
feh.
today's mood is slightly sleepy and lackadaisical. and something else i can't quite name. all i want to do is listen to morphine and blow smoke rings at the ceiling, if that gives you any indication. and due to the state of things outside i am really not looking forward to taking the hour-and-a-goddamn-half bus ride home. i am happy that it finally snowed, though.
i feel like i should have accomplished something this week. once again i am holding off on accomplishing things which are Great and Mighty (like job things) because i do not have the meeting with the milwaukee center for independence until monday. and it is so cold that i lack motivation to go canvassing the neighborhood for a crap job that i wouldn't take anyway. but there is so little variety in my days now. i'm at some sort of crossroads that i am not entirely comfortable with, but once again i should be embracing my freetime while i have it. i think.
this weekend, it was decided yesterday, i am going skiing. downhill. now i have crosscountry skiied before and enjoyed the hell out of it, but ever since my neighbor nils ran headfirst into a tree while skiing and was in a coma for a couple hours when i was twelve i made a pact with myself never to ski ever ever ever. this is not to say that the pact is still valid, i'm just saying i've never been before. and i am slightly nervous. more than slightly. i have spent a great deal of my life doing things that people (teachers, doctors, therapists, etc.) said that i couldn't do, but that doesn't mean that part of me also believes that i can't do a fucking thing.
and on that note.
this will be the last post until my puter gets fixed, i think. i don't wish matthew to believe that i am only in this relationship for his computer. i mean, it's the truth, i just don't want him to believe it.
ha ha ha ha. i slay me.
and if you don't hear from me by mid next week, it means that i ran into a bear while skiing and was mauled and am probably an (uninsured)(eep) vegetable lying in a hospital somewhere.
soundtrack: morphine, "you speak my language"
(out.)

fat is a feminist issue

lo, i have returned from a weekend of "the red shoe diaries," which i admit i didn't have the highest of hopes for but 75% of it proved nearly unwatchable (the parts where david duchovny conversed with his dog were swell, though), watching the snow, playing the best game of pool i have literally ever played (which meant having four balls on the table at the end and winning because my opponent knocked the cue ball and the eight ball in at once) and having a demon sore throat with stuff coming out of it. bleurgh.
so i am going to take a minute to address the demon that followed me for part of the weekend and for most of my life. not the sore throat, but the thing that is probably responsible for the sore throat (without giving you too much detail): my Issues With My Body. i grew up a pudgy, bespectacled, be-headgeared and be-legbraced child. i internalized much too much during those years. now i am not pudgy. i am not waifish, nor will i ever be, but neither am i terribly offensive. in fact there are those who say that i am beautiful. there are times when i agree with them. it's just the times that i don't agree with them that are really, really fucking scary.
the way i lost the pudginess once i got to college was not the healthiest way one goes about doing these things. granted, i exercised. and weight trained and got my arms to such a permanent satisfactory point that i still occasionally demand that people feel my biceps. but i was also borderline bulimic. and when not being bulimic i did things like chainsmoke and take diet pills and drink coffee and eat a box of macaroni & cheese (with fat free margarine) (i can still tell you the exact location of the fat-free dairy products in any given grocery store) a day and that was it. and for some reason when i got more normal (i use that word lightly. obviously) my metabolism was at a point that i didn't gain anything back. but the demon still lives in me. the demon typically manifests itself once or twice a month. it shudders when it sees a picture of me with my stomach--my perfectly normal, unobtrusive stomach--showing, and it wreaks havoc. on me.
it's like i'm bipolar. the rational college educated me has read the beauty myth and refused after a point to take place in conversations with my friends about how fat we all are and you-look-so-cute and i-am-so-foul and knows that billions and billions of dollars are spent on the diet and beauty industry and it is such a crock of shit i can barely breathe.
the demon-little-girl-me knows that i am no different than any of them, any of those girls who surrepititiously pinch their fat while walking and hold their stomach in and refuse to have the lights on during sex because even though you find me ATTRACTIVE ENOUGH TO FUCKING SLEEP WITH, you cannot possibly LOOK AT ME without getting DISGUSTED. courtney love once talked about how eating is tied into sex, and her basic point was "if you can't eat, you can't fuck." of course she then turned around and had the plastic surgery bonus deluxe package, but whatever. the point is still valid.
the week of christmas i cried in front of my mother and sister because my mother said that i have a roll on my stomach. which is true; it's not toned by any stretch of the imagination. but the fact that i am so sensitive to that type of criticism (and am still doing bad, bad harmful things even though at a lesser frequency) makes me think that perhaps i need something outside of what i am already attempting to do. of course it is hard to get therapy when one is lacking insurance and unemployed. i hope that this attempt at regular exercise does something because i am at a loss otherwise.
and i know that my plight, as it were, is not unique in the least. i know that thousands, if not millions, of women (and men) will never be comfortable with the way that they look and let it rule their lives. i know that i am wasting a great deal of my time and other people's time by obsessing even if it's infrequent. i know i am fucking myself up. it's just that none of that really comforts me.
and mr. eriq, if you are reading this, and congratulations if you and anyone else has gotten this far, i hope that you were serious about making me a compilation of pet shop boys songs, because i am seriously preparing a random girly mix cd to give to you in return.
random say anything quote of the day:
"the bomb could go off, and even their mutant genes would form the same cliques."

soundtrack: r.e.m, automatic for the people
(out.)

who mistook these baths for showers? who fucked up that leaning tower?

ooh. i am the best mixtape maker ever. i just came across a tape that i never gave my friend which i am now listening to, which includes one of the greatest bands ever: the moldy peaches. today's headline is from "steak for chicken," a song which also includes the following line: "who mistook this crap for genius? who is gonna stroke my penis?" seriously. when i saw them live last year kimya dawson (female half of the band) was dressed as a bunny. you cannot ask for more from rock.
i would also like to announce that i have been betrayed by vh1. last night we rented "bachelor party" (tom hanks in the 80s before he won anything and therefore before he started thanking god for his shoelaces every time he was on a stage--in short before he was an insufferable fuckwit) because we saw it praised on "i love the 80s strikes back" and it looked goofy and funny and dumb and resplendent with bad 80s hair. it was two of those things. i laughed maybe once. i feel violated. however, it was instructional in that i really had no concept of how much full-frontal female nudity was in 80s films. would that the nakedness saved the plot. would that the nudity in films corresponded to a lack of puritanism and hypocrisy about actual american sex lives. ooh, i could talk about that more but i'm already afraid i sound like an over-pseudo-intellectualizing twat.
that is all i have to report. i have no idea what i am going to do with the rest of the day besides the usual downloading of porn.
that's a JOKE, people.
i would get antsy and angsty about the fact that i have this vast ocean of idle time but i am beginning to concieve of the fact that there will come a time that i join the ranks of the working again (comrade) and that perhaps it would be a good idea to stop obsessing about things i can't control and just try to enjoy it while it lasts.
soundtrack: pavement, "harness your hopes." ("show me a word that rhymes with pavement and i will kill your parents and roast them on a spit." heeeeeeeee hee hee.)
(out.)

so this is the new year, and i have no resolution

hello.
here is a list of songs that i found about new years and/or just include new year's somewhere in the title:
azure ray, "the new year"
the casket lottery, "new year's eve"
little rufus wainwright, "what are you doing new year's eve?"
thursday, "jet black new year's"
jeff buckley, "new year's prayer"
death cab for cutie, "the new year"
and the inevitable
u2, "new year's day."

i know it's a bit after the fact, but i need to feed my listmaking obsession somehow. the tradition on my end is to listen to "new year's day" every year and shiver at its beauty as well as the fact that bono is now a self-aggrandizing asshole. (if well intentioned.) i hope everyone had a good night and was not as asleep and full of pain the next morning as i was. four (4) glasses of champagne plus other amounts of alcohol that i am afraid to go into because it's too embarrassing. i don't even LIKE getting drunk. somehow (matthew) i got home in one piece, though. apparently, and i only vaguely remembered this, i allowed my tattoos to be photographed for eriq, which will be included in that portion of his page soon (i think). (this is now officially the most links in one entry ever. i work hard because i love you all.) today was spent recovering from my headache with non-headache pills which probably fucked up my liver even more because they are being used for the Wrong Purpose, coffee, yogurt and granola. goddamn, i'm healthy. also copious amounts of "i love the 80s strikes back," which answered a question of matthew's about which celebrity i would Do (the answer being, alex, "who is michael ian black?" it's something about tall wiry boys with incredible senses of humor. i am like a moth to a candle. that does not just describe michael ian black, by the way). and i have discovered that i am not the only one who has love for "milkshake," by kelis." it fills the need for girls being the absolute opposite of coy and dancing around and being all skanky and innuendo-ing. seriously, the world needs more of that.
as i said last time, i don't have any resolutions mostly because i am very, very good at breaking them.
and that, i believe, is all the minutiae i have to report. i hope you all find me as fascinating as i find myself.
damn, where did THAT come from?
soundtrack: nothing (boy is sleeping).
(out.)