My flight to lga= delayed 3 and a half hours.

Dammit.

It was a good weekend though.

All of the people coming into this airport are so tan. It’s amazing. Where in the hell were they for thanksgiving?

Are you allowed to listen to music without headphones in the airport?

I’m eating these really gross cheese things that southern seasons makes. They are major hids but I am hungry and they are the only thing in this whole bloody airport that aren’t deep fat fried or just simply having 238749 fat grams because they are made of only butter, sugar, and/or corn syrup.

And when I was walking into the place to buy the crappy cheese crackers this old man walking kind of in front of/diagonal to me farted really loudly as I was passing him. I don’t think he realized there was anyone around because he looked really embarrassed when I looked at him.

And then I laughed and thought about how funny farts are. It would have been funnier if he would have shared the laugh. Like farts are funny and we both know it!

Ffrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrttttt!

I wonder if any of these tvs could be turned off of cnn for 10 seconds (or two hours) so that I could watch extreme makeover home addition and desperate housewives.

I also wish that I could leave my lap top charging right here while I go find a vegetable somewhere.


Huh.


this is shit.

Who's that girl?
She must be nearly freezing
Who's that girl out there
All that snow makes it hard so see her
Did she wave to me

And maybe I'm in love
Love love, love love
And maybe that's enough
That stuff, that stuff

Made a film
I made it through the window
Who's that star I cast?
All wrapped up in her winter wardrobe
She hurries by so fast

And maybe I'm in love
Love love, love love
And maybe that's enough
That stuff, that stuff

On summer days when the sun shines
I watch the tape
And through the snow, through the window
I watch her wave to me

Who's that girl?
She must be nearly freezing

I’ve seen more planes than usual out my window tonight. Lots of little beepity beep beeping lights out the window in red and white. I guess white? Like lightning. But not when it’s pink or blue lightning.

I don’t like flying through the clouds. It makes me uncomfortable. Like we’re going to have a mid-air head on collision. Oops sorry gang I didn’t even see that 747. these darn clouds!

Flying is still a magical concept to me. Like some guy- the one with the orange coveralls and the dueling lightsabers comes over and maybe puts a spell on the plane. Or does a sacred interpretive dance with his lightsaber. Or sprinkles some magic dust on the wings. And wheeeeee! We’re ready for take off.

I’m convinced that there is a higher/supernatural power involved.

The lady diagonal from me is only millimeters from needing a seat belt extender- A concept that I find fascinating. I’m also captivated in a perverse way by how tight her gold watch is on that sausage wrist. The skin on the fingers so taut like her skin is spandex. This repulses me. But I can’t stop looking. She is reading a very long book. It’s definitely not the Count of Monte Cristo. Maybe patricia Cornwell or anne rivers siddons. She keeps fucking getting up and fiddling with some weird food items that look like dried mushrooms she has stored in the overhead. I also noticed Chinese takeout containers stowed under her seat. I’m still praying that she doesn’t get a craving mid-flight. It’s fucking gross when people start eating something really pungent on a plane. Jesus. It’s one thing to not be able to make it through a 50 minute flight without a snack, it’s quite another to contaminate the entire cabin with the foul stench of wok and roll’s kitten meat version of general tso’s chicken.

This is what airplanes do to me when I’m already anxious.

All of the impatience and dicking around in the terminal comes to an ugly and very negative head..

I can’t handle the concept of flights getting overbooked. And further to that, when the people at the gate let more people than there are seats onto the plane. I’m serious. There is too much technology running peoples’ lives these days for unmistakable logistical glitches like this to occur.

So much hostility tonight.

Acerbic even.


Messages I’d like to leave/send:

Dear family: please do not pick me apart this weekend. I am feeling good and happy about life and do not need any unwarranted criticisms or youshoulds or whydon’tyous disguised as niceties and itsonlybecauseweloveyous. Please do not tell me you don’t like my hair. Or say “look at that outfit… you’re a trip!” in that very condescending my-conservative-sweater-combo-is-better-than-that-very-over-the-top-ensemble-you-have-pieced-together kind of way that you know just how to do. Please do not ask me about my love life or if I’m dating anyone. Chances are that if I met someone that I was crazy about, you would all know by now. And if you really want to know, for the last 6 months I’ve been indiscriminantly fucking greater manhattan. Just kidding. but seriously. The last three nights of “love” I’ve had involved a bathroom and/or serious lack of sobriety. Please do not ask me all about my job and then invalidate my response (positive or negative) by saying “well, you’ve got to do the time!” this does not in any way improve upon the fact that I work 80 hours a week for shit pay.

And now my battery is dying.

Probably good.

and once upon a time i had really short hair. this short. a little more than a year ago. and maybe i should cut it again. cause now its all long and blahblahblah and not that long but long for me.

long like hairs fall down my back in the shower and tickle my crack. and long like my braid gets caught under my arm when i'm serving the ball while playing tennis.

not like crystal gale long.

and not doesyourhairgetcaughtinyourcrackwhenyouwipe long.





i'm having a cosmic day.


i don't know what it is exactly, but i think i'm having one.


oh and today, the television makes me want to kill. i can't stand to look at the crap they're selling us all over the boob tube. it almost gave me a panic attack a little while ago.


and, in other, more tragic news, due to recent monetary investments made in the name of the social lives of myself and my friends, i have had to start taking the subway. i have taken it twice in the last week. it's a little rough, but i have to muster up the energy to luxuriate in this pedestrian mode of transit for another week or so.

this is what the weather said when i woke up



and this is what it looked like

gross. hungover eyes are ugly ones.



grumble grumble



it is 7pm and i have nothing better to do than flop around the house in pajamas and have a depressed hangover.

have i gone toe up?

god, this is so fucking two dimensional.

my life is in 2-D



this picture is very unfortunate

and unfortunately, this is one of the reasons that i am shitty and retarded and two dimensional and feel like i have a right to call every number in my tortured cell phone and say stupid things and fuck yous all around to random people who deserve it but i don't have the balls to say it sober. i keep them around for some reason. drunk reasons.

it's harrassment really

torture is such a twisted and profound word.

still better is the adjective form: tortured.


everyone starts to look ugly when you walk outside and the sun is up

i don't think it's shitty to be confident.

.

wouldn't you rather hang out with someone brimming with confidence than some forlorn and self-deprecating wimp?

i can't remember the last time i looked so forward to a weekend.


.


i secretly wish this weekend wouldn't end. or that something so fantastic would happen that i could be driven to go out every night next week. of course until i leave on wednesday.

i can't believe i'm going home again....?

weird. i was just there. i am settled back into my love affair with new york and it's already time for me to leave for another 4 days.

joey called me tonight.

i don't want to check the message.

do you ever have those? the person that always calls and you're not really sure what to say so you don't pick up and then they always leave a message so you HAVE to call them back.

well i've said it before: it's fucking shitty to not call someone back if they leave you a message. especially when it's someone you don't talk to every day.

don't people understand this piece of etiquette?


.


phone calls are nice and friendly things.

like kisses.

friendly like i think you're swell or how've you been

sometimes they can mean more. phone calls and kisses. but sometimes that's all there is to them and sometimes that is the best way to have them.

i want to call you because it's nice to say hello and catch up for a minute.
i want to kiss you because it's nice to press my mouth to yours and giggle afterwards.

.
i ate butternut squash soup for dinner and it burned my mouth.

the end

this upped dosage has me shakin'

that's right, like eddie money.

i'm in a hostile sleeping situation this week.

i'm in bed, staring at the ceiling and the glow from the bar out my back window. thinking about songs that pop into my head and the words and what they mean and what the writer was thinking about when the words flew out onto paper or a cocktail napkin or onto the wall in the crayola color burnt sienna.

and then i toss.

and then i get really bored. so i open the lap top. and wish for something to happen. there is a world happening. and i am in my bed. watching the clock. wishing for a knock on the door or the phone to ring or maybe wishing for nothingness. blankness so that i can go to sleep. i have to work early. but there's still time to sleep if my brain would shut it's big fat mouth and decide it's time for sleeping.

what the hell's the name of that velvet underground song that i love that talks about 10 gallon girls. and why can't i think of the song or the obvious name.

pisser

and my face feels a little like there is clay on it. from washing it. and my toothpaste tastes a little bad. and it's probably a good thing that there is no one kissing me goodnight because maybe they would think it tastes yucky too and then i'd feel silly like "i just brushed them!"

and then i wish that my room was clean. groaroaoroaroaoroaroaroaoroaroaroar why didn't i clean it tonight, i didn't even go out. i watched crappy television and read this nabokov story that made me want to hurl the book across the room. and smoked cigarettes that make my lungs hurt and didn't drink enough water.

why didn't i clean

this place is a pig sty.

and what the fuck is all of that random product on my dresser for. i hate hair care products. i never use them. i collect them so that i can pretend that i have glamourous pampered tresses instead of boring brown hair. and there is so much perfume and powder and mustella wipes because they smell like babies and i like to blow my nose with them.


one voice is clear above the din.


dammit.

why can't i sleep.

i tried to copy and paste my entire collection of illegally acquired songs to this because i wanted some honest opinions on what song is going to be the one to score me a $2000 ticket.

admittedly, there are some shitty songs by shitty bands on my playlist.

i am not ashamed.


but i don't think they'll be the ones that get me busted.

i would like to think that the incredible (undeniably so) music will not get me busted either. just because that would make me lose faith in what it feels like to know incredible music.

i buy shit tons of CDs. but sometimes the internet is the only way to go. for the shitty music- it's the stuff you've heard too many times on the elliptical trainer at the gym or on your irritating coworker's hello kitty radio and don't necessarily want to purchase the whole album. and for the amazing musical talents, the internet has all kinds of rad shit that you can't find anywhere- even in your uncle peter's basement by the hookah. unless you were there, sometimes there's just not a damn thing you can do. a victim of timing.

i think it's the mediocre songs that you kind of have as fillers that will stamp that fine in the mail to you. maybe?

is there even such a thing as mediocre songs? there have to be.

actually, right now when i look at the list it's fucking great or terrible.

but i guess there are definitely a lot of songs in the world that are neither here nor there for me.

unless you have to hear them 2348023480238402 times.

today emily told me that she liked my favorite song about the girl with hair of black and eyes of blue the first time she heard it, but now she hates it.

i was so hurt.

whatever.

this is crap.


ever since i got this fucking camera, i have nothing to say.

exactly how my grad school shit is going: 5 minutes of inspiration followed by long periods of fuck this shit, let me just draw pictures of butts with fart clouds coming out of them and submit that to the fucking committee. watch. i'll get the letter:
"and our 15th and final spot for entry into the program this year goes to you. we simply couldn't stop thinking about your very graphic and realistic representations of farts that go pfffffft and frrrrrrrrrrrt and thhhhhhhhhhhfffffffffff."

because that's what farts do.

such lovely words

"she must be one of the ugliest women in the world."

lazy simon and garfunkel sunday.

lost in translation.

so cliche.

c'est dommage.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock



LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.


In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.


And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?


And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?


And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas
. . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”


And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.


Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.


We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T.S. Eliot (1888–1965). Prufrock and Other Observations. 1917.

..............................................................

it is hotter than the devil's underpants in my apt right now.

i just walked in the door and i am definitely sweating like a miami hooker.

ahhh, nothing like a 14 hour day to welcome you back from vacation.

i couldn't concentrate today.

and the doctor even upped my adderall.


nunzilla



my kiss ass coworker was in waay too good of a mood and i found it a little off putting. not because i was in a bad mood, but i hate people that 1) almost never fuck up and 2) when they do, they will never ever admit to it.

goddammit. we all know you're not perfect so act human you fucking spaced out android weird pen holding fuck.

also on today's agenda: a riveting trend meeting. the i-think-i-am-the-big-boss boss/antichrist in her evil knievel leather jacket. red black white. what? we're here to talk about trends?? goddammit, i thought we were here to spectate as you drove a motorcycle through flaming hoops and over a tractor trailer.



today caroline told me that i need a rica. is this true? i tend to think i could live in a thatched hut for the rest of my life. in bora bora.


A friend's poem:

regret

i smoke my lonely cigarette,
and it's raw winter beneath my tongue,
a sweet peach devoid of juice.

i give myself to the subdued sun,
that winks at life and sneers at death,
and laughs at my apathy and stolen breath.
it squeaks by me in an instance's life,
like grass cut clear off the blade of a knife.

the day stood ripe, poised to pluck,
but now rots in an orchard of bittersweet fruit.

a thousand moments lie still and mute.

i die in a sea of forgotten time,
in a bold but fading chalk outline.

i smoke my lonely cigarette,
and bite into my sick regret.




blechalsdkghbalekiladcldshitfuckassboobieblechbaletusalbdnflbaldklrueisk

ROAROAOROAROAROAROAR


fuck regret.



today i sent copies of mermaid ave, volume 1 to everyone that was out on sunday night.

maybe weird, maybe thoughtful. maybe thoughtful and weird. and why the fuck have i been feeling so generous lately.

dammit.

i basically get paid in magic beans.

whatever. they're worth it?

according to the receipt the next morning, i spent $163 on shots sunday night. and in the south, that's an accomplishment.

je ne me rappelle pas.
j'étais seulement là.

δεν θυμάμαι.
ήμουν μόνο εκεί.



katarina είναι μια μικρή κούκλα.

;aldkjfladflaoweiruowenkdkblkechak belakchalsjd

this is the best thing i've ever read.

well, today anyway.

i'm not going to lie to you, i find sex considerably more interesting than attacks on america.

now if you'll excuse me, it's off to gascogne to plan attacks on brilliant and overtly sexual french men.


my eye


his eye

not looking at me

Recycling..

Old lines.

Old habits

Die hard.



..




What do you do when you feel like withdrawing? How do you come out of the I-feel-like-withdrawing slump?

Slump.

What happens when you have this weird feeling that you can’t put your finger on?

Put your finger on it.

You’re about to end the denial.

You are exhausted. You are always exhausted when you go home. Your friends are so much more involved, and of course, your family is.

It’s a good thing though. All the coddling and nurturing.



..




I think I must be sitting right beside the engine of this goddamn plane. I can’t hear the wilco that I’m trying to hear. I’m sure led zeppelin will play loudly though.

It always does. Loudly. On the day that I leave this place.

It exhausts me to see the sunset out of the window of my airplane.

I am angry flying over Washington dc.



Figuring.

That’s what has to happen.

Logistics.

The logistics of life

How do you make it come to fruition.




I saw maybe the most attractive male I’ve ever seen today at lunch at the Artisan café. I’ve never gotten that flustered over someone I found attractive sitting across a restaurant. It was terrible.



...


david tells me this weekend that he loves the mermaid avenue cd, but billy bragg ruins it. i'm sorry, but that just doesn't jive with me.


I’m an American aquarium drinker. I assassin down the avenue.


I am trying to break your heart.

..

For real this time.

I have this person in my life that floats in and out from time to time.

Sometimes I think it is more a figment of my imagination than a real thinking feeling breathing flesh and bones person.

That Cure song: I’ve been living so long with my pictures of you that I almost believe that the pictures are all I can feel.

Maybe sort of an el nino type thing.

Comes about randomly every once and a while. Wreaks havoc for a little bit and vanishes without a trace.


........

Except for the graffiti left on my body and in my mind.

Crazy indecipherable messages that mean nothing to anyone but the artist and in this case, the canvas.

What happens when you suddenly want the long distance fb to become the long distance bf? is this really what you want?

Are you really madly in love with this person or is this some illusion carried over from childhood memories

Can 10 years of Fbdom translate into a lifetime of happiness?


...

This past weekend an on again off again friendship/hookup/addiction of mine blew into town for the big birthday oyster roast festivities. (Please see the last time i was home, when this and this happened, followed by This..) Hours of eating oysters and drinking beer go fabulously with late night escapades on a boat on the intracoastal waterway.

Undulating with the motion of the water

And of course: the ebb and flow of my emotional wellbeing.

At this point, I was still in the safety zone however. This was all expected. This I could handle.


..


There were the usual goodbyes. See you whenever. We always do.

Then a funny thing happened.

In a random happening, the long distance fb curfew was extended and with that, the boundaries were expanded.

There were out of the way gestures made. to the tune of driving extra hours and hundreds of miles to get me there.

Roaroraoroaroaoroaor (recounting this makes me feel ridiculous)

So, Sunday night oyster roast part 2 happened and it was glorious. I took 4 of my closest friends to my oldest stomping ground and got them all wasted. Unfortunately seemingly endless amounts of booze don’t mingle well with intense emotional undertones.

And the night was laden with them.

So of course: in wasted k-styles fashion, I opened my mouth and the ugly exaggerated truths came flying out.

Verbal diarrhea it’s called.

Oh yes. It’s bad.




Basically a DTR (determining the relationship—gag) ensued. only wasted and including such popular lines as “I’ve basically been in love with you for years.” Or something to that effect. How the hell should I know

So, like the true mellow, free-spirited, fabulous person that he is, he fucking rolls with it.

Goddammit

Pushes through this web of drama that I am hurling at him and acts totally cool about it. And still wants to kiss on the mouth.

All of this. Followed by equally as awkward larry-david-style moments today when he brings it back up and I simply say “I don’t want to talk about it.”

We parted in a good way.

I guess.

Or as good as it possibly could be considering.

i hate sharing my name

I’m a little pissed. But I am also emotionally spent. And am wishing for my new-york-style-my-life-is-devoid-of-emotions ways to come back.

I’m so tired.

it's a sign from God.

I just wrote a ridiculous and fucked up jumble of qherohqpworiioqwhepgla;djfu8woeipnv.

and the computer farted and lost it.

phew!










running like a fugitive.

i had to run like a fugitive.

---------------------------------------------------

jesus criminy.

someone in italy stumbled onto my blog via this search.

i had no idea.

well today i'm home sick

with pneumonia.

it sucks.

it sucks enough that the name makes me think of that grim i-just-walked-into-a-fart face that a lot of people in new york have.

i'm bored. and the television is maybe the most unappealing thing i can think of right now. so i'm reading a lot. the last few hours have been orwell's 1984. how appropriate for this here election day. especially with campaigns like mtv's vote or die. whoa chief. better hurry to the poles before a mohawked, sean john medallion wielding diddy comes knocking on your door ready to nunchuck your ass.

i wholeheartedly agree that we should all step up to the plate and vote, but vote or die? i guess they're just conveying the gravity of the situation?

whatever, just go to the polls and vote or quit your bitching.

in other news, my place of business has succeeded in making me feel incredibly guilty for taking half of yesterday and today off to recover from my recent illness. in fact, they've made me feel incredibly guilty for coming down with this in the first place. like i'm sitting here all weekend going please GOD give me a terrible sickness that causes me to feel like crap and not be able to move from my bed. please

so guilty, that i've checked my work email approximately every 9.2 seconds. and am spending part of today "updating a grid." i also have this feeling that my boss, who i'm convinced when not ordering me to do her work for her is busy orchestrating the apocalypse, is going to try to guilt trip me into cancelling my weekend vacation plans so that i can come to work on monday and tuesday. is this ok? not with me. i didn't plan/intend to come down with pneumonia.

fuckers.

today's lesson: vote. or diddy will get you. and maybe even hit you over the head with a bottle of cristal? oh, and don't get pneumonia. the bosses/antichrists don't like it.