obfuscated girl

jesus christ,

I just wrote an entire post and the Internet ate it. I have no idea what happened. This is now going to go against the entire resolution that I had made to experiment with writing styles and write longer posts because I don't have the energy to try and recreate what I wrote. Fuck.
The general gist of it was that when I say I don't like having pictures taken of myself I am, in fact, being a whiny bitch and am just jealous of everyone I encounter who I feel photographs better than I think I need to stop, and that Miles Davis's version of "My Funny Valentine" makes me want to put on a slinky dress and lean out of my tenement window in the Bronx and smoke languidly, and that I am considering making an entire CD of just versions of that song and suggestions would be appreciated as to, you know, who covers it besides Matt Damon, and that despite my photograph protests I let my friend Nicole come over last week and take pictures because I trust her and she's a genius and as a result I'm going to be in an exhibit of hers at Gallery Night.
Hypocrilicious.
I'm going to bed now. Dammit.

now all these tastes improve through the view that comes with you

Conversation had at some point during the wedding reception on Saturday between myself and the boy, prompted by part of another conversation that I can't remember now, all after I was about three glasses of Pinot Grigio in:
me (sotto voce): You know what?
Matt: What?
me: I cried, a little.
Matt (playfully): I saw, and I was wondering about that, because, you know, YOU DON'T KNOW THESE PEOPLE.
me: (slightly drunken shrug)
And I don't know them. He is right. There it is, reader/s: I am One Of Those Females Who Cries At Weddings, In Addition To Everything Else. I have no intention or capability of explaining the actions of other womenses, and I would never--ever!--generalize, so this is, to be clear, my attempt to explain myself, which I didn't do on Saturday. This may be more difficult than explaining the actions of all of womankind.
When you are me, you kind of have a history of viewing yourself rather dimly. You aren't "conventionally" "attractive," you never "dated" in "high school," you have a "lingering" "odor."
Seriously, you grow up reading magazines and watching everybody else and hiding from them, and you get to the point where you think: Not For Me. Not because you don't want any of it; because you are pretty sure you don't deserve it. After all, you are Ugly, and No One Will Ever Love You, so stiff upper lip and get some cats. (of course, if you are me, you despair further because you are allergic to cats.) You coat yourself in armor. You read things like this, and teach yourself to quote liberally from it even though you secretly only agree with about a third of it, and what's wrong with self-identified feminists falling for someone and celebrating rituals in their own way, if they want to? Who says that I'm bowing to the patriarchy? But you keep these feelings to yourself. Then suddenly, you are a grownup. After several false starts, you fall in love, and it shows no signs of stopping or breaking, and Everything Is Coming Up Roses And Shit. You are amazed, if you are me. You start thinking, mostly secretly, because you don't believe in Cosmopolitan either, but yet you kind of do, that yeah, you can see spending the rest of ever with this person. You start dreaming about what it would be like to wear the white dress. You kind of hate yourself, especially because these thoughts are often accompanied by "if I could lose ten pounds first." You are reasonably sure you are becoming a cliche and that it is not unlike Smith turning everyone else into Smiths in The Matrix Revolutions. You are a Smith! And your boyfriend/hapless victim knows a little of this, but you keep the really scary parts--like dreamily putting together the wedding soundtrack every time you hear that one Jets to Brazil song--carefully well fucking hidden. not anymore. You are reasonably sure, like you are about many other things that you think/say/do, that if he knew the full extent of this occasional madness he would run screaming.
The rational part of you knows that you are both in fairly different areas of your lives and that to do this now would be something of an impossibility. You are fine with this, because your relationship has reached a level that you know--to the extent that you can know, that is--that no matter what happens you are going to end up together, and there is no need to rush things. until you go to your First Grownup Wedding with this boyfriend. The wedding is in a huge church and is populated with exactly the type of person you were jealous of in high school and you have, meanwhile, spotted a ten year old wearing the exact same thing you are.
And some of it--most of it--why you cry a little--is because you want the dress (only maybe a little less poufy in the skirt), and the ring, and you want him to be Tony to your Maria forever and ever and ever, and you want the vows spoken before God (or whoever) and everyone, and part of you still doesn't think that will happen. You're not sure why, exactly, other than mumbling something about how the mystic appeal of ritual is very powerful and shit. But when your boyfriend asks you can't tell him this, because you don't think you can explain it without it sounding like insane amounts of pressure, which (ask Cosmo!) is VERY VERY BAD. And you don't need it to happen now, either (although if you had both lived in Shakespearean times you would have seven grandchildren and/or be dead). And if you included the not needing it now part your boyfriend would repeat "WTF, then?" and his head would explode.
But part of it is because you just really appreciate people falling in love. And brides getting all emotional and grooms talking about how they aren't gonna cry themselves. You have become That Girl, Too. Despite, and in a way, because of, all of the layers and trappings and religious ephemera, there is a genuine, unironic, untainted need and love for the other person underneath.
And in the end, this is why I cried a little.
(shrug.)

dear jimmy eat world:

I don't think that we can see each other anymore.
We both know that it hasn't been working for a while now. I don't know if you know how much I loved you back then, and how much your silence inbetween "Clarity" and "Bleed American" hurt me. I forgave you for cheating on me with those bitches who loved you and Sum 41. Sure, there was a brief period where I discovered "Static Prevails" while I was waiting for you, and it was good too, but it wasn't the same as something new. I was even happy for you when "Bleed American" finally came out, even though you caved and retitled it after September 11th when we all knew that the title was so abstract that it couldn't possibly offend anyone but idiots, because I am fine with you musician boys "selling out" as long as the music still speaks to me. I want you to revel in your talent and be able to pay rent. It was pop, yes, and it got you on TRL, but it Didn't Matter.
You had Davey sing on a track with you! You namechecked him! I loved that! And for the most part, with the exception of that one song about the dying and the thinly veiled religious references and all, the album was still why I had fallen for you in the first place: earnest, multitextured and gorgeous. Not to mention the fact that I still have to close my eyes every time I hear that one part just when the kick drums come in on "Your House." You didn't even need strings for that one. I almost feel...in a way, I almost feel like this is my fault for not letting you know how much I appreciated you. I never told you, did I, about the multiple times I took "Clarity" with me down to the park at 11:00 at night and just let it play over and over on my headphones while I dangled back on the swing, staring at the sky? How a couple times I was drunk when I did this and it was just the most perfectest thing ever?
I confess: I forgot about you for a while. I had to do things like graduate from college and hold a series of soul-crushing jobs and discover other bands. But I only did it because you weren't speaking to me anymore! You never communicated your feelings to me, in those what-felt-like-a-thousand-years. In a way, we both cheated--you can be mad at Mike Doughty and Rilo Kiley and the Decemberists and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Dismemberment Plan and the Twilight Singers and Talib Kweli. You can be mad at me, too. It's healthy.
But Jimmy Eat World? I didn't put out "Pain."
I didn't decide to fly in the face of everything that I was capable of, despite the fact that I had all the time in the world, and write the crappiest song ever, on
an album that is probably going to break my heart, and not in a good, romantic emogirl way. If you're trying to hurt me, you have succeeded. You have cut me. Do I not bleed, Jimmy Eat World?
I mean, seriously. "It takes my pain away--" you may have thought it was a powerful, all-encompassing chorus, but. No. This is either a rejected Dashboard Confessional lyric or you are looking for some sort of Advil tie-in somewhere down the line when they decide to adopt a hardcore marketing campaign, and when your album TANKS, which I HOPE IT DOES. I'm sorry, I hate being so mean. But the song--you can do so much more! The guitar solo is terrible. The testosterone-laden Nazi-esque "HEY"s in the background were completely unnecessary. It is all well and good if you get the dudes who produced Queens of the Stone Age to advise you on an album if you are, say, Thursday, but if you are Jimmy Eat World? It is All Wrong. In So Many Ways.
I am not saying that this is the worst song that I have ever heard. You fit right in on modern rock radio now. If that was the direction that you were headed, if it's what you wanted, and maybe I should have seen the signs earlier, congratulations, you too can now open for Taking Back Sunday. I hope we can still be friends, and I'm really just saying this for your own good.
I want my stuff back.

love Sincerely,
obfuscatedgirl.

so (working title, rejected for being too obvious: the bitchy post):

someone who works in this office just came up and asked me where a woman across the cubicle was and whether she was here today, and while five seconds passed where I was trying to place her name, because I was never introduced to half these people, the inquirer SNAPPED HER FINGERS AT ME.
EXCUSE ME. I am a TEMP. I am NOT YOUR DOG.
I feel so incredibly out of place here.
edit, twenty minutes hence: and furthermore, I was just looking at the "girls on film" portion of this page (because I am incredibly, secretly narcissistic), and my coworker glanced over and said "Is that Michael Jackson?" Granted, this is the coworker who yelled "What the fuck is that, the Chipmunks?" when I played Joanna Newsom yesterday, so we now know that she is not renowned for her subtlety (DO I EVER SAY ANYTHING ABOUT HAVING TO LISTEN TO THE SAME OLDIES STATION WHICH HAS A PLAYLIST OF APPROXIMATELY FIFTY SONGS EVERY FUCKING DAY, A ROUTINE WHICH HAS CONTRIBUTED TO MAKING ME VIOLENT WHENEVER I HEAR "DAYDREAM BELIEVER?" NO. NO, I DO NOT), even though Joanna Newsom does sort of sound like a very pretty Chipmunk, nor is my coworker renowned for her vision. And she could have been looking at the picture of Lauren Ambrose, but that's somehow even more worrisome.
There is one possibility that I have not considered: what if I actually look like Michael Jackson in that picture?
Someone please, please tell me I don't look like Michael Jackson in that picture.
Please.

oh my god.

I just found this online conservative dating service. Ladies! Are you looking for a man to defer to? Want to follow the "obey" part of the marriage vows to the fullest extent? Do you crave a relationship where your body and your rights aren't even respected by your partner? Want to nod mutely along with his opinions at parties? Upset because Rush Limbaugh doesn't endorse match.com? Look NO further!
(I'm not saying that similar sites don't exist for liberals. They probably do. This one, however, is just really, particularly amusing.)

line...

I could start in any number of places. Like with the fact that I have secured a dress, backdropped by much drama, and 50% of the time I think it's pwetty and the other 50% I am convinced that no one at the damn wedding is going to be in an empire waist or a floral print and I am going to end up looking like someone's backwoods cousin, Jane Austen style,
or that the top ten has been updated again,
or that the links have been updated to reflect, among others, the addition of this kid, whose praise for it inspired me to buy
this album and it turned out to be EXACTLY what I needed, especially
this song, and in general it is so much with teh sexxxy that I'm kind of shocked that the merch section on their website doesn't include ladies' undergarments,
or that I'm extremely pissed that I haven't gotten my camera from Mr. Ebay Man yet but now I kind of feel bad because this seller kid clearly has no idea what he's doing and doesn't appear to speak English very well and I'm starting to take action with Paypal because I'm still pissed and he didn't return any of my emails until I got Paypal involved, and his PHONE NUMBER DOESN'T WORK FOR FUCK'S SAKE, and that patience was never my virtue,
or that I had no idea that this was going to be opening in Madison this weekend, nor that I would be forced to wait 45 minutes to see this band (as a favor to my sister who is rapidly becoming more and more of a hippie, I just can't get into reggae music), because of sound problems on OPENING NIGHT of a vicinity that cost $250 MILLION, nor did I have any idea that the African Showboys (can't find a good link, I encourage you to suss them out because:) were going to STICK FIRE DOWN THEIR PANTS WHILE SINGING,
or that I almost bought this on the way home before reviewing the facts that crash dieting is Very Very Bad and I should want to do this in a manner which I can be proud of and maybe I shouldn't trust products that are endorsed by
Anna Nicole,
but that's an awfully lot of things to choose from that might better be summed up by saying that I'm kind of frustrated right now.
now playing: The Dismemberment Plan, Is Terrified

if i were to make a christmas porn i would call it "o come all ye faithful"

I have made it through another week, that is, if I can make it through today. Not to mention the question of whether I can make it through this weekend, which will involve another trip to Madison and the shopping with my mother for a fancypants dress to wear to two upcoming weddings. Beings that last weekend, when I tried on a sweater at Goodwill (go go gadget budget!) for her, she mentioned the word "obscene," I am kind of skittish about this.
I have never been to a wedding as Part Of A Couple before; in fact, the last wedding I went to was when I was eight. And I didn't drink then. This should be awesome.
Today's soundtrack is The Futureheads. Believe the hype, people, I speak on tha truf. Their official-like website is over here, but the design gave me a headache so I don't recommend it unless you're fully awake/not easily distractable by grey stripey things. They sound like what would happen if the Specials, the Darkness and TV On The Radio had a child concieved in a cocaine-fuled one night stand. As I have been saying quite
a bit in relation to music lately, OH MY GOD.
Today's word from dictionary.com is "avoirdupois:"
avoirdupois \av-uhr-duh-POIZ; AV-uhr-duh-poiz\, noun:
1. Avoirdupois weight, a system of weights based on a pound
containing 16 ounces or 7,000 grains (453.59 grams).
2. Weight; heaviness; as, a person of much avoirdupois.
I include this mostly because it's French and funny-sounding, but I'm also trying not to take it personally.
Today's random link marks the first time I have ever linked to Slashdot! Whoo! (W00t?) I am still debating whether I want to see Sky Captain And The World Of Tomorrow; I do fear that I was a bit hasty by responding all knee-jerkically "ABSOLUTELY NOT," last night. Jude Law's hair, however, looks super fucktipated.
All right, back to work.
Oh wait: Eriq? You fucking rule.
(end.)

oh, honey, no.

Stereogum via World Of Britney has a thirty-second teaser of the Brit doing "My Prerogative." Yes. The Bobby Brown "My Prerogative."
I just...I...well...wow.

edit

This song, via Insound, is what has gotten me through the past 72 hours, approximately/barely.

what it feels like for a girl

I don't know where to begin with this. I have been bordering on the verge of tears all morning. It doesn't help that a newly-resurfaced-out-of-the-woodwork friend (they just keep coming out of nowhere) sent me this song, under the subject line "A Song To Make You Cry." thanks pal. Why don't you kick my [nonexistent] PUPPY in the LEGS?
I feel like the little ball in the commercials for Paxil or Zoloft or whatever the hell it is, the one who is in the corner sweating or crying, I can't tell, the one who can't bounce with the rest of the little balls. It is slowly becoming clear to me that this painful-shyness thing is not going away. I went out amidst a large group of the boy's friends last night and when I asked him, on a whim, to describe my demeanor, he said something along the lines of "you spent a lot of time hiding in corners looking at the floor." And I don't know what to do about it anymore. I've spent what feels like the last lifetime making blanket statements like that and the fact that I've figured out that it's happening doesn't seem to contribute to me doing anything about it. I don't know what I'm afraid of. I have this concept that I would turn into that girl in
Oblivion who was quiet and cute and docile until she opened her mouth in the company lunch room and said " `You know, did anybody when they were little ever have this thing where you think of your shit as sort of like your baby and sometimes want to hold it and talk to it and almost cry or ...' "
and everyone was like" WHAT the FUCK."
Granted: This was fiction. Granted: I know enough not to blurt out embarassing maternal feelings towards fecal matter in public places. But I just..freeze. I am past the point where I should need to impress Matt's friends or be so concerned that they Won't Like Me And That He Will Consequently Become So Disgusted That He Leaves. I know that's not going to happen. I'm going to invoke one of the oldest cliches in the book: The World Does Not Revolve Around Me. I Know This. They Are Not All Secretly Laughing At Me. I Am Not A Horrible Person. Why can't I fully conceptualize that? I would like to take this opportunity to say in writing to anyone who reads this whose kitchen/living room/sidelines I have ever hid in/ sat out on:
I'm working on it.
And it's really, really hard.
So be nice.

In other, non-me news, they caught the kids who were going around the East Side assaulting women because they wanted to 'get a reaction.' Fucking hell, being a girl is frightening.

np: Q and Not U, Power

they don't give a fuck how far i went

Strangest thing:
The West Allis library has
Bazooka Tooth.
That album, and
this one (also courtesy the library, my copy has mysteriously disappeared) may be the only things that get me through today.
But really: Who knew West Allis, of all places, is hip hop?

(end)

EDIT: This exchange, at the beginning of "One Of A Kind," makes me laugh every time I hear it and I was just reminded of it:
[Slug talking to crowd]
I'm different because I respect my audience and I don't yell at them...
And I'm special because I respect my audience...
(Guy in crowd: YEAH!)
(Slug) SHUT THE FUCK UP!

It makes me laugh quite a disproportionate amount, I suspect, to the actual funny.
There you go.

soiled teenage girlfriend

Hello, neighbors and neighborettes.
The links section has been messed around with quite a bit. As I have impeccable taste in EVERYTHING, you should go look at them.
In fact, I have spent so much time doing it that I have ceased to remember what exactly it was I had to say*--not that this fact actually prevents me from writing, much like 75% of the goddamn internet/blog world. I think that soon it will be time to mess around with this design again. It's making me itchy. This is no fault of anyone's but my own but I kind of have this nagging feeling like this is My First Blog(tm) Look Mommy I Colored It Myself. Not that this worked the last time, but if you are browsing this corner of the internet, new or old, and can think of ways to make it look better, please please comment.
Oh, here's something: Britney=Stone Cold Ho. Like, more so than usual.
I also found out tonight that the Decemberists, who are the latest keepers of my wee easily swayed musical heart, will be in Madison on--wait for it--Tuesday, which of course means that, now that I am a temporary resident of the working world and I can't be expected to find a ticket and get driven both to and from Madison, I CAN'T GO.
grrr.

that is all that I can think of.

now playing: the Decemberists, "Shiny"

end

*=it's not that I have nothing to say or can't think of it. It's that so much happened this weekend and tonight that I haven't processed it yet, and don't really know where to begin without sounding tired (as in girl, you TIRED) & overdramatic as usual, and I am sick to death of my own drama, essentially.

the drugs work hard before they die

Reasons I am a hopeless nerd, part one in an ongoing series: I am reading "Eats, Shoots And Leaves", which is a BOOK ABOUT PROPER PUNCTUATION (which somehow made the Times bestseller list) and giggling hopelessly every five pages. AND I took the grammar quiz offered in the link and scored perfectly. Nerd nerd nerd nerd.
This weekend (tomorrow, in fact, which is a rather ignominious day to have one) is my mom's 60th birthday, so I shall be going to Madison to...um, party like it's 1944.
Also, I found a link streaming the Faint's new album, Wet From Birth over here. at Satan...excuse me, mtv.com, perhaps I should not bite the hand that feeds me streams. It will not be in stores until 9/14. While none of the tracks so far are grabbing me as immediately as "Worked Up So Sexual" did, it is still, in four words, sexy as all hell. One more word: synthesizers. Okay, seven more words: One of the tracks is called "Erection." That should give you an idea, and coming from a band whose album two albums ago had the word sex in half the titles, I would expect nothing less.

now playing: hi, did you read the above paragraph?
edit: At the beginning of "Drop Kick Punks" they all yell 'EinsvidriFIR!' This automatically puts the song in running for best song ever.

(end.)

they do exist...

After work was over and the thrill of victory had long worn off today, I got restless and basically didn't want to go home. The air was crisp, it was breezy, you could feel fall and I am reluctantly okay with that because it's September now, blah blah blah.So, having unintentionally ignored his calls yesterday, I called the resurfaced kid and met him and his boyfriend in a dive bar below La Cage. After several rounds of electronic trivia (I won the round that included the question "On which show did the gang hang out after school at the Peach Pit?" (I am not proud). And after we were sitting there for a while, the conversation turned to politics.
It turned kind of...heated. At one point I yelled "That is completely ignorant!" Which is not the best thing to yell if you are trying to be nice to the boyfriend of your first best friend at school who you are not even really sure is your friend anymore. But COME ON:
One of them is voting for Nader. When pressed for reasons, he shrugged "because this country needs a three-party system." Which, excuse me, is the ONLY PLATFORM THE THIRD PARTY CURRENTLY HAS.
Both of them praised Dick Cheney to the hilt and expressed that they thought he should be president.
When I brought up what Bush had asked (I think it was) the prime minister of Brazil whether they "had any blacks," they started yelling, nearly in unison, about how Kerry had mispronounced Lambeau Field when in Green Bay.
One of them insisted that it was a valid reason to go to war over the fact that at one point there could have been or could maybe someday be weapons of mass destruction. Which is like saying that there was a statue of Lenin in Armenia once (I learned that from electronic trivia) so Communism might rise again. They also insisted that we were right in going to Iraq and that "you would have wanted to do something on September 12, too."
One of them said "Kerry doesn't know what he wants! He would follow Hitler!"
After the stunned-silence-where-you-would-like-to-kick-the-other-person-in-the-kneecaps was over, I grabbed an ad featuring Rufus Wainwright and went "Look, he's coming here! Isn't he cute?" You may think that was pandering, but I was seriously desperate for a topic change (it didn't work) and plus, gay boys who like Rufus are the most fun to talk about Rufus with, so I was hoping for that and another reason to spend my money like I actually have it. I refrained from asking them "How can you support a man who thinks that you are going to hell?" I didn't know how to say it.
I rode the bus home angry and bewildered. It was like I had spotted an evil unicorn.

(end)

My First Ebay Auction*

*that I bid in

I won, bitches.
Expect many, many, probably derivative faux-artsy pictures to appear within these pages in the next several months. Before that happens, though, to satisfy that urge, (not passing any judgment, mind you) go here.

Oh, and if my parents ask, it was a gift and I would never do a thing like spend over a hundred dollars on a ridiculous thing like that when I should be saving money for the inevitable period between assignments should I continue to consider temping a viable career option.

Wheeeeeeee.

listening to: Simon & Garfunkel, that song about being an island and not crying

(end)

good grief, caroline dwyer

Briefly:
While decidedly not wasting time at work because the Adobe is all fucktipated, I have stumbled upon chronicles of the saga of the most blatant blogging plagarist ever, via tequilamockingbird. I've come into the saga a bit late and am but a wallflower from the Midwest, but seems this woman is a pathological liar and copy/pasted entries from everywhere imaginable. Seems she even stole content for her bio. I would say that I aspire to be stolen from and that I'm a fame hungry whore too, but dude. There are ways to gain int3rn3t notoriety, but if you gain it by being hated? What is that? Way back in the way back, my sister stole and reworked some of my poems for one of her classes when she was still in high school. I eventually forgave her, even though we never talked about it, because a) she's my sister, and b) I knew how insecure she was about her writing so I could kind of see how she did it, but if I used the entire blogsphere as my personal collage notebook and said it was my own...if you have nothing to say, what's the point?
(On the comments portion of that entry there's a big debate going on about how none of these people made any money from their sites or lost any money as a result of the stolen content so it shouldn't matter. I admit that you should anticipate opening yourself up to a whole lot of weirdness by becoming a web author, but these people for the most part really should take pride in the things they wrote. Unlike me. Who needs to go enter more data now. Ahem.)
(end.)

it's in our hands

Today feels less like a holiday/last day of a three day weekend than it does every other Monday felt for about five months, wherein I wake up at Matt's house, stare listelessly at television for a few hours, then go home. The boy is off in Gary, IN today, taking pictures with Eriq and hopefully not getting shot, and I don't feel like dealing with the world, quite. So, today I am not going home just yet, for reasons that I can't fully understand beyond the fact that I've told the boy that I'm in this relationship for his DVD player:
[pointless babbling about television]
This show will continue to be slogged through,
this movie will continue to assist me in being in denial about my place in the world and instead help me imagine that I am a pretty pretty princess, although I'm sticking with the story that it's for the novelty of seeing Anne Hathaway cover Queen.
[/pointless babbling about television]
We had another conversation last night (by "conversation" I mean me ranting and coming close to tears and Matthew generally listening quietly at inappropriate hours of the morning) about this whole place-in-the-world thing, and how scared I am that I don't have a destiny, that I don't think that I am meant to do anything great at all, that I'm not particularly good at anything (well, anything that wouldn't get me arrested if I did it in public), but instead at times mentally prepare myself for living the rest of my life just getting by. The conversation ended by me admitting that this is a lot of pressure to put on myself, having only just finished the first week of my first real job in seven months which is supposed to serve as a springboard to get back into finding something that I want to do. But it scares me nonetheless that all of this fear is this close to the surface with me, and that I really, really don't know what to do about it.
And this is a fairly heartbreaking story from Negro, Please, who in turn got it from punkassbitch.com, and I can't even express how angry it made me without sounding stupid. So read it. And even though I feel like I'm preaching to a (very small) choir, get GWBush the fuck out of office in November. Even though it won't entirely fix incidents like the one in the story, it might help fix the Patriot Act.

listening to: Joanna Newsom, The Milk-Eyed Mender
(end)

i am a patient boy

The Top Ten has changed...
Jesus, I don't know how you people do this work thing. I'm exhausted. (This may or may not have something to do with the fact that I left very early this morning to hit Starbucks--shhhhh--for coffee instead of my usual non-chain coffeehouse so I could both get caffeine and get to work on time. A girl's gotta do something when she has no cash. Anyway, I ended up at work at 7:30. Insert joke that doesn't quite fit about shooting your wad here, just because I really want to say "shooting your wad.")
My first purchase as a gainfully employed person has taken place, and it is tickets to see Rilo Kiley at the Abbey Pub, my second-least favorite venue in the entire universe, but fuck you, I'M SEEING RILO KILEY. (To be fair to the Abbey, I have fond memories of meeting Britt Daniel
and a talking rat in the basement, so I guess it's not all that bad....)
I have no plans for this weekend beyond a possible revisiting of my goth-as-fuck days, and I rather like it that way.

To recap: FUCK YOU I'M SEEING RILO KILEY,
the review I done got published can be found somewhere here,
I'm tired,
go away.
listening to: Actual Tigers, Gravelled and Green
(end)