Monday night was interesting, and that was with me going to bed at 9:30pm.
Or, okay. When I tell Bill I'm "going to bed early" on a Monday night, that means "Dear FUCK I hate professional wrestling but I love my boyfriend too much to express that sentiment in his hearing so...I'm tired." Much like when I tell Natalie I can't do something/go somewhere because I "have to study," 90% of the time it actually means, "Go away and get Alex to indulge you."
She thinks it's because I really do have to study, or think I have to study, so she also thinks I'm much more wrapped up in academics than is necessary. I'm apparently good at making typing this shit look like I'm working on a Master's thesis from across the room.
Living with her has made me decide two things I've suspected for awhile: 1. I hate living with other people and 2. I don't like her.
I don't feel like elaborating on either of those except to say that if she again either 1. doesn't bathe for a week or 2. obsesses over shit that (repeat before, with, and after me, por favor) DOES NOT MATTER, I'll punch her in the face.
Anyway. Bill got rug burn on his bald spot by wrestling Janet, who's a hundred pounds lighter than he is but has a mean headlock.
Bill and I also discussed the awkwardness of getting sunburn on one's penis. Context: while Natalie and Alex were making pizza in the downstairs kitchen, leaving the room wide open and my bed unobservable, I basically trapped Bill between my thighs and had my way with him. Naked, of course, and afterward we just lay there for awhile, and I mused on the possibilities of starting my own nudist colony, and that led to my announcement that if I ever get my own pool, I'm totally going to skinny dip. Bill said he'd join me but only when it's shady.
Current Project:
Wrote--well, "channeled" is a more accurate word for the poems I end up with. I never intend to write poetry. I'm not a fan of poetry; I think it's way too ephemeral to capture. But sometimes it comes out. This one's called "Blood on My Hands" and I just posted it to writing.com.
Am also in the process of short story-ing last Friday night, when I went to the radio station's dance party and had an excellent time dancing (!) and flirting heavily with Alex's brother Ed.
It'll be called "Vertical Expression," be about monogamy or lack thereof, and is pretty much all true except the last bit from the kiss on. Haven't written that part yet but should be fun.
No word yet from anybody I've sent shit to, but it's only been maybe two weeks.
25 February 2009
19 February 2009
You'll get marriage proposals playing music like that.
So says the guy who called my show this morning fawning because I played Johnny Winter and a Loudon Wainwright III duet with his daughter ("Rock Me Baby," off White Hot Blues, and "You Never Phone," off the live album So Damn Happy).
I know that dude's called before because we had the same exact conversation about the Wainwrights. Nobody else ever plays them/that's my favorite song from that album/such a musical family/yeah well this song's about to end so Ihavetogopushbuttonsbye.
Exciting to know that I have at least one regular listener who doesn't know what I look like, but. This guy reminds me entirely too much of one of my dad's friends who's about fifty and creeps me out, therefore Caller Dude creeps me out as well.
Tuesday night, when we cleaned out the machine shop enough for the solar powered boat dudes, Donnie's dad complimented me on the button-up-and-tie route I wore for the team's public robot unveiling earlier that day. (We were suppose to not look like college kids because the press and our sponsors and the local media--all three of them--and the university president made appearances so we had to represent. I was the only one that really did but I have far too few excuses to wear my awesome red paisley tie anyway.) That sort of gave me pause too, but it didn't creep me out nearly as much as make me wonder if I should be creeped out or not.
Sexuality is such a delicate thing. I'm reading Slut! (Leora Tanenbaum), which is a book about the double standards of sexuality set for girls versus for boys. Basically, if a girl puts out, she's a slut, but if she doesn't she's a loser. If a guy puts out (is that even an applicable phrase for a male? I don't think I've ever heard it said except about girls), he's awesome. If he doesn't, he's just as much of a loser as his female virgin counterpart, but he has the option of becoming sexually promiscuous to earn respect among his peers. Girls don't have that option.
I also bought a book called Virgin: The Untouched History (Hanne Blank) which from what I can tell from the book jacket is about the importance of virginity in different cultural roles and throughout history.
I've recently started dipping into nonfiction studies of female sexuality, which I guess fascinate me because I want to understand my own sexuality and gender. Since being female has never really been an upfront important aspect of my personality, I think I want to sort of figure out a context in which I belong along some greater spectrum of pink fluffy things and militant feminism.
That, or I just like reading about sex. It could go either way.
At my Monday counseling appointment, Lisa basically told me I need more friends. Of course I need more friends. I realize that I am a hermit. No, I don't always like it this way. Did you realize, dear Reader, that boredom has weight? A weight that's like a giant stuffed pillow falling on you; it's so much more oppressive and fucking heavy than it looks.
But I've decided not to go back to the counseling center. I'm going to cancel my appointment that's next Wednesday, and I'm going to finish my bottle of 60mg Cymbalta but not refill it. There's no refill authorized on it anyway.
I'm just so fucking sick of trying to explain the fear I can't articulate and getting sidetracked into other issues that didn't even hurt until she put them in a certain light and using up entire boxes of tissue in one go and pretending my problems actually matter when I still have no idea what the fuck they are.
I'm not getting anywhere, and I don't know what to say to these people anymore, if I ever did at all. And no, I'm not going to group therapy. I'm not going to listen to either A. a bunch of people with problems so much deeper than mine that I'll be ashamed or B. a bunch of whiny bitches who just realized life sucks and can't get over it. Pot, kettle--exactly. No thank you. I hate myself when I'm like that so why the hell should I like anybody else if they're like that?
Watched an interesting American Dateline special online last night, about the Mormon church.
I know that dude's called before because we had the same exact conversation about the Wainwrights. Nobody else ever plays them/that's my favorite song from that album/such a musical family/yeah well this song's about to end so Ihavetogopushbuttonsbye.
Exciting to know that I have at least one regular listener who doesn't know what I look like, but. This guy reminds me entirely too much of one of my dad's friends who's about fifty and creeps me out, therefore Caller Dude creeps me out as well.
Tuesday night, when we cleaned out the machine shop enough for the solar powered boat dudes, Donnie's dad complimented me on the button-up-and-tie route I wore for the team's public robot unveiling earlier that day. (We were suppose to not look like college kids because the press and our sponsors and the local media--all three of them--and the university president made appearances so we had to represent. I was the only one that really did but I have far too few excuses to wear my awesome red paisley tie anyway.) That sort of gave me pause too, but it didn't creep me out nearly as much as make me wonder if I should be creeped out or not.
Sexuality is such a delicate thing. I'm reading Slut! (Leora Tanenbaum), which is a book about the double standards of sexuality set for girls versus for boys. Basically, if a girl puts out, she's a slut, but if she doesn't she's a loser. If a guy puts out (is that even an applicable phrase for a male? I don't think I've ever heard it said except about girls), he's awesome. If he doesn't, he's just as much of a loser as his female virgin counterpart, but he has the option of becoming sexually promiscuous to earn respect among his peers. Girls don't have that option.
I also bought a book called Virgin: The Untouched History (Hanne Blank) which from what I can tell from the book jacket is about the importance of virginity in different cultural roles and throughout history.
I've recently started dipping into nonfiction studies of female sexuality, which I guess fascinate me because I want to understand my own sexuality and gender. Since being female has never really been an upfront important aspect of my personality, I think I want to sort of figure out a context in which I belong along some greater spectrum of pink fluffy things and militant feminism.
That, or I just like reading about sex. It could go either way.
At my Monday counseling appointment, Lisa basically told me I need more friends. Of course I need more friends. I realize that I am a hermit. No, I don't always like it this way. Did you realize, dear Reader, that boredom has weight? A weight that's like a giant stuffed pillow falling on you; it's so much more oppressive and fucking heavy than it looks.
But I've decided not to go back to the counseling center. I'm going to cancel my appointment that's next Wednesday, and I'm going to finish my bottle of 60mg Cymbalta but not refill it. There's no refill authorized on it anyway.
I'm just so fucking sick of trying to explain the fear I can't articulate and getting sidetracked into other issues that didn't even hurt until she put them in a certain light and using up entire boxes of tissue in one go and pretending my problems actually matter when I still have no idea what the fuck they are.
I'm not getting anywhere, and I don't know what to say to these people anymore, if I ever did at all. And no, I'm not going to group therapy. I'm not going to listen to either A. a bunch of people with problems so much deeper than mine that I'll be ashamed or B. a bunch of whiny bitches who just realized life sucks and can't get over it. Pot, kettle--exactly. No thank you. I hate myself when I'm like that so why the hell should I like anybody else if they're like that?
Watched an interesting American Dateline special online last night, about the Mormon church.
15 February 2009
I can haz high schooler?
LOLcat speak. *shudder* The bane of my existence as a grammar freak and general activist for the You Write Well, Not Good movement. Yet it was all I could think for the last hour or so we spent in Greer Saturday.
Context: I did indeed end up going to the robotics scrimmage, waking up at 5:30am and riding a couple hours down the interstate with Bill and 1618's extra shit in his car, eating half a greasy McMuffin and a diet Dr. Pepper (no, I refuse to leave off the period) that tasted funny, taking a couple hundred frames and about half an hour of video footage of 2815's orbit-ball-chucking triumph throughout the day and 1618's eight feet of movement during the last practice match.
It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Embedded in that statement is my dread of waking up before the sun rises (it just seems completely unnatural and so fucking quiet I feel like I'm watching a secret death that happens every night) and the resigned boredom of spending the day with something I only half understand.
Robotics really must be growing on me, though, or maybe it was exciting to walk around looking at different stuff rather than watching the same people rivet (if I never hear the word "rivet" until next year, I'll be so eternally fucking grateful) the same sheet metal for three hours. Time passed quickly.
As I was looking for the extra women's room, I hear a voice behind me say, "Finally, someone else who likes to get their barings in strange places." I turned around and saw a tall-ish high schooler with eyebrow-length brown hair, round brown eyes, and faint whisps of peach fuzz down from his temples and across his lip. We talked a bit and I convinced him to go past the tables that blocked off the rest of the school and who knows what sort of adventure we would've had if an official hadn't come up and told us to get on the other side of the tables. (Who knew they video taped that shit?)
Then we just walked back to the doorway of the room where all the teams were setting up and talked some more until his friends grouped around us and I couldn't wait any longer to piss.
He was cute and adorably dorky, and I felt strong shy attraction (and he was a senior, so he's probably 18...), but.
But then I rode home with my boyfriend and we had such a stimulating Sunrise that his spunk arched into his eye. That's a record for both of us.
"I saw it coming."
The whole physicality of a relationship fasciantes me in ways surprising by their banality. Like, how a person's deoderant can define their whole personal scent. Bill has always smelled like pine needles, and it wasn't until we started getting naked together that I figured out it's because he uses Old Spice. It disappointed me that such a small choice as deoderant brand could be the source of such a deep, physiological-pyschological tie between people. Between lovers.
I love all the weird little ways the human body fits together, stuff we don't think about until it doesn't work anymore. I love the big pale plain of Bill's bare back; I love feeling him rub against mine. I love lying in bed with him tangled together like a couple of puppies.
This morning after his shower he shook his ass for me and I waved him over to the edge of the bed so I could tuck a few dollar bills into his tightie whities. It cracked him up. I don't know why. But making him laugh feels like a personal victory, so I tucked two quarters into his front little pocket too.
Alas, today has not been all sex and sleep and junk food (mostly, though). The astronomy unit 7 lab I attended lasted an hour and a half (sixty minutes more than the average goof-off session) and left my brain wrung dry with no new and/or useful knowledge whatsoever.
I hate this self-paced abomination of a class and sometimes wish it were a person so I could punch it in its face. The good news is I have two more labs and two review units to do and then I can dance the jig out of that forsaken basement (in the Earth and Water Science building, which I persist in thinking of as the Earth, Wind, and Fire Building) and go back no more.
Some of the old Sunday melancholy is creeping back. For the first month of this semester (month? Really? Damn. Could have sworn it'd been a year already.) it didn't make much of a peep at all. Tonight I am alone (roommate at her boyfriend's, boyfriend returned home) and I like the solitude but it reminds me how much of a hermit I truly am.
Current project:
Have not written still, as robotics lives on for one more long session (tomorrow), but I fleshed out an idea in my head while falling asleep Friday night. It'll be called "Protest" and it'll be about a girl watching her lover (although I need a different word for their relationship: "lover" seems way too old fashion and Victorian for a couple who gets naked together on a regular basis without wedding bands) get killed by an angry mob. Like, he'll just be walking back from her place, innocent, and they'll tear him to pieces simply because they're furious at something and he's the first person to cross their path. And then she can't do anything about it because of course he has a real girlfriend, so the girl can't even look like she's mourning or she'll become suspect...etc.
Not the most original plot in the world, I'll grant you, but it's something I want to write and that's the most important part.
Finished Godless (pretty decent but nothing unexpected from a guy who trumpets his atheism both on and off the page) and am now diving back into the comforts of Hello, I Must Be Going again. I've read this novel about a weird family trying to keep it together after the Vietnam vet dad kills himself at least three other times this school year.
Must find the motivation to take a shower. Where'd I put the blasted thing?
Context: I did indeed end up going to the robotics scrimmage, waking up at 5:30am and riding a couple hours down the interstate with Bill and 1618's extra shit in his car, eating half a greasy McMuffin and a diet Dr. Pepper (no, I refuse to leave off the period) that tasted funny, taking a couple hundred frames and about half an hour of video footage of 2815's orbit-ball-chucking triumph throughout the day and 1618's eight feet of movement during the last practice match.
It was a lot more fun than I thought it would be. Embedded in that statement is my dread of waking up before the sun rises (it just seems completely unnatural and so fucking quiet I feel like I'm watching a secret death that happens every night) and the resigned boredom of spending the day with something I only half understand.
Robotics really must be growing on me, though, or maybe it was exciting to walk around looking at different stuff rather than watching the same people rivet (if I never hear the word "rivet" until next year, I'll be so eternally fucking grateful) the same sheet metal for three hours. Time passed quickly.
As I was looking for the extra women's room, I hear a voice behind me say, "Finally, someone else who likes to get their barings in strange places." I turned around and saw a tall-ish high schooler with eyebrow-length brown hair, round brown eyes, and faint whisps of peach fuzz down from his temples and across his lip. We talked a bit and I convinced him to go past the tables that blocked off the rest of the school and who knows what sort of adventure we would've had if an official hadn't come up and told us to get on the other side of the tables. (Who knew they video taped that shit?)
Then we just walked back to the doorway of the room where all the teams were setting up and talked some more until his friends grouped around us and I couldn't wait any longer to piss.
He was cute and adorably dorky, and I felt strong shy attraction (and he was a senior, so he's probably 18...), but.
But then I rode home with my boyfriend and we had such a stimulating Sunrise that his spunk arched into his eye. That's a record for both of us.
"I saw it coming."
The whole physicality of a relationship fasciantes me in ways surprising by their banality. Like, how a person's deoderant can define their whole personal scent. Bill has always smelled like pine needles, and it wasn't until we started getting naked together that I figured out it's because he uses Old Spice. It disappointed me that such a small choice as deoderant brand could be the source of such a deep, physiological-pyschological tie between people. Between lovers.
I love all the weird little ways the human body fits together, stuff we don't think about until it doesn't work anymore. I love the big pale plain of Bill's bare back; I love feeling him rub against mine. I love lying in bed with him tangled together like a couple of puppies.
This morning after his shower he shook his ass for me and I waved him over to the edge of the bed so I could tuck a few dollar bills into his tightie whities. It cracked him up. I don't know why. But making him laugh feels like a personal victory, so I tucked two quarters into his front little pocket too.
Alas, today has not been all sex and sleep and junk food (mostly, though). The astronomy unit 7 lab I attended lasted an hour and a half (sixty minutes more than the average goof-off session) and left my brain wrung dry with no new and/or useful knowledge whatsoever.
I hate this self-paced abomination of a class and sometimes wish it were a person so I could punch it in its face. The good news is I have two more labs and two review units to do and then I can dance the jig out of that forsaken basement (in the Earth and Water Science building, which I persist in thinking of as the Earth, Wind, and Fire Building) and go back no more.
Some of the old Sunday melancholy is creeping back. For the first month of this semester (month? Really? Damn. Could have sworn it'd been a year already.) it didn't make much of a peep at all. Tonight I am alone (roommate at her boyfriend's, boyfriend returned home) and I like the solitude but it reminds me how much of a hermit I truly am.
Current project:
Have not written still, as robotics lives on for one more long session (tomorrow), but I fleshed out an idea in my head while falling asleep Friday night. It'll be called "Protest" and it'll be about a girl watching her lover (although I need a different word for their relationship: "lover" seems way too old fashion and Victorian for a couple who gets naked together on a regular basis without wedding bands) get killed by an angry mob. Like, he'll just be walking back from her place, innocent, and they'll tear him to pieces simply because they're furious at something and he's the first person to cross their path. And then she can't do anything about it because of course he has a real girlfriend, so the girl can't even look like she's mourning or she'll become suspect...etc.
Not the most original plot in the world, I'll grant you, but it's something I want to write and that's the most important part.
Finished Godless (pretty decent but nothing unexpected from a guy who trumpets his atheism both on and off the page) and am now diving back into the comforts of Hello, I Must Be Going again. I've read this novel about a weird family trying to keep it together after the Vietnam vet dad kills himself at least three other times this school year.
Must find the motivation to take a shower. Where'd I put the blasted thing?
13 February 2009
Big stick diplomacy
In history this morning, half-listening to my professor's lecture on Teddy Roosevelt, I decided to name my future hypothetical publishing house Carry a Big Stick.
The only things I know about tomorrow are:
Poor dudes. I'm not even going to get into the commercialization aspect, because if you haven't heard it before wait ten seconds and you will, but the pressure we put on relationships because of a stupid holiday that originally celebrated a saint getting beheaded is ridiculous. If our relationships hinge on remembering a day that practically forces love down our throats, then we're all doomed to never discover real love.
Current Project:
Reading my way through Dan Barker's Godless. I think the first part, about his personal journey from evangelical to athiest, would make a more interesting novel or written in the style of fictional prose. It'd be much more powerful if he showed a few important detailed scenes than the general overview he actually draws.
That might be a slight bias of mine, though. I'm chained to show don't tell.
Every book I read is research on how to write.
I'm so incredibly tired.
The only things I know about tomorrow are:
- I have to get up at an obscenely early hour.
- Bill and I are in fact going to the robotics scrimmage. How we're going to make it up two and a half hours' worth of interstate and back is yet to be determined.
- We're not recognizing Valentine's Day. My choice. I hate Valentine's Day. For the first eighteen and a half years of my life, I thought it was because I was bitter and lonely. Nope. Last year with a recklessly romantic boyfriend and bright yellow daisies and a red stuffed dog named Roscoe (currently sprawled across my pillow), I still hated Valentine's Day.
Poor dudes. I'm not even going to get into the commercialization aspect, because if you haven't heard it before wait ten seconds and you will, but the pressure we put on relationships because of a stupid holiday that originally celebrated a saint getting beheaded is ridiculous. If our relationships hinge on remembering a day that practically forces love down our throats, then we're all doomed to never discover real love.
Current Project:
Reading my way through Dan Barker's Godless. I think the first part, about his personal journey from evangelical to athiest, would make a more interesting novel or written in the style of fictional prose. It'd be much more powerful if he showed a few important detailed scenes than the general overview he actually draws.
That might be a slight bias of mine, though. I'm chained to show don't tell.
Every book I read is research on how to write.
I'm so incredibly tired.
12 February 2009
What would atheists think?
I couldn't get into the Darwin Day debate in the RuHo ballroom. No surprise there, really. Coming back from journalism, I saw a couple church buses unloading on Greene Street. So I'm live streaming it from justin.tv/darwindaydebate. Click it, my theologically curious friend, and see if it's still up there.
Must say, Mr. Baker is kicking Mr. Butts's ass (no pun intended until I typed this, I swear) by using logic that Mr. Butts can't answer and does not answer except to indirectly call Mr. Baker a Nazi and a baby killer. To be fair, though, Mr. Baker just called Mr. Butts a baby killer, too, in his rebuttal where he talks about the wrath of the old Testament god.
Also, Mr. Butts seems not to understand sarcasm. Of course the human hand wasn't created to fit into gloves! Mr. Barker was JOKING to make a POINT. Holy crap. I hate people who don't understand humor. And people with thick ass Southern accents. Two strikes, sir. Two.
Watching this chat room feed is making my head spin. So...much...bad...grammar...so...many...typos...so...little...actual...facts...*bshhht* My brain just exploded from the circularity of it all. Fuck, I could've used that for next week's computer test.
"He truly does not understand heaven and hell."
Well, duh. Because he doesn't believe in either. What's there to understand if nothing is there?
Of course you're not degrading Dan at all, Kyle. Of course not. It's all God.
The only thing I believe in is that we each make our own meanings in life.
Current project:
Have been a lazy ass about writing fiction this week. Last full week of robotics, so I figured I'll wait until all that shit dies down to a dull roar and I'm bored as hell by 7pm most evenings again.
I have been reading some great short stories, though, in a book collection called The Torturer's Apprentice by John Biguenet. They're little thumbnail sketches about creepy slices of life written with the same elegant, dark urgency running through all of them.
I wolfed a waffle cone full of Nutter Butter ice cream on the way to my astronomy lab.
Tuesday I went and squirmed on the chair across the desk from Dr. R, the psychiatric nurse I've been seeing ever since Lisa steered me in the direction of medication for my depression. (I was diagnosed in September and on meds within a couple weeks.) This time I managed to keep a straight face when she asked me if I've developed any super powers since we upped my dose.
I hate it. I hate going to the Student Mental Health Center place. The decorations try so hard to be calm and non-confrontational (I do like the big bright green iguana painting in Lisa's office, though.), nobody looks each other in the eye, the copies of People are shamefully outdated.
Most of all, though, I hate the scrutiny. I hate talking about the painful shit in my life--of course I do. Nobody likes talking about the painful shit. But that's what I have to do. Last time I talked about the daddy issues every red-blooded post-Freudian person has.
All of this seems really far away from the episodes when I get dragged down into a funk, staring at a giant lump of bad gunky and feeling it weigh down my shoulders until I'm too tired to do anything else.
And then other days this whole depression shtick feels like self-pitying masturbation.
Must say, Mr. Baker is kicking Mr. Butts's ass (no pun intended until I typed this, I swear) by using logic that Mr. Butts can't answer and does not answer except to indirectly call Mr. Baker a Nazi and a baby killer. To be fair, though, Mr. Baker just called Mr. Butts a baby killer, too, in his rebuttal where he talks about the wrath of the old Testament god.
Also, Mr. Butts seems not to understand sarcasm. Of course the human hand wasn't created to fit into gloves! Mr. Barker was JOKING to make a POINT. Holy crap. I hate people who don't understand humor. And people with thick ass Southern accents. Two strikes, sir. Two.
Watching this chat room feed is making my head spin. So...much...bad...grammar...so...many...typos...so...little...actual...facts...*bshhht* My brain just exploded from the circularity of it all. Fuck, I could've used that for next week's computer test.
"He truly does not understand heaven and hell."
Well, duh. Because he doesn't believe in either. What's there to understand if nothing is there?
Of course you're not degrading Dan at all, Kyle. Of course not. It's all God.
The only thing I believe in is that we each make our own meanings in life.
Current project:
Have been a lazy ass about writing fiction this week. Last full week of robotics, so I figured I'll wait until all that shit dies down to a dull roar and I'm bored as hell by 7pm most evenings again.
I have been reading some great short stories, though, in a book collection called The Torturer's Apprentice by John Biguenet. They're little thumbnail sketches about creepy slices of life written with the same elegant, dark urgency running through all of them.
I wolfed a waffle cone full of Nutter Butter ice cream on the way to my astronomy lab.
Tuesday I went and squirmed on the chair across the desk from Dr. R, the psychiatric nurse I've been seeing ever since Lisa steered me in the direction of medication for my depression. (I was diagnosed in September and on meds within a couple weeks.) This time I managed to keep a straight face when she asked me if I've developed any super powers since we upped my dose.
I hate it. I hate going to the Student Mental Health Center place. The decorations try so hard to be calm and non-confrontational (I do like the big bright green iguana painting in Lisa's office, though.), nobody looks each other in the eye, the copies of People are shamefully outdated.
Most of all, though, I hate the scrutiny. I hate talking about the painful shit in my life--of course I do. Nobody likes talking about the painful shit. But that's what I have to do. Last time I talked about the daddy issues every red-blooded post-Freudian person has.
All of this seems really far away from the episodes when I get dragged down into a funk, staring at a giant lump of bad gunky and feeling it weigh down my shoulders until I'm too tired to do anything else.
And then other days this whole depression shtick feels like self-pitying masturbation.
09 February 2009
This is your shitty future.
Today's lovely optimistic title comes courtesy of the Bronx (a pop-rock band that's finally more rock than pop, not the NYC borough. Although maybe they came from there.), from their self-titled album I cribbed during my WUSC run Saturday.
Rest of the good stuff I legally stole:
Yesterday I realized that lying naked in bed with my Boy--not after sex, not trying to start anything, just laying there and watching the morning through the window--is amazingly peaceful.
I'm ridiculously grateful that Natalie likes sleeping on her futon better than her bunk and let me push the two school-issued beds together to form one (relatively) giant oasis of mattress. Bill not being a tiny guy + me not being a still sleeper = one hell of a weekend's sleep squished together in one extra-long twin bed. Now we can get as close as we want or as far as we need to be.
Walking up three flights of stairs sometimes makes me feel like a small bird, with hollow bones and a fast fluttering heart, and sometimes makes me feel like a heavy stomping elephant.
I've come up with a better system of labels for my posts. The writing ones'll stay like they are, because I talk about all aspects of my writing process, but since by now it's pretty much a given that each post has random shit about my life in it, I'm going to do away with "life--random" and start adding ones that specify the randomness.
That'll go into tomorrow's headlines.
Current Project:
This morning between kicking ass on a history test and re-learning how to add in computers, I mailed five copies of my story "Bluebird's Comb" (For some reason my brain insists on referring to it as "BlueBEARD's Comb.") to five random university literary magazines. Another ten bucks invested in my dream.
It'll be, at the very least, a couple months before I hear from anybody.
Cool websites:
Go Fug Yourself. Perfected snark directed at bad clothes.
AV Club
xkcd web comic. I don't get all the math jokes. Maybe you will.
Inside the Box comic. Bunny and Ravy and all their (mis)adventures.
I'm not selling anything, I promise. Unless you are the Blue Mesa Review, in which case I'll only sell part of my soul to get printed. Alligator Juniper already got most of it.
Rest of the good stuff I legally stole:
- Postmarks, "7-11," from their cover album By the Numbers. Everything else is way too twee for my taste, but the cute bouncy innocence works well on this Ramones tune. Try to listen to it and NOT chant, "We were young and in love..." for the rest of the day. It's not possible.
- Alice Russell's cover of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy." She took out the relentless bass line, my second favorite part of the original, but put gospel buildup behind her soaring voice (which replaced my first favorite part of the originals, the vocals that sound like they know everything and take malicious glee in using that knowledge for random cruel pranks) and made a creepy pop song into a soul lament. The rest of the album (Pot of Gold) is hit or miss but mostly hit, especially with her voice, and on the second half the instrumentation gets funkier and therefore awesome-er. Yeah.
- Mother Mother, O My Heart. Experimental instrumental stuff usually gets on my last fucking nerve, but Mother Mother manages to keep it interesting without over-cluttering by layering it under tortured lyrics. "Body" starts out with random string instrument noodling but solidifies into a jumpy song about body issues, tying together with this chorus: "I've/ grown tired/ of this body/ a cumbersome heavy body..."
- Wussy, Left for Dead. Sharp guitar riffs equally inter-spaced with thoughtful acoustic wanderings.
- Buffalo Killers, self-titled. Classic rock that was recorded about five years ago. It fills your quotient of "I wish I'd been a baby boomer" yearning and shuts up the part of you that whines "But nobody makes real rock any more!"
- The Amazing Crowes, Royal. Bouncy rockabilly with edgier guitar riffs. And a stand-up bass! All of this goes about ten million miles an hour, so don't use it as lullabies.
- Delicious Vinyl All-Stars, RMXology. Dirty robot sex remixes of vinyl classics.
Yesterday I realized that lying naked in bed with my Boy--not after sex, not trying to start anything, just laying there and watching the morning through the window--is amazingly peaceful.
I'm ridiculously grateful that Natalie likes sleeping on her futon better than her bunk and let me push the two school-issued beds together to form one (relatively) giant oasis of mattress. Bill not being a tiny guy + me not being a still sleeper = one hell of a weekend's sleep squished together in one extra-long twin bed. Now we can get as close as we want or as far as we need to be.
Walking up three flights of stairs sometimes makes me feel like a small bird, with hollow bones and a fast fluttering heart, and sometimes makes me feel like a heavy stomping elephant.
I've come up with a better system of labels for my posts. The writing ones'll stay like they are, because I talk about all aspects of my writing process, but since by now it's pretty much a given that each post has random shit about my life in it, I'm going to do away with "life--random" and start adding ones that specify the randomness.
That'll go into tomorrow's headlines.
Current Project:
This morning between kicking ass on a history test and re-learning how to add in computers, I mailed five copies of my story "Bluebird's Comb" (For some reason my brain insists on referring to it as "BlueBEARD's Comb.") to five random university literary magazines. Another ten bucks invested in my dream.
It'll be, at the very least, a couple months before I hear from anybody.
Cool websites:
Go Fug Yourself. Perfected snark directed at bad clothes.
AV Club
xkcd web comic. I don't get all the math jokes. Maybe you will.
Inside the Box comic. Bunny and Ravy and all their (mis)adventures.
I'm not selling anything, I promise. Unless you are the Blue Mesa Review, in which case I'll only sell part of my soul to get printed. Alligator Juniper already got most of it.
07 February 2009
Just cluckin' around
There's nothing noble about struggle. Struggle sucks. That's the whole fucking definition of struggle, is something that sucks so you have to get over it one way or the other. It's just a matter of survival.
I'm on a WUSC CD raid, surfing the wireless. I love it up here. The studio's a cocoon of sunlight and music that makes me want to stay wrapped up listening forever. And the library is a claustrophobia of weirdass, non-top 40 possibilities.
If you haven't heard Alice Russell's cover of "Crazy," you should. It turns Gnarls Barkley into a gospel ballad. During my show, Bill called from work to ask who the hell was that, which made me smile inside. It's a small triumph, as I'm much more impressionable than I am able to impress when it comes to music (see also: Mr. E, Katie, Dad). When I am able to play someone something I think they'll love and they actually do, it's amazing. (See also, the Black Keys, Everybody Else.) Such a power trip. I know what you want too, see?
I didn't go with Bill to 1618's meeting this morning because I felt terrible after a bout of insomnia last night. Most of the time I spent hating Bill and bracing myself for the job of breaking up with him.
The thoughts (I'm so fucking sick of spending time with him; just get the fuck out of my bed already; this is never going to work out long term so why are we even trying?; I hate his puns so very, very badly...on and on like they were riding a merry-go-round that picked up speed) mostly come during the night time when I can't sleep. I'm trying to figure out which voice is the real truth, the night one or the day one.
My throat was on fire (so, natural genius I am at decoding my body's signals, I had a Beezer's chicken sub covered in buffalo sauce) but after an ice cream cone it feels better. I'm suppose to call him at 2pm so I can tell him whether or not I feel better.
We both like oral sex for him. His penis (I've named it Sunshine) feels cool and smooth against the roof of my mouth.
The smell is overpower for him and embarrassing for me when he ventures south of my equator but oh, the wonders an exploring tongue can find down there.
Current project:
I haven't started writing another story yet but I have an idea. I've had it for months but am just now seriously thinking about writing it down. It's about magical shampoo.
I'm on a WUSC CD raid, surfing the wireless. I love it up here. The studio's a cocoon of sunlight and music that makes me want to stay wrapped up listening forever. And the library is a claustrophobia of weirdass, non-top 40 possibilities.
If you haven't heard Alice Russell's cover of "Crazy," you should. It turns Gnarls Barkley into a gospel ballad. During my show, Bill called from work to ask who the hell was that, which made me smile inside. It's a small triumph, as I'm much more impressionable than I am able to impress when it comes to music (see also: Mr. E, Katie, Dad). When I am able to play someone something I think they'll love and they actually do, it's amazing. (See also, the Black Keys, Everybody Else.) Such a power trip. I know what you want too, see?
I didn't go with Bill to 1618's meeting this morning because I felt terrible after a bout of insomnia last night. Most of the time I spent hating Bill and bracing myself for the job of breaking up with him.
The thoughts (I'm so fucking sick of spending time with him; just get the fuck out of my bed already; this is never going to work out long term so why are we even trying?; I hate his puns so very, very badly...on and on like they were riding a merry-go-round that picked up speed) mostly come during the night time when I can't sleep. I'm trying to figure out which voice is the real truth, the night one or the day one.
My throat was on fire (so, natural genius I am at decoding my body's signals, I had a Beezer's chicken sub covered in buffalo sauce) but after an ice cream cone it feels better. I'm suppose to call him at 2pm so I can tell him whether or not I feel better.
We both like oral sex for him. His penis (I've named it Sunshine) feels cool and smooth against the roof of my mouth.
The smell is overpower for him and embarrassing for me when he ventures south of my equator but oh, the wonders an exploring tongue can find down there.
Current project:
I haven't started writing another story yet but I have an idea. I've had it for months but am just now seriously thinking about writing it down. It's about magical shampoo.
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