sometimes i just want to scream, scream at you and everyone else who looks my way, looking at my jeans with holes and my sweater with a spot of coffee on the left breast from two weeks ago. a two week old coffee spot on a two hundred dollar sweater? who ever thought of such a thing? if i were a more material person, i would have rushed it to the sink to soak, rushed it to the dry cleaner to cleanse, or rushed it to the trash to tell it goodbye and toss it from my life forever. but why would i? i like the spot of coffee. it reminds me of the laughter that was pouring out of my mouth like a river because life at the moment was so spectacular that it didn't matter that coffee did spill on my sweater and taint it in the eyes of you forever. my heart soaring, my caffeine pouring, life a small piece of glory in the midst of a tragic piece of artwork.

it really is tragic isn't it- you cant see how great the moment is but you can see the flaw in my apparel and the dirt under my nail. you can see the dent in my car (8 years old, did you see that too? did you recognize the old body style and the crack in the windshield? why don't you fix that? why should i? it makes me more cautious of rocks flying my way and reminds me that when one does hit me, i will live past the point of contact to tell the story to everyone who wants to ask about the details.) i see your eyes and your demeanor and know that you're not happy but rather wondering if i do infact see your eyes and your demeanor. you can stand up straight but i can see you slumping under the pressure of being perfect and beautiful. i wish i could take your hand and show you how wonderful it is without nail polish and ultraviolet light. i wish i could somehow get you dirty enough so that you would appreciate how clean your life is. if i could, i would throw you into the water so that you could feel the instant of intense fear that arises when you look down and miss your toes. why is it important? it's the moment when you have to feel your toes to make sure that they are there that you appreciate your toes the most. they could be lost in a second, couldn't they? do you know what resides in the dark water, in the spiney and slimy kelp swirling around your legs like a secret embrace? that's the part that is remarkable, you see. the unknowing. i know it's scary. i want you to be afraid for what is below your toes but i want you to accept that you can't control it either--

that's when you really know you're living. but the thing is you don't realize you're living until later, when you're safe inside the wooden hull or with your newly endangered digits buried in the sand that you realize what a thrill it was to be so close to something that you still can't grasp because you can't grasp what wasn't definable in the first place. yes, i want you to know that feeling, of utter failure in understanding why the chemicals are flooding but somehow knowing that in knowing that your body responded to the stimulus in the way that you felt is acceptance of the situation itself. and in that way it's not a failure, right? no, it still is. but you can't win everything, i want to tell you. you can't force. you have to let the cells communicate with eachother in the complexity that evolution allowed for- it's amazing, it's astonishing, it's breathtaking and it'll keep you alive inside.

that's why there's coffee on my sweater. don't you see?

old dog; new tricks

i have seen someone in love. it shocked me to my core and then, after retracing its steps back to my outsides, re-administered the same shock, just to make sure that my senses perceived what it was that i was witnessing. though not usually a fan of the senses, they do sometimes alert me to something interesting and fascinating, and this little performance was both. I know that anyone who still checks up on this sincere little blog, which has laid dormant for more than six months, would be wholly shocked if i mentioned that it was i who is in love. unluckily for you, it is not i, but the simple fact that i am the one who noticed it is saying that i am the one who has not only recognized it but also accepted it as an actual emotion.

essentially, with the new year, much like last year, something new has come around, and this time, it isn't the self destructive nature of myself. this time, it isn't i who is out to persuade the world of a different opinion but rather it is a new kind of feeling that sets us all free. a feeing of needing and wanting and resisting while conceding; infact, who knew such a feeling could actually exist? oh but the world, says you. the world, you scream! the world knew it was there and you chose to look the other way as if there was something in your heart that did not want you to sneak a glance. it's almost as if one sly eye movement would have destroyed your whole being and in avoiding the look, you were able to accept the nature of the sensation without actually accepting the nature of the battle.

the battle you have lost with yourself, but in losing, you have actually won. you won your right to live and hope and think that there is something else out there for you, something that is real that everyone has been trying to tell you about while you stubbornly turn your head the other way. and now you have earned your right to look back, to see what the world has been enjoying. so look back, self. look back. see where your life has taken you, the beautiful things it has given you, and the wonderful places it will lead you.

yes, it is me, but with a new philosophy.

even this hellish sinus infection, which feels like some sort of explosion in my head every time i sneeze, cannot make my vision fuzzy enough so that i neglect to notice the unearthly glow of the neighbor's house at the stroke of midnight. it's as if the moon is out and shining directly upon his stucco neo-spanish style architecture a mere thirty feet away as apposed to the indirect angle it tends to exhude its annoying reflections of rays from thousands of miles away.

ugh. none of the roomies present for me to bitch to. my mind is pulsing with pain. i coudl go to sleep but a lack of early-morning scheduling gives me the opportunity to sleep in to 9:30 and i have not the energy, stamina, nor accompanyment in which to enjoy this rare occasion.

it makes me feel a little better that there are some whose lives are a little bit more miserable. hope my mom had fun sorting through those shoes in my clsoet at home as she gets my room ready for a complete stranger.

there is a certain feel to foggy mornings. i don't know if it's the distant horn sounding or the stagnant smell of the air, but it never fails to transport me back to a time where my eyes were wide and my face fresh with innocence.

my childhood was plagued with mornings like these. of course, during these days i didn't mind the fog and barely remember ever thinking to myself, "gee, it's cold outside." oftentimes, during my quick stint in the car on the way to school each monring, i would gaze down the mountain towards the wind channel that made up the middle portion of the island. i couldn't see the flat stretch, nor could i see the west mountains, nor could i see anything beyond a few miles down the road, but i could see the beauty of the landscape and, if i had realized it then, i would have thought about how incredibly lucky i was to be privaledged to wake up to such a mystic state.

and, like any unrealizing youth, the gravity of the situation was lost on me. it's not until so many years later that i realize what an experience the morning fog bestows: driving down the two-seventeen at eight thirty in the morning, i can't help but roll down my windows and take a few deep breaths. seaweed, salt, and the faint scent of nature breaking down nature-- it's oh so welcoming and starts the day off right.

time: 1:18 pm.

tuesday afternoon.

having not been at work since last friday, i stopped by today during my hour break between summer classes to check my email and sip on a quick caffeine fix. i figured it was fitting; on days like this, where the breezy air flushes all the l.a. smog up to our beautiful santa barbara hills, there's no use in trying to enjoy the warm muggy air. i might as well be inside a black-walled theater.

but alas. i sit here and sit here and read my emails and a few blogs to which i aspire to be like and can only think of couple simplified thoughts: that redhead in my art history class; my little gecko at home under his tree stump; my pinkie nail on my left hand and how it desperately needs to be filed.

what a life i live.

so, i resign to a more important task: beating the dx ball high score on this communal computer.

don't laugh at me. you're the one reading this crap.

before i begin my lament, i should note that there is nothing i love more in my life than my friends, family, and the generic-brand happiness that i wish i could bestow upon everyone like fairy dust.

however, there are a few certain times that i would love nothing more than to extract that happy dust from everyone around me so that i can inject it into my own veins like a much needed heroin fix.

these are the days of summer school, where my days more frequently than not begin as the sun is rising and end well after the technical deadline of the day has passed. i cannot remember the last time the hours of a night's sleep needed two hands to be counted. the dead silence of the family-oriented neighborhood screams in my ears all through the night. sober sleep is non-existant; drugged sleep lasts but a few hours before a startling dream yanks me back into consciousness and i lay under the makeshift canapy over my head wondering how high i have to set the windforce on my fan to actually blow the fabric off of its nails and flailing about the closet-sized room. when naps are attempted, i lay on my side with some aninal smashed against my body like i'm trying desperately to make it part of me, watching the three two centimeter fish swim in and out of the bubbles in my one gallon fishtank on my nightstand. i know they are mystified as to why at certain areas of their cage they are suddenly pushed upward and at others they are not.

fish are stupid.

finally, i resign to my fate and read Gone with the Wind, which i have been attempting to read for seven months now and have progressed a mere 240 pages.

it's strange, because i have never met a classic i didn't enjoy until that expanse of bound pages. even now, if i try hard to pay attention to the racial slurs and incomprehendable pigeon i can sometimes find myself completely obsorbed in the story, but this usually is interupted by the constant hammering of the various persons living in my house, trying desperately to get the boxes and boxes of shit out of the general living space.

and then i remember that i should be sleeping in this time. or doing homework.

so, anyone have just a little spare dust? just a little? times like these-- i could really use some.

there are few things in life that are as unsettling something that is inevitable, unpredictable, unwarranted, unneeded, and neverending.

having said that, enter the gates of my life:

there is a girl (or rather something of a girl and more of an ego as mentioned earlier in posting) crashing on my couch for an undetermined span of time. just when i thought i had escaped the never ending giggle and mirror glances, there they are once more: staring me in the face- or her face rather. when i find myself feeling especially intollerant, i watch her like a motorist watches accident victims being scraped off asphalt, partly because it's difficult to imagine that she could actually suspect her extreme levels of self consciousness to be adequately disguised but mostly because i halfway expect that she will at some point become so obsessed with her image that she might reach into her back pocket and produced a razr-esque compact mirror so that appearances could be measured between strolls past windows, bathroom visits, and when a spoon- or any piece of silverwear for that matter- is unavailable. when this happens, i do not want to miss it; it will serve as the perfect top for my annoyance at her trying to pressure her way into my life and weasle her way into my room. we may share friends but we will never again share a living space.

secondly, my body is reacting in a most disturbing manner to our new house. it seems that the stress of a job, twenty units, moving and a past romance that continuously plagues me has pushed my immune system over the edge towards a general mutiny as little "stress related" bumps have turned up all over my body. could it be that i have come to a point in my life where i don't even recognize stress? it just occurs without my knowledge?

hah no way.

i may have shook the migrains, but the cortizone- covered rash will forever remain.

"I never really liked her; I like you."

sometimes i just have to giggle at the acts in which i engage. sometimes.

"Oh really?"

like now.

No response to his grabbing my hand. No pulling away when he kisses me.

i should giggle because all that crap that i was so upset about- where i had convinced myself that she deserves what she gets because she shouldn't have even thought of going there- how could i be even remotely upset when i, as it turns out, am exactly the same person?

"Should I sleep in your bed?"

how could i do the same thing?

"If you want to."

and it's even worse!! even worse. because i was a sneaky little theif about it and tried to hide it, which you shouldn't, and even got caught, and JESUS CHRIST what was i thinking?

"I want to be with you. I don't want this to turn out like last time--"

what goes though someone's mind when they are about to make a mistake- that was so horrid- AGAIN? what?

"Oh yeah, last time. That was very bad."
"It was bad?"
"I mean, not that kind of bad. But a bad idea..."
"Is it a bad idea now?"

why would someone think that it's alright to go about something that will so obviously hurt the other person in the long run?

"I guess we'll find out in the morning."

it pisses me off that June Gloom is the only punctual entity in my life.

regardless of the time, day, and direction of motion, i find that the wind will always be blowing against me and my poor, tired bicycle.

if you were to ask me if it was worth it, i wouldn't hesitate.

it was worth the shattered soul and the dangerous eyes. it was worth the friendship sacrificed and the glaces filled with hatred, the sneakily sharp remarks, the gestures that were so full of anger- but hurt and lust at the same time in a most betraying manner.

oh yes it was worth it.

because i won. i won him, his heart, his soul, his mind. i didn't want it, but i didn't want her to have it.

it makes me a lesser person and i know it. i not only lack respect for myself but can see the distinct loss of respect in family and friends' eyes also.

but, i had to win, and i did, and it feels woooonderful.

even if i am taking a little too much joy in the demise of others.

Tomorrow is my second to last midterm. To prepare for this, I set aside the night for memorization and material review.

Upon returning home, I first cleaned off my desk, checked my email, and then spent two of my precious hours perparing for next year and making sure graduation will be done in a timely manner.

After completing this task (where I don't have to take any hard classes next spring or really any classes at all.. woohoo!), I moved on to making a detailed outline of what I should study and what I should look up. Halfway through this, I started googling my beautiful home for next year on google earth.

This sucked up another hour and a half.

Then I spent the next twenty minutes lamenting to the 'mates about how I need to study for this midterm but lack the motivation. I settled my nerves with a piping hot mug of mango sweetened black tea out on the porch, chatting with the neighbor boys about the other neighbor boys while throwing stale flavored Trader Joe's Puffins at the other neighbor boys (three sets... how could I have been so lucky?).

I washed this down with a fright as one set of neighbor boys threw a flood of newly bloomed flowers over the railing to give us a little scare.

It is now 10:47pm. I have a midterm in less than twelve hours (infact, it's dangerously close to ten at this point), I have not printed out my review questions, I have not looked over my notes, and I most certainly have not begun studying the differences in inequality theory as presented by various theoriests whose names I can't recall because I haven't looked over their main points and how it pertains to my reading that I have almost completed (but not quite).

And yet, here I am. Why does it always seem that writing about studying is more productive than studying itself?

whoa baby.

look at you, sunday night, rolling in like the clouds did and bringing a sudden onslaught of goodness. it has been trying: my nerves are frayed, my eyes tired of focusing, and my lips permanently placed in a upside-down smile so that perhaps a collogen infusion will be the only way to get the frown wrinkles to wash away with the rest of it.

but today, unlike most sundays, more than dirt rinsed off with that medicated face wash. all the residues of life seemed worthwhile and earned as i stared an old man in the eyes.

he did something miraculous for me today. he told me stories of he and his wife scuba diving off the coast ("do they still do that?") and of wonderful morning roaring from the lions at the zoo ("they bring in the sunshine!") and of a seemingly perfect view of the fireworks on 4th of July accompanying the neighborhood barbeque where he produces his secret recipe tri-tip and the lady with the young child next door has "the best tater salad around".

he wandered around the place, pointing out all the aspects that life has trained him to believe appealing to young women trying to make it on their own, repeating over and over the characteristics he was most proud of-- not because he wanted us to take extra notice, but because he just didn't remember bringing up the large bathroom and duel living rooms the first two times.

yes he wandered around the house, pointing here and muttering, reminicing about the past couple that lived in the unit and their evening gin and tonics they shared with him, joking about the fold-down ironing board in the kitchen and even alluding to our romantic life, trying his hardest to sell the modestly priced unit and himself (as the landlord always has at least some influence upon how one might perceive the place), all the while we wandered behind him like freshly hatched ducklings, oohing and aahing over every receipient of his pointed finger's attention and trying our hardest to sell ourselves (aren't five girls just a little hard to trust?), praying to god that we wouldn't hear the words we had heard so many times in the past few weeks: "I'm sorry, but we're looking for no more than three tenents, preferably a family."

and then we asked the inevitable: are there applications?

and he blinked his foggy eyes twice, sized us up and down, asked about our majors, reinforced the sound curfew, and then, led the way to his home, a mere one house away, bringing us inside to place two keys in each of our hands: one for our newly found house and one for our first-ever garage. no questions about past landlords, no questions about monetary standing and absolutely no application. just a check for the first and last months rent, and our own choice of move-in date. our own choice. our own house. our own downtown house. our own hottub ("but i don't want to hear about five naked girls being in here in the middle of hte night, you hear?"). our own grandfather, who was more understanding than we could have asked and far more complient with the ways of college students than could be hoped for. our own deck. our own view. our own lions in the morning. our own. all. our own.

but none of this was as wonderful as the feeling of the cold hard aluminum keys on a metalic ring pressing its shape into the palm of my hand. how could it be?

MARRRRRRRRRRRRRRISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

you now know that i have something to say. yes. you do.

i have to pee.... be right back....

somebody is using your bthroom


well, i wante dto write something bu ti realixze now that that is a msitake beause people an read this.

hahahah

hmmm

nm.



"GIVE ME MY MONETY BACK"

when the clouds go away
the kiddies come out to play

run run as fast as you can
you can't catch me

and neither will life.

consider this self:

those fibers that extend from your fingers to theirs have been forever cut. retract and move away.

of course there comes a day when you can't possibly expect everything to be similar or the same. everything moves from where it was and settles in a new way until movement becomes prime priority once again.

and this is what you live with.

those friendships you once swore on are somehow dwindling and even a relationship with kin becomes somewhat impossible at a certain age, so why is it such a surprise when it happens to you? everyone loves to believe themselves to be the exception but natural law is much more certain, striking down that hope almost as immediately as it occurs so as to plug the inevitable: a cocky little twit who never experiences the wonder of dissappointment.

and now i think to myself: in times like these, it only takes a little effort on the part of one person to realize the bridge is crumbling and save a few particles. i could do so many things to salvage so many of the important relationships in my life: call them, visit them, even go as far as a somewhat impersonal email (which i have despised for much of my life) or inquire their address and write them an actual letter? why does that seem so silly?

i hate him but i listen to his problems.

i hate him but i let him pass out in my bed.

i hate him but i love the way he smells.

i hate him but i take care of him when he's sick.

i hate him but i gave him a birthday present.

i hate him but i love the way our pictures always turn out.

i hate him but i forget it when he gives me that look.

i hate him but i feel for his family.

i hate him but i refuse to stop sleeping in the shirt he gave me.

i hate him but i don't hold myself to it.

i hate him.

i hate him with more energy than a thousand suns, with as much faith as the christians had during the crusades.

thinking about him makes my stomach turn. his mannerisms, his laugh, his voice, his face: all of this is just a silent reminder of what was and will never be; of what could have been but failed. the words he would mutter to the words he should have muttered to the words that were silent but just as effective. they all hurt in the long run, cutting straight to the heart i had tried so hard to save from him but never succeeded, or rather the heart i should have saved from my own reckless ways.

so many emotions that i have let build up in an unlike-me way but fear, for some reason, stops me from voicing my feelings. what is this new cowardess? this stifeling of what i swore i would never repress? in my thousand realizations that i don't feel anything for him anymore, have i overlooked one comprised of hope? can such a betrayal to myself be so possible, because if it is, i will need to reevaluate everything i was so sure about.

and yet, in the darkness of the night, with a few weak words and an even weaker moment, i think to myself that i might be able to fix this person, to make him whole again and let him trust people in general. couldn't i? i know it's not possible, but maybe once? i think this, even after the hurtful words and names he called me and the messages he left me filled with anger. i think this hoping that none of it is true, maybe i imagined all of it and just as easily as i built it i can wisk it away with the tide.

these are the thoughts of a spineless woman.

chordates and gnathostomes and lissamphibia

let me take a moment and remember Mendel and Darwin and Simpson and every student since who has devoted hours upon hours to studying a science that is an embryo in itself and so uncertain about its origions.

hours upon hours on a thursday night.

thursday.

when i can hear the music through my double-paned windows and the conch signalling beer pong.


yep. this is dedication. a toast to you Mendel, you silly little monk. and to you too, Chuck, for being a fanatic about pigeons.

don't worry, i will never forget the great Simpson, who single handedly made my life hell in evolutionary theories.

and the best part? that while i should be studying, i'm posting this absolute bs. it just goes to show that when writing a paper, everyone will finally receive that return email.

or during finals, when your eyebrows never looked greater and your skin never cleaner.

you know.

and now i'm just procrastinating.

it's true her ego preceeds her half a mile.

on especially windy days, i can feel it seeping in through the double-paned windows on the south facing side of the house, its butt facing the ocean as if to say, i dare you. and, oh does she. she dares right through the tall window in the stairwell, the window behind the television, the window near the kitchen table that is too large to fit in the hole we call a kitchen. when she feels especially testy, she can even get it to snake around through the two doors leading to the porches, encouraging it to wisp into the house in full force, clouding up our living space with her.

the color of baby puke is how i see it, the middle portion most concentrated with her manner but the outer edges mostly just poluted with her little giggles, her looks, her hair flips, her stances. who would know that she has invested hours of her day into making sure she knows exactly how she looks when she does these movements? who would think that there is a mirror stationed near her computer, and one near her bedstand, and one near her closet, and then a full length one near her dressor... all on her side of a room that has to be shared with somebody with an equal ego? oh lordy lordy.

i once told her she was obsessed with herself. it occured to me that i am also obsessed with myself, completely tied up in all of life's little turns and leaving so little of my time to take in the turns other's lives are taking. but she just sat there, in my dorm room, right by the only place where a mirror sat ungaurded. she sat there and poluted my mirror with herself. i could see the ugly waves going into the mirror and i was so scared that it would be forever tainted with her that i would have to resort to using the mirror in my roommate's closet. she just sat there, giggling, as if to say, so what? i'm beautiful and every guy wants me in his arms, for at least one night...

and i have to wonder if this isn't a product of being the ugly girl, the girl that nobody noticed for years because of a strange smell or ratty hair or a crazy mother who didn't believe in teaching her child the value of tenderness. maybe it's the product of everyone whispering about her in middle school, of being friends with girls like Kelly and Jessica who use their beauty to keep girls like her and Erin mesmerized at their feet. perhaps.

but it doesn't change the fact that i can feel her from four blocks away.

my parents, ever the rescue enthusiests, have proceeded to take in an eight month old white timberwolf. at one hundred pounds (and thirty pounds underweight, as the vet so matter-of-factly informed my parents), she towers over my little love of a dog, Nani, who has successfully reigned over all quadrapeds in our house for 6 years, despite her mere weight of only 12 pounds, depending on whether or not she has eaten her daily diet of 20 kibbles. this new dog, completely unaware that she could squish my baby with one triangle shaped paw, believes that she is small enough to fit on the laps of many and runs around the house cowering in fear when faced with all men, heavy objects, fire, and loud noises. chains cause her to wet herself and at the sight of a newspaper, she forces her lanky body under the deck like an eastern european contortionist.

every member of my family have fallen in love with her. named powder (and appropriately so, as she is the former dog of a crack fiend), she is the third dog that my mother has now steadfastly refused to give up. she is also the third dog to be at least part, if not fully, wolf that will grow to be more than one hundred pounds.

that's more than three hundred pounds of dog in a house that wasn't fit for two cats and a stuffed mop.

earth day celebration, and what a celebration it was. marissa i'm sorry for any incoherency, for my memory starts to fade as soon as i arrived at the event.

my call log specifically states that i called my mother last night though. oh no oh no. we'll see how that works out.

but yes. the sun is out, the birds are singing, and my back and shoulders are neon from the lack of attention they have been getting from said sunshine and to add on to it, the little festival only added a little pain. the roomie's rubbing of aloe on my last night provided me with no satisfaction, just hte sheer touch makes me want to cry. i need relief, like now.

MAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH

finals. start. tomorrow.

i can't breathe. really.

can't breathe.

these types of pictures are endless.

everyone has a favorites list.

i took it one more step by actually recording and saving it intermintently to a disk.

am i a freak?




newest additions:

the feeling of freshly shaved legs on clean linen; catching up; fresh strawberries in cream; checking off items on a "to do" list; watering my plants and feeding my fish; looking at semi-dated pictures; dusting; solving puzzles and word games; finger painting, collaging, and decorating; dusting; going to art exibits of people who just want to create; strolling downtown and watching the tourists; being a tourist; talking and listening to nonsense; writing letters that i never send; bending backwards over a yoga ball; spinning in office chairs; organizing; easedropping


but seriously, am i?

there are four people passed out in my living room.

f-o-u-r

strangers make me feel out of place in my home.

my favorite picture of my 21st birthday





that is my spit.

and that's my thinking, "hey, i could lick that back up... it did come from my mouth afterall.."

i don't believe i actually did lick it back up, but i might have forgotten that part of the story.

infact, that spit is really puke. there just wasn't anything left in my stomach at this point

dear girl with black understory and blonde highlights sitting in the outside isle seat of the middle row,

i can overlook your rainboots with pink duckies. i can even overlook your fur-lined jacket and foundation-caked face. i'll try my very hardest to overlook the fact that your backpack says "TheNorthFace" when you most clearly have never veared off of the sidewalk downtown.

but you have broken the camel's back.

more specifically, your sunglasses have broken its back. i know that you are living in southern california (marginally) and i know that the sun does shine periodically (when the morning haze burns away) but there are some days when you should leave your bug eyes at home. i promise that you will not squint in any way during this day. how can i promise this? because the clouds are so think that they are actually repelling moisture.

i know you'll have separation anxiety.

i know you'll feel naked.

but save yourself the dignity.

"it's so lonely."
"why?"
"because everyone is in the same place as you but no solace can be found in it. it's frustrating, to be sitting here in my own fenced off space, moving at snail pace, and having nobody to comfort me in this moment that's so torturous."
"if i were there, i'd hold your hand and help you through."
"who would think that it could be so extreme..."

happiness is found in the strangest of places and lost in those situations that one would least expect it. what has this place become that you feel the loneliest when you are the most surrounded? are we so stuck on ourselves that we do not even think to seek the consolance of others? this is just too perplexing, shows no good outlook, and drags down the heart like a stone in the sea.

i'm not sure if life is supposed to be lonely or if a lonely life is no life at all. and does everyone feel l ike this all of the time but just masks it so that the world seems more comfortable or maybe they mask it so that they think that the life that they are choosing to live is worth living to themselves; a sort of trick played on their own mind in a dire situation that would be desolate and desperate if they failed at the game.

what if we play this game without even knowing it? this game of cheating our own self into believing that everything is peaches and cream when really it's not. maybe it's a facade that we put on for protection-- like repression-- because otherwise the seed of the situation would be too extreme for a healthy person to be able to cope with. it's like childbirth: if you remembered coming down that damp, bloody vagina, being forced from warm and fluid to cold and harsh, how could you ever learn to love the person who did this too you? the world would be that much more difficult with a slew of hateful children and ungrateful mishaps.

and really, who needs this when life is difficult enough already? nobody needs an already doomed relationship with their parent when it is going to be fucked most likely in the end anyway.

got in a fight with a puddle recently



judging by the lack of definition between my thigh, knee, and calf, i would say that it won.

i had this red dress in first grade.

it was soft and velvety, full around the waist down to the newly scraped knees and went perfectly with my shiney black buckle shoes and white socks, neatly folded down so that the lace at the top of the tube brushed delicately upon the strap across my foot.

oh it was a beautiful dress.

but my mother never let me wear it save for "special" occasions. like a wedding, or a baptism, or, on one glorious day in the first grade, when the photographer came to take our class picture.

even then it was somewhat of a feat to get my mother to let me wear the dress to school. she seemed to be convinced that i would disrespect the dress and use my thirty minute play breaks to trompe through the mud or roll around on the asphalt. i suppose in the end, she just figured that it was just a dress and that in a few months, it would no longer fit me anyhow. why not indulge your daughter in a few simple pleasures? take a risk?

and so, dutifully, i set my dress out the night before, picked out my favorite socks, dug through my little box of bows until i found a length of ribbon to tie over my ponytail holder. it would certainly be a great day, the morrow. certainly.

it happened that my class would be taking our pictures right after lunch, immediately following the bell that signalled the end to all that is happy.

it also happened that that was the same lunch that i met mikey, mikey whose last name has temperarily escaped me even though his existance will never do the same. that was the day that mikey [---] discovered what it was like to kick a girl in the shins (undoubtedly the result of never having a sister of his own) and the day that he discovered what it was like to be kicked in the balls. yes, dear mikey, who felt it to be his duty to run after me full speed and slam against my back with his chest, knocking me to the ground at the beginning of the field that we weren't allowed to enter due to the lack of lunch time supervisers and the number of naughty acts in which a young child might engage in the outskirts beyond the backstop. yes, i can image that making daisy chains would be trecherous. quite frankly, i am sure i can think of a number of events that could be performed behind that fence that would be less invigorating and restricted than the result of my undeveloped breast becoming one with the barely damp mud, slimey and full of gravel.

i'm sure my mother didn't mind that my dress was ruined as much as she minded that she had to come to school that day and explain my outward agression towards mikey.

i'm sure she didn't mind that my dress was ruined when mikey's mother appeared in the hallway across from the secretary's desk, shocked and furious at the sight of her son's face, bloody and encrusted with mud.

she might have tried to excuse my actions by muttering something along the lines of "three older siblings... developed something of a physical response to being picked on..."

well, she would have excused the devestated dress but the school never called her. i'm not sure if she ever found out about the dress at all. it turns out mud is machine washable and my father seems to support self defense--- he was, afterall, the one who saw the filthy dress.

and mikey? he is something of a teacher. taught me to never turn your back on a boy.

i hate safari.

infact, safari can lick my tight pink vagina until it squirts because as far as i'm concerned, it is worthless. WORTHLESS.

that being said, i think that i have been too vulger for my own good of late.



speaking of which i feel sorry for all you fools in love. i want to spit in your face. what is it about you that makes you think that, by comprimising all your being, you are somehow happier as a result? all you couples tiptoeing around like it's a goddamned miracle that love somehow found you. guess what? it's not.

it looks for the weak hearted and the ones willing to be mushed together into one. the more mushable you are, the more in love you are. and, if god be willing and tender, the more miserable you will be in the future.

hahaha. i'll sit on the pier and look out to sea and be knowing that you will never be as happy as i. why?

i don't know. why?

note to self:

putting off tasks that only grow exponentially with time does nothing to ease the act itself. try telling me this next time my inbox has grown to over 200 new emails, all of which i don't want anything to do with simply because i'd rather not converse with any of my professors at this particular moment. why must they be so ... in touch? who does that?

certainly not myself, as any of my friends can attest to since i never never NEVER keep seem to be any good at correspondance.

new years resolution (one month late): call at least one person you don't usually talk to each week. yes, fit that conversation in right between work, beer, sleep, and books. do that.

do this?

yes, that.

just kidding, just kidding. don't worry, inner self. nobody knows that this lil' baby exsists.

there is a poster of the incredible strong and flexible pilobolus dance theatre dancers hanging directly above this here computer and it motivates me to do a little bit of ball huggin yoga. at least it woudl help me not think about what other sort of arobic exersize i'm not getting at the moment because i have to be a stupid fucking girl about all the shit that i feel inside. maybe i haven't been a girl exactly, but what i have been doesn't have a word to describe it, at least not that i've learned in the 15 years of schooling i've been subjected to so far. and the best part is that, unlike my usual antics, these have only hurt myself, methinks. by not accepting such a kind and curtious person into my life, i suppose i have only brought down the value. since when does happiness coincide with having a companion? what part of nature thought that this would be a good thing? why can't our species be like the remarkably self-seficient ones that thrive on seclusion. i think i am going to start a revolution: complete severence of all that feels good and mighty in an effort to reform my ways.

no

and the next time he offers to carry all of my laundry, i will steadfastly refuse. do not carry it. do not. i can do it myself. i don't want your pity or our kindness or your sympathy.

and fuck you, too. because of you, i am in this position in the first place. all those nights, they weren't my idea. you figured me out and knew i was suseptable to influence when risk was involved. you beat me at my own game and taught me how to do the same.

and now, after years of practice of protecting myself against all individuals who might possibly inflict harm, i forgot that the one person who can do the most damage is the one person i never had a defense against in the first place (talk about an expensive buildup).

ahhhh. fuck this shit. fuck it fuck it fuck it.

it's like spinning a water bottle upside down: it looks pretty until it falls. then it's just fuuuucking fruuuuuustrating. the noise is just so invasive. no matter where you are, you can hear the low and high pitched calamity, oh so powerful in its perfect emptiness. and hten, just like that, quiet. no answers, no words, just silence. and the most beautiful part about it is that only silence can really describe itself.

not even my ears can reproduce it as most days i can hear the blood rushing by the eardrums, creating some sort of pressure that makes beautiful stillness completey impossible.

just like that.

i am an incompetent piece of crap when it comes to this. i wonder how someone could perform so well in such a more complicated situation but fails miserably when it comes to the simple tasks.

"i don't even know what happiness is anymore."

the words of a wise, young drunkard.



the feeling of sinking dispair is slightly intoxicating.

father; mother- meet your first failure.

and what a show the dropping ball has brought in. it would seem that when it hit the bottom, more than just confetti came pouring down out of the sky- some might have seen a little bit of happiness in the mix as well.

complete degredation of most of life's pillars at this point; it seems that with the absence of sexual attraction, any sort of relationship or fling or interest can slip down even a clogged pipe. vitamin B depletion? will that roust the good girls down south into a somewhat less-than-catatomic state?

today, somewhere between leaving the library and holding down the bile that seemingly always results from a night of drinking, i glanced into a sub- ground level window. there the girl sat, with her samsung flip phone in one hand and her ipod nano in the other.

maybe it wasn't a nano. maybe her parents decided to splurge and go ahead and get her the 30 gig player, with picture and video capabilities.

and maybe it wasn't a samsung. maybe it was a motorola. or a razor. or a nokia.

no, it definately wasn't a nokia.

but there she sat, texting and listening to god knows what, probably vanessa carelton or something equally produced and pathetic, with her economics book wide open and turned dutifully to chapter one: how to find happiness in american consumerism.

and here i sit, pondering just how a country of clear minded individuals might have come to depend on the bullshit apple keeps spitting out. ipod nano? i must have it. video? trade it in. green? but that's my favorite color.

yes, yes. i could go on and become more disgusted with my own country but i am pressing the keys of a imac keyboard, listening to music whose writers and performers happen to be differen people and thinking how much i wish i had worn my lucky jeans today rather than these banana republic ones.

i could have sat there and watched that girl for minutes more, but i suppose that those are the moments that earn one the reputation of being a psychopath.

loneliness and fear

oh you vile liquid. clear as the rain does fall but so deceitful. will my stomach ever recover? survey says no, at least not today but if luck be on my side, i might be able to drink early and strong tomorrow--- discounting the vodka, of course. why must it be the year of 21st birthdays? my health cannot take it.

but it can take certain people answering my phonecalls "Hello, Beautiful." mmmmm. i may not ever recover from that frightful feeling this morning but that voice forming those words can make any ailment seem like a limp limb.


hello, beautiful.

somebody slap me, i think i've had enough.

AntiSober Count: Day 15

the bottom left [right to you] corner of my lip is chapped. bloody hell.

oh lover. i do believe that sitting in this overtly cold atmosphere has done nothing to relinquish your grasp on my icy heart. is this a surprise? i suppose not.

what it has done, however, is stimulate my folicles and push me into a post- finals depression. no longer is my dream of 14 days of non-soberness a priority, although i have managed to fall one day short of the goal due to my fatal illness of ill gotten planning techniques and whatnot. who would have thought that finals could detour me not? oh, i would have.

and in recent news, it doesn't matter that you are still squeezing my heart because i do, infact, recognize that i have betrayed yours. what to think when that "other person" actaully tells you that you no longer possess control over your actions due to your addictive nature?

well, don't think, i guess. yes, that is the answer: don't think. let somebody else tell me that i might have a substance abuse problem; telling myself this might break me.

isn't it funny that a simple conversation can be taken in so many ways?

for example, "today is the last warm day; a cold front is coming in tomorrow" could be just a polite conversation; "today is the last warm day; a cold front is coming in tomorrow" followed by the ex-girlfriend peaking her rodant-like face around the corner inquiring about the locks has an entirely different feel.

today definately is the last warm day. weather dot com claims there to be more but i know the truth.

visibility: ten miles.

there must be something wrong if leaving my book out in the mist for two nights causes tears to trickle down my freckle flooded face

HA HA HA.

don't you see? it has won. prevailed over all of life and those objects generally considered souless by those unenlightened fellows. it has consumed and controlled, kicked us all onto our stomachs, face down into the mud, and then jumped on top of us. it has halted progression and caused regression and evolution at the SAME FUCKING TIME.

and i danced in it last night, like the flittery school girl i am. i opened up my arms and accepted it with all of my clothed, soaked being. at some point you just have to let the tears and the rain mix together because that is what they do best. there is no shame in the act- only such an extreme amount of clensing that god himself could get off on it.

so while you were couped up, i was prancing with the fox; while you were hiding, i was discovering what lies in the darkness; while you were wondering, i was sure.

that's right: it may have had the last laugh, but i giggled with it.

sometime during the degradation of American collegiate culture, somebody decided that when a halloween falls on a monday, it would be a bang up idea to begin the celebration on the previous tuesday.

do you like how i only capitalized "American" in that sentence? i sure do. i think it sums up my feeling towards our society beautifully: despite hundreds of years of english (not capitalized) language, throughout all of the reforms that grammar and spelling underwent, i find that my upbringing and standing permit me to cast aside any rules taht the world might try to surpess me with in order view myself as the up and coming beauty queen, the only child, America's princess; afterall, if a girl born into such hardships as "why did my parents get me a pony? i wanted a barbi jeep" can't find an outlet through imagination, who can? people need to know that because i am American, i can do whatever i want and still expect at least a teaspoon of sympathy for my shortcomings.

ugh. my liver hurts.

sights and sounds of this weekend (continued):




red card?

sights and sounds of the weekend:








and the hosts of The Big Lebowski Party:

tales of the weekend, summed up by a few words of wisdom from the dearest roommate:

"You think I'm difficult to take care of when I'm drunk because I want an egg mcmuffin? You want to wash your face, brush your teeth, remove your makeup, wash your feet, and put socks on because your feet won't come clean and you don't want to ruin your sheets."

oh where did i leave you marissa.

oh yes, my unmanipulatable man.

he turned out to be much more suseptable to it than i was aware of. and it all worked out in my favor

all it took was a little bit more alcohol than my body is typically used to breaking down and a coworker to say, "if you like him, why don't you just do it? stop waiting for him to do it."

and so, i did. i made a move (and i wasn't really scared because tequila gives you courage, right lion?) and he responded as any guy would but with much more emotion.

as for everyone else in iv, marissa, it is what it is. i shall email you with more details later.

yay!!!!!!

Mariss- this post goes almost specifically out to you.


latest update on the life in Isla Vista (to the best of my ability) focusing primarily on myself (duh):


it may come to no shock of anybody that i am utterly frustrated with the male human. i was forced into a realization on thursday that i have been dying to conceal from myself: I have, without a doubt, fallen wholeheartedly for this boy. he consumes my every thought. classes are impossible to pay attention during, and those who decide to talk to me about anything other than him will find me looking at them with little glimmer of life in my eyes.

he has, seriously, killed me. I have manipulated him to the point of dispair, seen his emotional responses of anger and hurt, and gotten nothing out of him. it is no secret that he feels at the very least equally frustrated with me; i have plotted out hookups in order to let him know that i don't need him to fulfill my needs and he responds calmly and fiercly by telling me that i am the one he wants but does not make a move to prove it.



and marissa, i am going to get ready now, but that's a beginner.

my life has absolutely no structure right now.

i woke up yesterday, showered, checked my email, and then settled down on the couch. this was about noon. six hours and two naps later i got up, went to dinner, and then, after aquiring an alcoholic beverage, resettled the territory known as the couch and remained there until 2am, at which point i forced myself to climb the nine steps to my bed.

the day before that brought nothing different, except a hangover.

and the day before that? i don't remember that far back. days that lack a spine tend to run together like fleshless matter. i keep telling myself that it'll be ok, that i'm supposed to be a lazy piece of shit and sleep all day and drink all night; afterall, these are my few days of summer, yes? i worked pretty hard all summer.

but not so hard that doing absolutely nothing seems natural.

god i feel disgusting.

and... nobody wants to go to hte beach lately? i guess it has been a tad chilly.

and i mean it. if you have a penis, i don't every want to talk to you.

AND i particularly love LOVE how i attract only taken men. a normal guy? single, available, single? certainly no. every single guy in my life that has actually admitted to something, just something, is fucking some other chick.

i once took this quiz that pronounced me to be somebody that everybody just wants to fuck, nobody wants to be with. i didn't believe it at first, but it is beginning to make a little sense.

my love life is a social disaster.

everything that happens in it either has bad timing, bad circumstances, or bad timing.

the story of my life. holy fuck.

and so, i swear off men in general. i refuse to force myself to go through this time and time again when it always yeilds the same results: wrong time, too late, wrong state, too subtle

jesus fucking christ is all i have to say.

it's strange how we move on in life. it certainly isn't an exact science, but it does happen in similar ways for everyone. two years ago i was torn in two thinking of the upcoming move; i might have done anything to have my life freeze in place so that i might keep on living the perfect world i had created for myself.

now i can't wait to leave this town. each visit is forced upon me. all the old spots (whatever they might have been used for) are just that: old. overused. tired.

it hurts a little bit. i long for the days when plans would start to fall together for the night and days were spent hiding from the heat down at the river, hopelessly sunscreening and sunscreening over and over again. i don't know why; sunburns are just a way of life. but there was an attempt, and i will tell the dermatologist that cuts the skin cancer out of my shoulder, nose and top of my ears that an effort was made. they were strainingly happy times.

and now, even as the old places are relived and the days acted out in the same manner, it is impossible to pretend that everything is exactly the same.

and i don't want to.

i can't wait to go back down south.

Dear World Travellers,

I miss you so much.

In an effort to persuade you to come back to me, I have Danni's best "look how cute I am, don't you love me?" puppy dog look



which is mainly aimed at dearest Stephanie

and a rather hidious picture of the roomie and myself during our bout with "the morning after" syndrome



which is mainly aimed at my dearest Marissa.

in the event that is is not enough to coerce your safe and speedy return, derek promises a world of pleasure



and amber will tell you exactly how big this is:





in the small chance that this is still not enough to get you on a plane and back to the beautiful world of IV, remember what you're leaving behind:



now, come home to me. thanks.

i woke up this morning without my house key, seven dollars in my pocket that aren't mine, and with this picture on my camera (and only this picture)

my sister is graduating from cosmotology school in a month, thereby cementing her place in my family as the "cool aunt" and the one who will be forever doomed to cut and color all of our hair for a discounted price.

my former housemate declared her inferior to the rest of the college-bound crowd anyway, so what the hell, right?

i hate my former housemate. hate isn't a strong enough word, but thank god for me, she will be attending Berkeley this year and the following, so i don't really ever have to talk to her ever ever ever ever ever again.

and to think, one year ago, i was her friend. i thought she was wonderful. don't you love how living with melodramatic peopel makes you HATE THEM? i guess she wasn't really melodramatic. more like holy shit, woman, what the fuck is worng with you? don't you see that YOU'RE the one causing hte problems? and then making them FIVE TIMES WORSE by telling the whole fucking world all about them and then topping it off by talking shit about your "friend" to your other "friends" who also happen to be you're "friend"'s "friend"?

good luck with your pals, justin. may none of the drama that plagues girls become a permanent factor in your life.

which only brings me back to how much i love my house. the house of no drama, no trash talking, where questions are answered honestly and everyone loves and accepts you for exactly who you are.

i'm not playing a game

it's certainly no secret that i may have the worst taste in character that i know of.

and it's ironic, really, because the fact of the matter is that i see the red flags almost instantly. the problem lies, i suppose, in my inability to function like a normal human being and avoid possible destructive personalities. i think that i can somehow manuver myself away from these near explosions but really i just become the catalyst.

but i suppose i could chalk it up to a personality flaw in myself. everyone is doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again... that's what a life sentence is based on, pretty much. that's another thing, though: when you know that poeple can't usually refrain from committing the same actions over and over, what ever drives you to think that a person has changed? and yet, every single time i see certain people, i think to myself: that person has changed, really changed. turned their life around, sees a new light.

what bullshiiiit. i mean, how eager was whats-his-name to do anything i might agree or consent to the instant he felt that i might be interested? even in the given circumstances? jesus christ.


and so, armed with my new knowledge, i have taken to telling the truth at all times. or not telling at all. that way, a person knows exactly what they are getting themselves into and how i might feel about them.

yep.

words on my life

i temperarily lost control of something last night. i don't know what it was but i felt it slip out of every part of me, all the way down to my overly abused tips of my hair. i think that it might have begun its leave when i learned how infamous i was in their relationship. she was mad i met her. mad that It brought us together after 8 months of fighting against.

i suppose i am a threat. a girl like me can always make somebody feel a little bit nervous, especially when my sexual hunger can be read on my face and my eyes are misting over with a little bit of psychotic alcohol. i want to tell her that i don't want her boyfriend (he's not that good anyway). she can keep him and the envelope of shattered glass that came with the package.

it doesn't matter, because he saw me size her up.

i suppose a person who has witnessed a breakdown has those rights.



anyway, i knew it was gone when i pressed myself up against that body. it should have been a dream come true: black, strong, commanding. all he really provided me with was something to compare to the one i really want.

there ain't no answer. there ain't going to be any answer. there never has been an answer. that's the answer.

-Gertrude Stein


why are all the answers so easy to read but so hard to comprehend?

so really i'm going about these actiosn because when i'm done, the shame is paid for by their dignity.

interesting.

perhaps the reason the world is going to hell is because nobody climbs trees anymore.

there is so much fear circulating concerning falling from the tree that the view is skewed.

at 6:30 this morning, i had two very important realizations:

1. i was locked out of my house (again)

2. the sun was rising

so i did what any self indulgent college student would do. i turned to my neighbor, told him we must spit on all the VWs on our street, particularly the fucking jettas, and passed out on the couch in his room.

this is not the time or place for fucking with people, so, even if i can't be honest with anyone in my house or life right now, i will be honest with myself and all three of you that are priveledged enough to read my bullshit.

why did i pass out on his couch?

my thought process at the time was one of drunken logic, that is for sure. i could have slept in other locations around the residence. for instance, i know, based on my past experience, that the couches in the living room are perfectly suited for the sleeping. long and squishy, they are everything a temperarily homeless girl could ask for.

but i also knew, based on my experience thus far, that mister older gentleman is completely untrustable. he is quite near my father's age, yet he prances around our "property" as if he is a 25 year old boy. he shamelessly hits on women, or girls rather, and is currently undergoing a thc withdrawl, which officially makes him the first person i have ever met that is actually addicted to mary j.

and at 6:30 this morning, he had woken with the sun. while the neighbor and myself were getting ready to call it a night, he was bringing in the new day.

and, so, armed with this knowledge, i knew i could not sleep on the couch and agreed to crash in the bedroom.

now, this seems perfectly reasonable. except i know that the bed would have been so much easier to sleep on. there is nothing comfortable about a love seat sized futon couch and a blanket that, while it is warm, definately smells like it may not have been washed for quite some time.

but it's not like i expect it to have been. these are males, we're tlaking about.

here i stand. i looked at him. he looked at me. the question still hung in the sierra nevada nad keystone scented air around us. what accomodations would i like tonight? disclaimer noted: i'll probably rise first, so good morning in advance.

an hour of flirting and fighting and video games later, there is no pondering what should happen next.

i took the pillow and sweatshirt and boxers, went to the bathroom, filled my waterglass, and positioned myself like a fetus on the couch.

sorry neighbor. there's no questioning that i would love to be in the bed next to you, but somehow, somewhere in my mind, you didn't measure up to my drunken standards. and i wasn't even aware of this.

just for clarification, i did not have sex with the neighbor.

i don't know how long

if you're going to go out, at least lose in a perfected geometric shape.

that's the saying i like to live by.

but if you ask me to repeat this, it may be slurred. not because i'm under the influence of some substance widely regarded as distructive in this day and age (and country), but because you may just believe i need to undergo some sort of speech therapy.

that's right. i admit it. i am a mumbler.

and fuck you for assuming that i was one before i actively admited to the fact.

because the only person allowed to accuse me of this speech impediment is, of course, myself. who else has the right that lets people administer disorders to other human beings? nobody. that's right. nobody. only i can see a horrifically disfigured homo sapien and think, fuck, they should have been terminated during preganancy.

technically, i should stop here.

a great loss will be felt on the home front if i continue to verbalize the thoughts that frequently pass through the many cells that make up my central nervous system.






but, then again, so much is learned through loss.

how else would i know that fucking the neighbor isn't always satisfactory? how else would i know that skipping class to go to the shittiest of santa barbara beaches (yet) could result in a lesser grade? how else would i know that playing backgammon while *un*sober will only result in the worsening of my overall record?






yeah.
i don't know where i am. but yeah.







fuckin a, man. fuckin a.

i have jerry-rigged the router in the hallway so that i might get some signal to my computer for internet. the walls in this place must be built out of steel as not a single bar makes it down the expanse of hall. maybe because it must go through the kitchen, bathroom, closet, and closet (mine). i am not complaining. but stephanie disapproves of the wiring job, i think. i think maybe she expects me to do a better job hiding the wires as that is what i get paid to do at work sometimes. most of the time.

my boss called me in a panic this morning. he had me on the calender to work freshmen orientation blurbs this morning, but he never relayed this fact to me. i told him i'd make it up to him by cleaning lights this afternoon.

i think that it is a sign to move on when my boss assumes i'm working, doesn't actually tell me i am, and somehow has me convinced that i have to make it up to him when it turns out that i didn't.

it seems that all my thoughts don't stick around in my brain long enough to transport them to this nice and overly white screen. or maybe i can't keep my thoughts in my head long enough because i am feeling a sort of sensory overload.

that is a crock of shit and i know it. it's because i'm either too lazy or not sober enough to develop my thoughts or i am doing something else, like writing the twenty essays my writing teacher makes us do over the course of six weeks.

i recently wrote a personal statement for medical school. because that's the writing i'm taking: writing, for health professions. i have her fooled. she told me to go to my first choice medical schools and research what it is they want in an applicant. like they vary. i think we all know what it is they want in an applicant (high gpa and high mcat scores) and anything else is just pure ... getting into the right pile.

i told my neighbors, who are so past all this shit that they just smile at me and think to themselves, "im so glad i'm done with undergrad", that i had to do this. i told them, in a drunken slur, that the whole world wants me to be a doctor. they laughed. they said the whole world wants them to be a doctor, too.

fuck you. you're in a doctoral program.

for not having hte internet, i find myself faced with a computer and an empty head more often than i would have originally thought. i happen to be at work these days, the boss having convinced me to come in before the seagulls have shown their dirty, trash invading beaks around almost any of isla vista. i don't even think my recycling had been invaded by the subculture of mexican mothers and grandfathers, looking to hord even more of my kinda-worth-money cans in their tricycles when i left on my substantial trek to campus this morning.

and now i am stuck here in this dreary place, within the gasp of some national christain organization that is holding camp ( i think) here for the next five days. every time a dirty word comes out of my mouth, i am bombarding with a series of "you're going to hell" looks. it's quite lovely.

at least they're kinda nice.

at least i'm left with the project of trying to figure out how to get my usual formatting without any of the amenities of a pc. fucking apples. always trying to make my life just so much harder.

being in the booth usually makes me a little hostile, but today it affords me a view of so many of my coworkers trying to hang a 20 foot banner of a crucified jesus.

yeah i'll sit up here and do your bitch work. sure i'll program a few lights for you. as long as i don't have to put my paws on that shitty piece of crap, i'm doin juuuuuust fine.

i love that my boss refers to it as a rag.

i can't believe i was so steadfastly devoted to something as a child that i despise so much as a young adult.

i take it back.

the old man in the house in front of mine is actually 43, a divorcee, and is just here for the summer to get in touch with his "fun" side. he told me this while he lectured me of the wonders of fresh lavander and bbqed me up a rather tasty piece of meat. another of my new neighbors kept bringing me fresh red cups of beer.

ok. so it is shady. it's shady that the man has grams upon grams of weed that is so covered with little thc crystals i almost didn't believe my own eyes.

but i don't care anymore. for christ's sake, it's summer time. shadyness only goes so far. and i'm willing to overlook it when he serves up better meals than my father on a daily basis.

i'm willing to overlook almost anything when one of his housemates is a sexy sexy mother trucker.

yep.

and all grad students. besides the old dude.

and all grad student friends too.

i hope you're jealous, marissa, because i'm totally going to rope me one of those bad boys.

in the mean time, if only rachel got her damn blog back online and stopped remodeling an already perfect site. jeeeez.

not that it matters. because i still don't have internet in my beautiful house.

there is a 35+ year old man that is subletting one of the rooms in the house in front of mine. he came knocking on our door yesterafteroon, asking if, by chance, any of us would like to smoke with him. (this house? during dinner, two pipes are being passed around. you can't cut into your meat wihtout some gigglefit spreading throughout. when someone suggests jazz for dinner music, it actually happpens.) is that just a little shady?

i overlook it. it means nothing to me when i can stand on my balcony and view both the ocean and the mountains that are characteristic of this school. i feel as though i have woken up and found that the last year didn't even happen. live in a shitty dump? i would never subject myself to that. my new place has dimmer light switches, vaulted ceilings, and lofts in the bedrooms. the carpet is clean. the kitchen sports a microwave... built in. there are flowers all around and a delicately manacured yard. did i really survive somebody walking through my room to use the bathroom on a multiple-time-per-day basis? did i really listen to her blow snot into the high-as-it-can-go flow of running water at all times of the night and morning, while she washed her face? my bathroom now is large enough to have a twenty person get-together, easily. and it's only one of two.

and i tell myself that i will return to 6718 Sabado Tarde.

why would i do that when Pasado is a palace in comparison?

i should be careful, i could get used to this.

there are, of course, downfalls. no longer will i get to look into the windows of Dashain and see them gathering around the bench-like table in their kitchen. no longer will i be able to hear the bantering of the neighbors, or have the skateboarders to entertain me every beautiful afternoon.

these are downfalls? i take it all back. all of it.

besides, i can't return to dashain these days on account of stella and i breaking in to take some filtered water during the last hours of our residence at 6718.

four blocks east of the ocean, i can still hear it.

what more can i ask of life?



oh yeah. sanity.