Thursday, February 28, 2002

she said that i have a mouth but no knowledge. but she said lots of things.

i'm listening to common's like water for chocolate right now and not really having a linear stream of thoughts to be able to write this. i keep singing lyrics amazed at how awesome an album this is, wondering why i haven't listened to it in probably about a year. wondering why you're not listening to it right now. dude, why isn't the shit blaring out of loudspeakers on every street corner? world peace is good jams blaring on every street. george clinton, i'm just starting to understand what you meant by "one nation under a groove." but, i'll see that line and raise you one - how bout one planet under a groove? a little funk to serve as the soundtrack to our day to day existence.

but then again, maybe not. someone with lame taste might be put in charge of the music selection. it could be whole days of that bad music you hear whenever you're put on hold on the phone. it could be a lifetime of bad dentist's office music. well, i guess the desire to have music playing wherever you go is why they made walkmans - maybe i need to invest in one.

today i woke up at eleven, and thought that i would take the bus down to old town. my car is no longer legally driveable - it's a major headache that i don't want to talk about, but basically i am carless, which is fine in sarasota and i guess ten million other places, but cars are an essential in northern virginia, the definiton of sprawl. road planners didn't think that there might actually be pedestrians, and so sidewalks are sporadic on major roads, and just ridiculous. but anyways, i can catch the bus about a couple blocks from my house. this working in eastern market thing may get very unbearable, taking a bus and the metro seems a little insane to get to a seven dollar an hour job. i should have taken that job at dale photo and i could have just biked to work. oh well, we'll see how bad (or how good) it actually is tomorrow when i have to go to work.

today, i don't even know what i did. it is now one o clock in the morning, and god damn, does anyone else think time is flying. for motherfucking sake, it is appearantly febuary 28, how the hell did that happen? what happened to january? i planned on reading all day, but did not read at all really.

damn, listen to this nonsense - okay first, let me explain the abrupt switch that just occured. i am grade a fucked up on caffeine and all over the map right now. i made a coffee conconction at about six tonight with four shots of espresso in it, and a bunch of charger chai, and chocolate sauce. and it was so mmm mmm good, but my nerves are seriously pulsing, and since the consumption of that drink, i have gone through probably the entire spectrum of human emotions - getting giddy, happy, depressed, sad, mad, horny, agitated, bored - you name it, i have felt it in these last six or so hours.

okay, let's get back to the nonsense that you need to listen to: so our cable was all fucked up for about two weeks and the stations were all mixed up, and we weren't getting like half the stations (most importantly, though, mtv). so, i called the cable company and had them talk me through fixing the problem with the remote and i was so excited that i could get it fixed. (oh, the cable company is one such place where you hear crappy music when you're put on hold.) this was yesterday that i fixed it, and at ten, i turned to mtv, so so excited to see the new episode of real world. but motherfucking guess what? it was a goddamn repeat - the first episode that they have already showed a million and three times. so i try turning to hbo to see if there's any good movies on, and hbo was blocked. as was cinemax, showtime, and the movie channel. what the hell? i was so mad that i had called to fix the cable, because i think we had been getting the premium channels for free for the past few months, but i don't know, i need to ask my mom about it, and see if i really did fuck up our getting free stations or if we really are supposed to have them. but this means no late night cinemax movies to serve as masturbation fodder.

coffee can serve as a laxative, in case you didn't know. also assuming that you cared about bowel movements. or as bonnie once said to my utter confusion: b-m. about an hour after drinking the... duh, drink, i kept on having to poop. and how many times a day do you poop? nora once told me i was weird for pooping everyday, and she said that she poops once every couple of days and i thought she was lying, but now i don't know. everyone else poops a few times a day, right?

between my squats on the toilet, i ran around the house cleaning, and ran up to my room to do something. i quickly became distracted listening to how loud the second hand is on my clock, and starting reading my notebook which i saw on the floor. and wrote this, real freaked out and anxious, so pardon the even badder writing:

the time is moving, that second hand is out of control, loud planes landing and taking off at national - they're moving and so are all the people inside the airport, running to their gates, being asked to take their shoes off, the people on the tv move so fast, branches outside moving because the wind is moving -- all of which, making me painfully aware of my stationary status. i'm the motherfucking stationary bike and the world is the slightly overweight middle-aged woman riding me, moving, doing things, fucking people while i sit here and do jack all shit.

being thrown into an existential crisis everytime i hear the second hand of my alarm clock tick tick tick, you would think that i would just splurge on a fucking digital alarm clock the next time i went to wal-mart. but when i go to wal-mart, it's all about happy yellow smiling faces. the prices are rolling back, not spiraling forward making me fear the progress of time, and so i am happy and not neurotic there and forget about such things that would improve my life like digital alarm clocks.


[and okay, this is where the writing goes from bad to worse, so for those of you who have made it this far down, be ready to cringe]
blood guts and glory
this is a revolution of love that we are calling for. There are of course those Fannons that will tell us that this type of revolution is one of a people that have been mystified into accepting their oppresion, but fuck that. we know. we know better. we know ourselves. we know that love is what we desire. recieving it, is radiating it. jesus tried to tell us this, but the message got diluted along the way by mark and too many others. but yeah, love. that's what its all about. life is too everything for anything other than love. but that's not to say that some people aren't deserving off a knee to the groin, nor to say that we shouldn't give it to them. all that is okay, as long as our mind is not also in a state of raised fists. we must remain aware that we are the ones. the many loving each other - loving ourselves - loving life. i mean, is there really anything else when it comes down to it?


What'd I come up here for?, I ask myself forgetting my mission somewhere along the journey. And then I remember why I came here and it is so clear and meaningful that I wonder what else I would possibly have thought I came here to do. Ah, now I remember, I exclaim, releasing all the self-doubt and feelings of mental impotence created by my inability to remember what I walked a short twenty feet to do - I came upstairs to fold my fucking clothes. Ha! What else? And the world was in perfect harmony - my ego was assuaged about its fears, and i knew what my purpose was - what i came to do.

i then folded my clothes, and continued on with my spastic behavior. my mom cam home at about nine from her business trip to florida, and i was so glad that another human was in the house with me. my mommy was home. i then took her car and sped to olsson's before they closed at ten to purchase mcsweeney's 7. so so excited about holding the new issue in my hands, so ready to rush home and read it. i rushed home and was still too hyped-up to actually read. so, i watched the grammys. andre 3000 is so the coolest guy in the world. outkast, nelly furtado, india arie, and al fucking green performed, all of whom entertained my hyped up self immensely. i then was a little bit calmer and read jt leroy's "harold's end," and it was a fun read and all, but nothing that i considered good writing. not even close. i don't understand why he is such a literary darling - all he ever does is talk about being a male prostitute. it's so gimmicky and just pure shock value - there's nothing stellar about the writing at all. grr. but i read his story first just because i knew it would be a quick read - one that i could make it through being super hyper.

and goddamn, i really meant to go jogging tonight, but it is now two o'clock, and i really hate jogging this late at night, and dude i need to fall asleep so i can wake up for bus metro work.

and common is saying to me; to you; to us that he finds "heaven in this music and god." and yeah, i think that's where i find it, too.

Tuesday, February 26, 2002

"Q: What do the Enron execs eat for a breakfast? A: Shredded Wheats," said the homeless man who asked rebecca and i for money. we didn't give him any.

running so so behind. and yeah that is nothing new. not at all. but today, it was about twenty minutes behind the time that i needed to leave that i finally left my house for work. roaring down the streets, trying to get to the metro, knowing that i would just miss a train if i did not hurry, ignoring the low coolant warning light blinking like mad. my car is really bobo and on its last legs, and has a hole in something important and expensive (the two are not neccesarily synonomous). and so every time i have to drive, i have to refill it with coolant. and if i don't, the car overheats, steams like mad, or just stops running. basically trouble. big trouble. and, i was praying that none of these horrible things would happen since i was already so so late. and none of them did, thank god.

i get there and a train is just pulling up. ready to get on the train, waiting for it to come to a stop and - "CHARLIE!" - turn around real confused to see who is calling my name and of all people, i see ty. i mentally rolled my eyes, dreading having to talk to ty on the metro, but smiled and said hi, knowing that i would have to talk to him on the metro.

it wasn't that bad talking to him. it was actually pretty fun, and he even gave me a sort of compliment, saying that i looked grown-up, but quickly followed by saying that i didn't look like a little boy anymore. thanks ty. ty was on his way to work too. appearantly he is a ballroom dance instructor at arthur-murray's, which seems very weird. we talked about mary, who appearantly is moving back to va permanently to live with ty. and she was in rehab for a semester last year, unbeknowest to me, but ty, never one to concern himself with privacy, spilled all the details about mary's life to me.

i only got to work about ten mintues late, which is not so bad. no granola boy today. but sharon was working, this little hippy girl who just graduated from gwu. she's such a rad girl. rebecca thinks she's so cool, and likes to talk about her a lot. cause she's that nice and cool. but today was the last day that i am going to work with her since she is starting a real 9-5 job at the end of this week.

rebecca came to visit me at work and asked if i wanted to go see a movie. fucks yeah. so, i spent a good half an hour talking to rebecca, looking at the movie listings, and then talking to rebecca and sharon. it had to be a movie that would get out before twelve and also at a theater near a metro stop. we decided to go see metropolis at foundry (the $3 theater). i said something about the rossyln stop, and sharon was like oh no no, you get off at foggy bottom, and so we got her to give us directions from foggy bottom to the movies. she said is was just a 5 minute walk.

i worked for a couple more hours, and then met rebecca at the foggy bottom metro stop. i pulled out the map sharon drew for us, we walked three blocks to our right, made a left for a block, and then walked three blocks to our left. visualize this. it is a big circle and a big waste of time, and sharon's directions were grade a not helpful. we eventually made it to the theater, and watched this really fun anime japanese film. rebecca dozed off during parts. if i was more tired i probably would have too. some of the scenes in the middle were just plain unexciting. but most of them was kick-ass awesome. and it dealt with fun old noir issues of the city and dealt with paranoia about machinery, and insecurity about the role of man in an industrial world. real fun stuff. and there are so many things i want to talk about with this movie, but i doubt anyone's seen it and so my comments would be sort of boring.

but whatever, the robot that they build to be the ruler of their city is a blonde, blue-eyed girl. all the other characters are dark-haired and dark-eyed. fun construtction of ideals of beauty issues here. some really awesome comic-book style extended still shots. and the last line of the movie: "who am i?" - subtitles allowed the movie to get away with this. could you imagine an american movie trying to end with "who am i?," people would huff and puff and laugh like they knew better under their breath, and just think it was real cheesy - subtitles always give films an air of gravitas - and i know that this lies completely with my own fucked-up self for thinking that foriegn equals better, but i know i'm not the only one, i think everyone grants subtitled films more dignity or something. but anyways this movie pulled off the existential line so well.

and we walked back to the metro station, no trees around, cars zooming by us on m street, throngs of impersonal people, buildings built on top of one another, road crew doing construction on the road with big loud machines, and i was somewhere amongst all of this, i don't know where - i don't know if my identity was compromised by the urban chaos around me, and this is all so pre-WWII, but whatever - that's my favorite era for movies - and the question still remains, an unanswered i love you, the pause to think about the beauty of the statement and whether or not it should be responded to with another i love you, or if it should just be left to float out there in the air, a slowly passing cloud or a lingering fart - either way, the question remains: who am i?

Sunday, February 24, 2002

a man bought some grapefruit today and complained about the price - i could not help but get nostalgic thinking about picking grapefruits off of peopl

i've heard bad things about the hunan king. he's a bad, bad man. or, so i've been told. whenever anyone takes a break at work, john warns them time and time again to steer clear of the hunan king - that the food there will make you sick. appearantly he got sick a couple months ago, and intends to never forgive the soveriegn of hunans. and not wanting to get sick, i always take his advice and stay away from the hunan king. i wandered around eastern market during my break, looking at all the vendors, looking at overpriced tomatos that did not look in season, looking at bad flea market art, looking at all the young, happy couples. for some reason, there seemed to be an insane amount of gay male couples. i come to eastern market all the time and i swear to god, i never notice this many gay couples. maybe it was just something about the weather today that drew them. or maybe i am just extremely lonely and was a lot more attentive to their prescence.

i walked past hunan king - the place was completely empty - i felt so sad for them - i kind of wanted to go and give them some business - but i wasn't so much in the mood for chinese and still somewhat wary of john's ominous warnings. so, i went to sizzling express, where the salad bar is by the pound. i bought .94 lbs of food. i then ate it. duh, what else am i going to do with it?

back at work, the peanut butter machine broke. and some cute granola boy came and bought so much food from the bulk section, and he had red hair, and fatigue pants, and an americorps sweatshirt. he looked gay, but such things are always up in the air. and he needed help with the pb machine. pb and j. peanut...peanut butter! ... and jelly! dude, i want to eat pb and j sandwiches with you. it could be the best pb and j you've ever eaten. but i didn't say this, of course, i just tried to fix the machine for him, and settled for silly small talk with him - but he had the biggest grin ever, and he was sooo cute. and of course, i could not get the pb machine to work since i am a grade a klutz which also means that i am not at all good with fixing shit (i am good with breaking shit), and granola boy left with his bulk foods. i so hope granola boy comes back into the store. most of the people that come there are regulars and i recognize them and know a few names, and hopefully (fingers crossed), granola boy will soon become addicted to the yes, and i will then have numerous stalking opportunities.

i fell asleep on the metro home, totally konked out. woke up when everyone got off at huntington. came home, watched the simpsons and malcolm in the middle with my parents. well, with my mom. my dad didn't really watch it. he just sort of sat there, falling asleep and occasionally waking up to read the paper. then i went jogging, and jogged past the construction site for this sunrise retirement community that they are building near my house. the complex was pretty much all built - but not to the point where they had locking doors on it yet. so, i decided to take a little adventurooney and snuck through the fence, and covertly made my way to the future complex for old folks. i then found an unlocked door and started wondering the halls, sort of really terrified that i would be caught. looking in all the rooms. climbing stairs. super quiet, but the place was lit, but empty and it so felt like the shining, when bobby is riding his big wheels down all the halls.

after spending far too long wandering around sunrise, i jogged back home, and watched queer as folk, which i am really loving. and i used to hate the show. but it has definitly grown on me and i really look forward to watching new episodes. maybe my tastes are getting worse. or maybe i just really enjoy watching something about cute gay boys. maybe both. maybe today there were about eight million dudes that i seriously looked at in a desirous way, coveting their bodies. maybe i am getting tired. maybe the end.

Saturday, February 23, 2002

she really wants to be a fag hag, but i ain't about to be her fag

please, please don't ever say "lol" in response to something i say to you, unless you want me to hate you forever. please. is there a way to sign on to aol annonymously so that i don't have to talk to people when i don't feel like it? please stop im'ing me, i did not sign on to the internet to talk to your stupid lol ass.


today, i woke up at three. what is wrong with me? sat around on my ass for an hour, when i realized i should probably go out to springfield to pick up my prescription refill. they were closing at four-thirty and it takes half an hour to get there, and i left at about four, so i am already pushing it. start daydreaming, spacing out as i am driving down route one (the alexandria equivalent of 41) ... why the hell did i shave my crotch, it itches like no other, and i'm starting to get a rash, this is grade a the dumbest thing i've done in a long time - how is it that service merchandise is still open - sleep for days - doing the moonwalk sideways while skiing downhill, yeah that was a real weird dream - nora. [bonnie, please for the love of god do not remind nora that i have an online diary or anyone else, i hate finding out that other people read it sometimes.] wondering how me and nora were good friends for so long, wondering why i feel the urge to shoot her everytime i encounter her now, wondering who changed,, she really wants to be a fag hag but i ain't going to be her fag,, maybe she can call clay, he seems to enjoy playing that role. ... and fucking shit, i snapped out of my spacing out, and wondered what the fuck i was doing. where the fuck am i? what am i doing? where am i driving to? i was about ten miles past the place where i was supposed to turn, and totatlly freaking out that i could be so spacey. i make a u-turn, backtrack, and put the shit in high gear, despearatly trying to get there before it closed.

i squealed into the parking lot at 4:28, ran into the lobby, they were shuttering all the little pharmacist windows. i ran up to one of the ones still open and got my refill.

on the way back home, i stopped and picked up the le tigre cd because i had been downloading a bunch of their songs since hearing them and decided that i actually really liked them.

i talked to sarah on the phone who wanted me to go out with her to phase, a scary butch dyke bar. i, of course, said no. sarah kept on trying to convince me to come, not understanding why i would be uncomfortable there, and why i think that my presence would probably annoy most of the club's patrons. she always wants to go to all these lesbian clubs. dude, i would go to straight clubs or mixed clubs with her, but she always is all about clubs that terrify me. i need to make some gay male friends or straight friends who i can go out with. i also have to wake up at eight in the morning for work, and am a big fan of the z's, so did not feel like spending all night at some dyke bar.


i talked to becky on the phone today. and she was like, so what have you been up to? i tried to tell her, but everything i said, she was like, "oh yeah, i heard that." (which i think reads: yeah, i read your diary.) and that made me sort of uncomfortable that i had no new news for becky. that she knew everything i tried to tell her and the last time i had personally talked to her was about a month ago.


after deciding not to go out with sarah, i thought that i'd go to power video and rent a movie. i spent like half an hour getting dressed, trying on like a gazillion different things, hoping (and making myself believe) that there would be a cute, surly boy (or boys) working tonight that i would talk to. so, i should wear something fun and somewhat hip looking. (read: not pajamas) i then decided that i really wanted to see julien, donkey-boy, after reading dogme 95's manifesto last night. i was real excited by reading dogme 95 - it gave me lots of ideas for my own artistic manifesto, which is slowly coming along. and i saw that one dogme 95 film was julien, donkey boy. that film out of the others stuck out in my mind because i had heard people mention it before.

so i go to power all ready to rent the movie and to talk to some cute video boy. first of all, no cute boys. rick dugan is working. a hick from west potomac's class of '00, that i have known since elementary school. so so disappointing. hick boy, where are the cute surly boys with black hair? i wandered around the store looking for the video, could not find it, asked rick fucking dugan about it. and he said that they did not have it. fuck. fucking fuckity shit.

power, you are going downhill, where are all the cute boys with peircings that worked there when i was in high school? where is the fucking video i want? some fucking bullshit is what this is. i drove to video vault, which seriously has every movie ever, and they didn't fucking have it either. i was so sad for some reason. a combination of loneliness, stir-craziness, boredom, frustration at laziness, and the fact that neither video store had the video. and i seriously wanted to cry. i drove home, mopey as hell, and watched the virgin suicides on showtime, which was fairly good, and had josh hartnett doing his best to look like jordan catilano. i really want to watch "my so-called life," oh how i loved that show. anyways, the movie put me in a much better mood. but still felt lonely, especially during the josh hartnett scenes, oh i really do need to start going out so i can meet some boy to hang out with and hopefully smooch. but more importantly, hug. i really just want to hold on to someone tight, and for them to hold me tight. and god, i just really want a big hug right now.

oh- next friday, forty days and forty nights opens, the new josh hartnett movie that looks sooo good. another opening weekend viewing of a teen movie is in my future, says the mystical esmerelda.

Friday, February 22, 2002


today i dreamed of teaching English in Japan
it sounds like a hip place

my desires to constantly move here and there, japan, wisconsin, ny, fl, etc. are perhaps emerging out of my desire for friends. maybe also for a boyfriend. i think to myself that new city=circle of friends. but i delude myself, i know i'd be just as socially awkward and lonely wherever i went

. and tracy chapman, i can still hear you singing it: "why when there's so many of us, are there people still alone?"

and why are there, tracy? particularly me - why am i still alone?

porn porn random shot of noodles boiling porn porn porn person walking dog porn porn person waiting in line at wal-mart porn porn porn

we're not out to erect monuments, stones, statues, or any other such vainglorious bullshit - we're concerned with the erection of cocks and nipples. the here and now.

thiNGs that I WOulD ReALLY, REALly LiKE To DO:
-learn how to surf
-dip my toes in the motherfucking pacific
-learn how to play the guitar
-go skiing
-play putt putt golf drunk with someone
-to still be living at my old house in Florida

are you an american?

this is going to be breif and rapidly written cause i need to go to power video before they close.

today at work, a woman remembered me asking her about metro card sleeves, after seeing hers, and she brought me one. that made my day.

i talked to kathy forever - the coolest fifty year old i know. she was working today, and that made me so excited, because we always had so much fun talking over the summer. salome, who used to work there, is now in china getting paid to be a lounge singer. that seems so wild and makes me really want to spread my wings beyond dc.

this silly old, spanish european man asked me i was an american. he then asked me if i was in the army, because of my close-cropped hair not jokingly. i think maybe having close-cropped hair makes look like more a latino or something, i don't know.

rebecca came to visit me. that made me smile for a while. silly rhymes, whoo!

i left a message for sarah to call me so we could hang out tonight, and of course, she never called me back, and so now it is ten thirty and i feel like i can't call her because i will wake up her parents. and god, this is so silly, now i am stuck at home, bored silly, and about to make a trip to the video store. i really need to make some more friends or leave virginia.

i got off work at 9, got to huntington and my car at 9:40, and sat in my car for twenty minutes because i am the cheapest person i know. after ten, you don't have to pay for parking. and the parking fee is $2.25. dude, i can sit and wait in my car for twenty minutes and save 2.25. but, i wasn't the only cheapskate, there were about ten other nice cars with businessy people driving them, waiting so they wouldn't have to pay. while waiting, i ate the box of sushi that i stole from work and listened to mixed 107.3, which played bryan adams' "heaven," which for some reason sounded so so good. i think i might dowload it later tonight. i mean, it's not like i have much else to do.

two sad things

first, talking to rebecca on im, i find out that she is leaving next friday for about three weeks to go on some taco bell tour of truth all around the country, which good for her and all, but i will be so sad and lonely without rebecca. and she's like, what, didn't i tell you about this? um, no you didn't rebecca. and then after that she will be back in va for about a week before she jaunts off to live on a farm, another thing she just told me about. and part of the reason, i got a job at yes, was because i thought it'd be cool to work in eastern market, cause that's where rebecca works. dude, now i don't want to stay in virginia at all. i think i might go crazy without rebecca. gary will seriously kill me if i leave yes now after he rearranged the schedule and was real nice and hired me again. but, i just emailed someone who is looking for kids to work in panama city for the spring break crowd, and i'm going to look for other things to do to, i guess. this is so upsetting.

second sad thing: appearantly ponyluv is killing off her diary because of some dickhead guestbook stalker, and that made me really sad after talking to rebecca and going to ponyluv's site and seeing: "the end."

i really need to find a hobby to occupy my free time

today, i shaved my head with the clippers. i was planning on taking a shower right after, and so was naked in the bathroom, listening to the cure, and buzzing hair off the top of my head. when i was done buzzing my head, i for some reason buzzed a bit of my pubes. and, i don't know why i thought it would be fun now, but at the time i thought it would be sort of fun to shave my pubic hair. and so, i did. and then i thought it would be fun to take pictures of the sink full of floating hair, and to maybe take some kiddie porn type pics in my wood-paneled basement. so, i run and grab my camera and of course, i have no color film. so, i try loading a black and white roll, and realize that my motherfucking camera is for some reason not working. the shutter release and the film advance were not working, and so the film would not load. and the battery wasn't dead. so, i might have to take it to get it fixed, which i ain't so happy about.

i then thought that i might as well go for the total hairless thing. and started shaving my legs. it took so fucking long, but i felt like i had to shave them once i shaved a bit of them. i really wished i would never have started, because it seriously took like over an hour. oh, and i shaved my armpits too. and don't ask me why i did this. there really was no reason at all, and no i am sort of regretting it because i am itching everywhere that i shaved. it feels sort of cool to stick my hand down my pants and feel skin where there used to be hair, but other than that, this has been totally not worth it, especially since my camera is broken and i can't even take the kiddie porn pics.

and then after that whole dealy, i went to the newstand/porn store that is far less scary than going into the actual huge porn store, mvc, which is like the wal-mart of porn stores. this newstand is a lot tinier, and has far less moments of trying not to make eye contact with the other pervs. and all the gay porn looked like crap, so i got a copy of my favorite porn mag, which i haven't read since like high school. hustler is everything a porn mag should be. and it has a cool political slant, which is also pretty rad. why is there no gay equivalent of hustler? why are gay porn mags so not hot? and then, i thought that if i ever come into a bundle of money, i want to publish a real good and sleazy gay porn mag. cho yesterday asked me if i had any dreams. i said no, and babbled some bullshit about trying not to think linearlly and living in the moment, but i think i can now say that i have a dream.

i bought some dishwashing detergent at the wal-mart. the star that is between the wal and the mart on the light up sign on the front of the store was not lit. the bulb must have burnt out. it seemed sort of sad that the star was burnt out. why can't the wal and the mart burn out, and just leave a bright shining star up there?

and the rest of my night was just as uneventful. recapitulation is so not utilitarian. cut and paste is the way to go:

eleuthura [rebecca]: mmm....charlie, i'm so bored...are you bored out of your mind right now??
Indigopig [me, duh]: why are you so bored
Indigopig: i was real bored earlier, and so hoping that my friend sarah would call me back so i could escaper my house
Indigopig: but no, i've resigned myself to a night of doing nothing
Indigopig: i might go jogging in a while, but i always feel weird about jogging real late at night here
eleuthura: yeah, i was having a real fun night, but i knew i was gonna be sooo bored when everyone whnt to sleep...and i tried to call kim and maggie etc to see what they were up to and to go over there, but they didn't answer either of maggie's phones, so now i'm bored
eleuthura: yeah i was thinking of waking up early and going jogging
eleuthura: my sister and i went rollar blading from about 10 to 11 and it was sooo fun!!
Indigopig: thats cool, i for some dumb reason put my rolllerblades on the free table last year
Indigopig: and i really wanted them now, cause my mom goes rollerblading all the time
Indigopig: god, rollerblades would be so fun right now, i think i might buy another pair soon
Indigopig: or maybe a skateboard, and i could try to be a skater. key word: try
eleuthura: yeah, i hadn't used my rollar blades in sooo long and it was sooo fun, fer real...yeah dude though, it would be fun to be a skater...i think i'
eleuthura: d
eleuthura: probably get frustrated with it though, because every time i've tried to skate board i've been soooo sooo real bad at it
Indigopig: yeah i pretty much have really sucked too every time i have tried
Indigopig: i look like the little skater groupie girl who trys very badly to ride the skater boy's skateboard
Indigopig: and looks like a dog trying to drive a car or something real silly
eleuthura: yeah, i just look like a fuckin idiot, ya know
Indigopig: yeah, i know

Thursday, February 21, 2002

a thousand some marky marks

work was anything but. they had far too many people working, and so it was stand around, talk with co-workers, and pretend to be straightening merchandise time. cho asked me for the millionth time why i don't have a girlfriend. and for the millionth time, i asked him why he didn't. he came from korea a few years ago, and so his english is lacking, and conversations can have a real surreal aspect to them.

cho: so, are there lots of girls at your umm college?
me: uh, yeah. i guess there are lots.
cho: so, why didn't you have a girlfriend? i don't understand. you are tall and handsome, why didn't you get one.
me: i don't know. and, why don't you have a girlfriend?
cho: huh, i don't know, maaan.

and on and on, all day. me finding cho's views on men and women and girlfriends so so funny, and laughing that he thinks every boy should just have a girlfriend.

han, later in the day asked me if i was a mexican. since he is about sixty, and also just mainly speaks korean, i took no offense to this. normally, i would have kicked some ignorant ass, but han's real cool and we talked for a while. and it sort of made me excited that he thought i was "mexican." i get real exicited when someone thinks of me as "a minority" or whatever, or whenever anyone thinks i'm not white. i know that's real lame to get excited about such a thing, but i do.

and then maggie, rebecca, and KIMMY!!! came to visit me at work. i was so excited to see kim. i love kim so much. she just radiates something that makes me smile whenever i am around her.

then after i got off work, i met up with rebecca and we went to the black cat to see la la le tigre. waiting in line outside the club, me and rebecca getting so so excited. her about the band. me about the crowd. i kept on talking to rebecca, pointing out all the cool indie kids in line around us. me getting real scared of all of them. we were crashing the cool kids party. i felt so out of place. rebecca told me how weird it is that i am so terrified of indie kids yet also so in love with them. and rebecca, so together, said something with a couple of dudes, like, "dude, i usually don't like anyone i'm terrified of; dude, usually i hate them."

and we were there, we somehow infiltrated the party. hip indie kids as far as the eye could see. there were only a couple other non-"hipsters" there - some cute, dreaded hippy boys. we saw bluebird, who graduated last year, and she's so weird and talked forever to us (but really to rebecca, i was just sort of there). kerplunk.

and we had missed the first band, and the second band, wau-wau sisters took the stage. and no one danced, because they were too hip for such things. a few people would self-consciously bob their heads. and this lack of dancing (or movement) also may have been because the band was not the most sonically pleasing. musically they sucked big time. but as performance art, they were pretty fucking rad. and i was sort of expecting the worst, thinking that le tigre would be something similar.

but thank fucking god, they came out, and rocked the place. rocked in the rocking sense of the word. they cranked the volume, making it about 4 times as loud, made it darker, and just rocked. loud music, no matter what it is, makes people dance more. and when it is good dancey rock, with lots of fun beats, and a slighty trippy video show, then people start shaking those limbs. and we all danced and had so much fun. and the band totatlly exceeded my expectations and i was even maybe a little impressed, save for a few lame lyrics like: "the blacks didn't get reparations while we were on vacation." okay, you fucking white broads, singing to an entirely white audience, why don't you fucking quit being such dumbass patronizing motherfuckers. but, i loved you guys anyways - you were real rad music.

and, then i had to leave about halfway through their set, which i was so sad about and totally didn't want to leave, but fucking fuckitty shit, the goddamn metro stops running at twelve for some motherfucking reason. and goddamn, why didn't i drive? rebecca decided to stay and was going to sleep at bluebird's apartment - rebecca tried to convince me to do the same, but as much as i loved dancing to le tigre, and as much as i did not want to have to leave, i even more so did not want to have to stay with the very weird bluebird. for motherfucking sake, i don't even know this kid's real name. what the fuck is bluebird? that sounds like someone's lameass d-land code name, but oh no, this is someone's out loud name, god damn no, i will take the fucking metro, catch you later becks.

and i rode the metro home, feeling real silly with these huge x's on my hands, like a real proud straightedge kid or something. and i didn't want people to see them. i put my hands in my pockets.

Tuesday, February 19, 2002

"excess ain't rebellion"

well, i can again claim to be part of the american workforce. yesterday, i called yes! organic market to see if they would like to rehire me, and gary (the owner) was like, come in tomorrow, and so i did just that. waking up at six this morning to be at work a little before eight, since it takes about an hour to get there with the metro and all. i loved it, though. i heart yes, big time.

riding the metro in the morning is always so fun. i love being in big, annonymous crowds - looking at everyone, wondering where they are going to work, watching them sleep and yawn. waiting at l'enfant to transfer to the blue line, i sat on a bench. yawned. and the yawn is still going. i've been in a yawn since that metro yawn this morning. i was at that point far away from my bed, and so were all the other people around me waiting for the next train. but at that yawn, i snuggled in my jacket, so so wanting to just get back under my covers and snuggle. and i could see that everyone standing there wanted the same thing. i mean even the stuffy congressional staffers secretly yearned to snuggle under some covers, and to wrap their arms around someone, and resist the transition from sleep to awake. a blissful resistance that is perhaps the best feeling in the world. mmm. sleep covers sleep. mmm.

i thought about how wonderful it would be, if we could all just snuggle up together. you could spoon me. and i could tug on the covers, leaving your legs exposed to the world of awakeness. and you would tug back, trying with all your might to stay in slumberland - to keep your body sheltered from the awake world, by making sure that every inch of your body is under the covers. and we could sleep in. hit snooze multiple times and feel like we were little and loved, and that there was nothing at all wrong in the world. it could be so so good, but alas, no gigantic bed with covers to be found on this metro platform. and so we stood there, looking into the distance at the tracks, looking for the lights of the metro. trying to find someplace to direct our eyes - not wanting to make eye contact with one another and see that everyone else wanted to curl up in bed, too. we don't look, but imagine that everyone else is eager to be a busybee and go to work, and that our sleep urges need to be repressed. but, i looked at you and could see that you did want to curl back up in bed. i could see the nostalgia for sleep in your expression. but, you kept your eyes focused down the tracks. maybe next time, i will try to make eye contact. but more likely, maybe not. after all, we gots to get paid.

and the metro arrived, and in about ten minutes, i got off at the eastern market stop, feeling the wonderful comfort of routine. doing what i did just about every day over the summer. and it felt like i was returning home. pennsylvannia avenue looked beautiful in its slight grittiness. i glanced at all the different newspapers from all over sitting in the newspaper machines that circled the entrance/exit to the metro. and, ha, how many times will i read these top halves of newspapers in these same machines? will i ever actually buy one? or just continue to read the top half through the glass? how many times have i done this already? but, it's different everyday. new newspapers daily. the repetition of the act is counteracted by newspaper dudes switiching the newspapers bright and early in the morning before i arrive, so i have something new to look at each morning. they are little elves, toothfairies, and santas working in the middle of the night, while the good kids are asleep, leaving new newspapers under their pillow. and not even taking a tooth for it.

and i crossed penn ave, darting between cars, and seeing for the first time for the millionth time, the imposing dome of the capitol, just a few blocks away. the sun was still on its way up, and the capital was striped with hazy sunlight.

and then i walked into yes, and saw gary, and he was so nice, and i talked to him for a while. clocked in, talked to john, so happy to see even him, who usually i think is a big idiot. made my way to the front of the store, saw cho, and he gave me a big hug, and i was so glad he was still working there. we always joke with each other and make fun of each other, and he's so fun to work with. seeing many of the same customers who came in every day. i probably should have called yes right away after getting home, but i knew that gary would need me to work, and i think i was secretly resisting having to work, and had postponed calling them.

after work, i went out to springfield to get some labwork done at the doctor's. i had not eaten all day because i wasn't supposed to eat for twelve hours before i got the blood taken. i came home and no joke passed out in bed. woke up at eight something, still feeling tired and crappy. my body is so not used to actually working and waking up early. tomorrow i work from 2-9, and then straight from there, i am going to the le tigre show with rebecca. she really wanted to go, and i was like, sounds fun. so, hopefully it will be, and sadly i have never heard one le tigre song, and didn't cake say something about this:

"Now tickets to concerts and drinking at clubs, / Sometimes for music that you haven't even heard of. / And how much did you pay for your rock'n'roll t-shirt / That proves you were there, / That you heard of them first? / How do you afford your rock'n'roll lifestyle?"

Sunday, February 17, 2002

it may not be the bullseye

i meant to write about this last night, but forgot to - the britney movie sucked big, fat cock. and that's what was so sick about the movie - that not only did it suck such big, fat cock, but it did it so shamelessly. britney and co. strutted their wares and whored themselves to an audience looking to get off to images of hot teen girls. the sexualness of it was so out of place at times. and, britney wasn't just sucking the cocks of straight guys, she was sucking the cocks of gay guys (myself), and also the cocks of all the young teenage girls. they have secret cocks that they enjoy getting sucked by britney - getting off to the sight of her in her underwear. why was she so often in her underwear? i didn't get it. and also getting off to the sight of her exposed, tight tummy that me and all the young teenage girls, dreamed of jizzing all over. we gangbanged britney. the mass of us.

that is why i had such a good time at this movie, even though i am well aware of its crappiness. it was this group energy that the theater had, that i had meant to mention last night. if i had seen this movie on video, i would have Hated it. but seeing it on the big screen during opening weekend, allowed it to be what could be classified as a fun experience. seeing any teen movie opening weekend is always a wonderful experience. it is exactly like attending a high school assembly and that is what makes it so much fun. the subversive chaos of an audience full of teens. someone in the audience will invariably aww! really loud at all the cheesy parts of the movie. people will clap during songs. there are disruptive people all around looking for attention. and, the assistant principal is talking about something or other, senior dues maybe and caps and gowns, and we are in the auditorium, hoping that someone throws the first rock. it is never us. we just laugh giddily with excitment that someone else was brave enough to do it and is pointing a laser pointer at her, or someone is making loud noises. and we love it, because none of us take assistant prinicpal spears that seriously. we deflate her with our own laughter and antics. and this is why seeing teen movies in the theater is such an awesome experience.


and that is how it all works. you shoot, but you never ever ever miss. don't listen to that bullshit about: eh, you shoot and miss. that's a lie. when you shoot, you are always going to hit something. bullets and arrows don't just disappear into thin air - they motherfucking hit something. it may not be the bullseye or even the target, but it is still something that will be hit.


i have a new favorite writer. about a month agao, i read a really edgy story in the washington post style section lampooning gay life. i looked at the byline and saw it was written by hank stuever. then i read a really good article about k-mart culture versus that of wal-mart and target. it was so well-written, and i saw this kid's name again. whenever i see an article written by him, i always read it, because it always turns out to be so so wonderful. today, there was an article about figure skating culture that just blew me away with some of the sentances. here's the link for the story. and what follows is a brief section of the article to let you see how kick-ass a writer this guy is.

It's not truly a Winter Olympics until the world is riveted by the tragedies of the sport no one claims to like and so many people clearly love. Up in the Wasatch Mountains, where manly men and blond goddesses measure themselves against nature and the digital clock, and not against the subjective sniffings of a Dalmatian-coated Cruella, there is exasperation and fascination: "It had to be figure skating," harrumphs a man carrying his skis off a shuttle bus in Park City on Tuesday afternoon, as the flap over the pairs skating results the night before was just gaining momentum. "It's always figure skating that everyone winds up all upset about."

"Buncha wussies," says his friend, also ready to hit the slopes.

Which is, Freudlike, to scratch one's chin and think, hmmmmmmm, wussies. A hack psychological workup makes you think that perhaps figure skating really is gay after all, in a metaphorical sense. It is the misidentified "other" of the Olympiad, the thing so different and fey that it unsettles the mainstream.

This theory is hardly about the gay men among its male competitors, who set off even the low-wattage gaydar of Middle America and then reject all questions of their sexual orientation as being beside the point. To watch the hierarchy of figure skating react and shift uncomfortably this week in Salt Lake is to sense a familiar repression. Figure skating is in the closet about its true feelings and identity, and thus acts out with kneecappings and backstage deceit.

It behaves like a classic closet case in that it is not what it says it is (sport or theater? Both?), and in its desire to be all things (glamorous yet restrained, not too this, and never too that), it takes on a manic desperation to please.

In its utter shyness and fear of failure, it opts for the artifice of showmanship (jazz hands, and those sappily dramatic stares toward the ceiling) and thunderous arenas in which to display its neuroses. Figure skating is a child in tights and tutu set loose on the bully playground of the Olympics, and so it almost always takes a harsh drubbing.

Saturday, February 16, 2002

become one with the schnapps

this we chanted to each other, trying to motivate ourselves to down the sugary shit. become one with the shit. sarah and i were sitting in a strip mall's parking lot in her car, doing what all hip suburban high school students have probably done. drinking alcohol in a car in a parking lot. parents et all forcing us into drinking in cars. is this what you meant gary neuman? and sarah and i, connected ourselves to everyone else that has ever drank in a parking lot. to you and you and you. you are connected to me connected to sarah connected to you.

when you did it, did you listen to adult contemporary stations, too, like us? we sat there, cheering on the other at 12:30ish to drink more of the schnapps - to become one with it, and also to become one with our notion of american youth. drinking from some weird peach schnapps drink that i had stolen only minutes earlier from a twenty-four hour shoppers food warehouse. we went there so sarah could look at hair dye, killing time until vince got off work at blockbuster. we wandered through the wine section and i saw this peach schanpps drink and i got very excited. this is not the good stuff. this is a grocery store - not a liquor store. the stuff was 7.5% alcohol. i was thinking of yanking a nice bottle of cabernet, but was so enthralled with this bottle of schnapps, that i somehow managed to fit this huge bottle into my coat pocket.

and after the first few drinks from the bottle, the sweetness of it became unbearable. it was like drinking cough syrup or something. sarah said it tasted like eating pure sugar on a stick of butter. the analogy sort of grossed me out, but the accuracy of it cannot be denied. the stuff tasted like s-h-i-t. shit. maybe even Shit. we could not go back into the 24 hour shoppers because that would just look sketchy, so we waited in the parking lot outside blockbuster, chugging the gross shit, singing to the radio, and talking about how we felt like our teeth were going to fall out.

also talking about crossroads, the horrible, horrible britney spears movie that we saw just a couple hours earlier. the movie was just ridiculous, but i am still glad i saw it. i can say i was there, when american popular culture was at its nadir - i witnessed the thing know as britney. can i get that printed on a t-shirt? one of those "i survived the..." type t-shirts.

making fun of the movie between forced chugs of the yuckiness. we went to the diner eventually, sans vince, because he had to comfort lisa who was crying about something or other. oh and ps - we did not even get the slight bit tipsy from that gross schnapps - all we got was probably a couple of cavities, and a yucky feeling in our stomach, like we had just eaten a whole birthday cake - the kind with lots and lots of thick frosting - the sheet type cakes.

we got to the diner, which ps - is out in the boonies, it is out by landmark, far far away from any place i would ever expect to see anyone. but this is where sarah and her friends always hang out, so we went there, and as we are walking up to the door, sarah says, "is that ty?" my heart stops and i glance into the window of the barnside diner, and realize that yes, oh fucking shit, that is ty robinson. i hate this boy with a passion. we stand at the door, wavering about going in. i am trying my hardest to convince sarah that we shouldn't eat there - that i do not want to have to talk to ty at all. please please please, let's just go eat somewhere else. sarah really wanted to eat there, and thought i was being silly in my reaction to ty's presence at this diner.

i don't even know how to explain ty. i don't know if i should even try, because the explanation will never be good enough, he is just someone that has to be experienced to understand the full breadth of his assholeness. in high school, he was one of "the cool kids," and i was briefly good friends with him for a couple months in eleventh grade for some strange reason. i was so enamored with his "coolness," that i failed to see for a good while the whole extent of his dickheadness. he is such the pretty boy. he is your really evil, pretentious, much hotter than thou type gay boy that just does not have the time for the likes of you. except he's not gay - or at least he says so - but we all know. you do too. and well, i let him know my annoyance with his attitudes and behavior many a time, and needless to say, we stopped being friends. but we are still cordial. and so, i was dreading having to interact with ty, just wanting to eat at a denny's or something, but i think sarah wanted to see me squiggle around in a forced conversation with the monster known as ty. we are still peeking through the window - me being very chicken about going in. i am trying to figure out who is sitting on the other side of the booth from him. they don't look like anyone i know, but all we can see is the back of their heads. okay, we are being big time silly peeking through the window, but whatever.

and hey, did you see that really dramatic hand gesture that that girl just did? that sort of looks like something that she would do ... is it? wait, i can't tell. and we are peeking through the window trying to determine if the girl is mary miller, one of my really good friends from high school - one of the people that sarah hated throughout high school. ha, it is her! it is! and upon my confirmation of this girl's identity, sarah screamed and suddenly the tables were turned. she did not want to go in this diner at all. for some reason, we ran with our jackets over our heads, from the front door, to sarah's car. me really fearing encountering ty, and sarah really fearing encountering mary. fearing our good-looking selves, that would invariably size us up when we went in to the diner, and give us one of those oh-look-at-you type looks which really mean oh-look-at-your-ugly-self. and yeah, this is all really silly, but hey these are people from high school, which was a very silly place. sarah and i primp ourselves, staring at our reflection on the side of her car. sarah really does not want to have to talk to mary, but now i really want to go in to talk to mary and find out why she is not in school in austin.

we collect ourselves, and walk towards the diner. mary is up at the front paying for her check. i walk inside, stand next to her, and push her to the side, trying to seem like some rude customer. she's about to comment on my rudeness, when she recognizes me, and screams, and gives me huge hugs, and is her normally dramatic self. people in the diner look at all the commotion. and she is just as surprised to see me in this out of the way diner as i am to see her. mary is maryiln monroe, and she, even more so than ty, just has to be experienced. she seriously wants to be marilyn monroe - has hair that is blonder than blonde, talks in an affected tone, saying dahling all the time, and making extravagent motions with her hands, like the world's biggest fag. she made her prom dress - and it was the dress from diamonds are a girl's bestfriend, and it was the silliest thing ever, but she thought it was great, i thought it was great in a funny way, and people that weren't our friends thought it was rude and o.o.c. and yeah, you probably don't care what some mary miller in northern virginia wore to the west potomac high school prom in may 1999 - but if that's the case, then don't fucking read my diary, because i saw someone that i haven't seen in so long from high school, and it brought up vivid memories of high school, and so i am going to talk about them. fuck off.

we talk for a while, and i see sarah looking as uncomfortable as uncomfortable can be. mary in her drama queen way says that she had to leave school for a couple of weeks because her boyfriend tried to kill her. long story, she says, in an i'm-a-fucking-movie-star type way.

ty and mary's new boyfriend came to the front to leave. and i had to talk to ty, and oh it was such forced politeness on both of our parts, asking what each has been up to, and neither of us fucking cared. ty sized me up, and said i looked taller. i really have grown since high school, since now i am probably two inches taller than ty, and before ty used to be slightly taller. i wanted to say you looked short, but didn't, i held my tongue. mary and i exchanged numbers. hers being (703) 867-1268, and i am writing this here because i know i'm going to lose that little scrap of paper that she wrote it on. she said sincerely, with no hint of irony, "really, we must get together soon, dahling," as she held my hand like your grandmother probably holds yours, or probably how she used to hold it when you were littler.

sarah and i breathed a sigh of relief when they exited, sat down in a booth, and trash-talked the respective pretty person of our sex.

Friday, February 15, 2002

cupid called in sick, okay?

Because I am excessive with some things, I consumed four shots of espresso at about eight o’clock tonight. I dug out our espresso maker out of the basement. It is one of the numerous kitchen appliances that my mom bought, probably actually believing that she was going to use it, but which now sits in our basement. Our storage room is a museum exhibition of various doo-hickeys that were all the rage once, amongst suburban moms, looking for some creative outlet in the late-nineties. Bread machine, funky toaster, ice cream maker, food processor, and the aforementioned espresso machine.

And well, anyways, because of my little archeological expedition into a suburban basement, I am now not tired at all - hyped up from downing espresso shots like water. But, caffeine does not keep me awake as my normal self. It keeps me awake as the anxious, unable to concentrate Charlie. This is a great effort – to write this – since I am off and away in a place called ZombieLand. Alternating between fits of itchiness - scratching my scalp, the spot right behind my armpit, and my belt line – and fits of near shivering, feeling so so cold, and being unable to decide if this is caused by my hyper self-awareness brought on by the caffeine or rather because it is in actuality, fucking cold as a polar bear’s testes. I thought about going jogging tonight, but quickly dra-dra-dropped that plan like it was hot. Yeah Lil’ Wayne – your one and only contribution to the American idiom. Dra-dra-drop it like’s it’s hot. And okay, Lil’ Wayne – I followed your advice and did just that. Feeling the way too cold air – the feeling of stepping into Hell – of pain and harshness and no sympathy quickly prick every exposed area of your skin, and air that punches even the areas that are bundled up, trying its best to seep its cold wickedness through the weak fabrics. I guess it’s good that nature can still prevail against man every now and then. That layers and layers are still not enough to defeat the cold air. Nature wins this battle. And, being the nature-loving boy that I am, I was fine with its victory, and turned up the heat before settling myself onto to the couch to watch some good old television.

My hot date, the television. Who else would I want for my Valentine? Okay, maybe Marky Mark. But other than that, who besides Television would I rather spend Valentine’s Day with? Okay, maybe Shane Riley, and maybe Jimmy Fallon, and maybe Drew Geer too – okay, maybe there are countless boys I could list that I would rather be with, but that is not to say anything against my date. He was as charming and courteous as could be. I was possibly maybe supposed to go to this indie club to a rock and roll dance party with Rebecca, but when the phone rang and I saw “Wood, Fred” appear on the caller ID, I decided not to pick up the phone. Lately, I have not desired anyone’s company. I am not depressed, at least I don’t think so, but psychologists always know best right (yeah, okay Nora, ha!). I am the happiest boy in the world doing things by myself, reading, writing, masturbating, driving around, and occasionally I feel like doing something with someone, but tonight was not one of those nights. Tonight, I was looking forward to just sitting around in my socks, reading bits and pieces of Infinite Jest, loosely outlining my artistic manifesto, and just being chill inside away from all things that are truly chill(y).

PBS is the best. I watched this really awesome, old documentary about Bob Marley tonight that I loved sooo much. I kept on being like yeah! right on, Bob, at so many parts, and kept on getting so excited about the spiritual properties of music, and the political potential of art. I kept on scribbling notes and ideas in my notebook, to be incorporated into my as of now incubating artistic manifesto. I am getting real excited about writing this – I’m real glad I decided to give myself a project. Projects give me great pleasure. Anyways, I got real into this documentary, and by the ending, when they showed his funeral, I was so wrapped up in his life and music, that when I heard “Redemption Song,” I started crying. The song is so beautiful and makes me want to cry anyways, but played over footage of his funeral, I could not help myself. And, the song was my redemption song – his lyrics were my own – and it felt so wonderful to feel this feeling of co-authorship. I have not felt it in so long – not since early high school, probably – the ability to relate so strongly with a piece of music. Chills right through me, and us apparently. Nothing else seems to matter. You croon and that is it. You speak for the two of us. We are a “we.” And that is what feels so good about it. My tears were not of happiness, but nor were they of sadness – the tears were the only method my body knew how to deal with the jumble of emotions – the only way to synthesize them all into something classifiable. A little drop of water is the synthesized product.

After that was over, I watched the end of Eve Ensler’s performance of “Vagina Monologues,” on HBO. I sort of really hated it. I’ve always secretly hated “VM,” but did not think this was okay until two years ago when I read Camille Paglia’s rant about how much she hates “VM.” And, then I thought it was okay to also hate it, if one of my favorite people also did. God, I want to kick Ensler in the fucking head, she’s so obnoxious and so everything I hate about theater and art. I’m not going to go into a rant about Ensler right now, because I’m not in the mood. I just want to state how annoyed I was that I did not just savor the enjoyment from the Marley documentary, rather than to be greedy and look for something else good on my date after it was over. You gave me a box of chocolates - now, I want another box. Gimmie.


Oh, today I had a job interview to work at Dale Photo, an independently owned film store, and it went real well, and I think I will probably be working there. I am going to find out for sure on Saturday, after she calls my references. And I am also trying to work at Borders. But, I do not seem to have the best of luck, so we (as with everything) shall see how that goes. That is the only way one can deal with anything in the future – I mean, that is, until they finally get all the kinks worked out of those time machines.

Thursday, February 14, 2002

on the up and up

And he entered the air. That was it. It was all a lot simpler than he had thought it would be. No spaceships. No rocket-booster packs or even superhuman powers. He just entered it. That was it. He laughed at his now seemingly ridiculous expectations that he had about it all – the kind of laugh he did when after spending a good ten minutes tearing apart the house looking for his car keys, cursing every motherfucking piece of furniture that always ran into him (and yes, I do mean ran into him, he did not and has never in his life run into a piece of furniture - coffee tables run into him) - swearing that someone must have hidden the keys, about to resign himself to being car-less, only to find them sitting right there on the kitchen counter where he always sets them, and where he had checked at least a good twelve times already. But, the thirteenth time is the charm, I guess. And, it was that type of laugh, the duh!-why-didn’t-I-see-the-motherfucking-keys-sitting-there type laugh, that he made when he realized the almost transparent simplicity of it all. He was a rocket man. Not a slightly overweight, decadent gay piano man – but, a motherfucking real live rocketman. Vague memories of elementary school teachers trying to let him in on the secret years ago. They kept on repeating all the time what he thought to be bullshit little affirmations intended to keep the lot of them down – to keep them from realizing the absurd futility of their situation - the fact that they would all grow up to work shit jobs for some shit of a person. And, so yeah, he was also a pessimist for a good period of time. How does a child become a pessimist though? It was not a matter of becoming. They just were, and still are. They’re naughty, violent, fucked-up little shits to begin with and dumb people always talk about their corruption. Fuck that shit, they are corrupt from the get-go – life is spent correcting and suppressing their corrupt nature.

And, maybe it was now, at the moment that he realized the utter joy of it all, that he had fully suppressed his corrupt nature. That he retreated from his earlier view that those elementary school teachers – the obviously closeted gay males and the always somewhat plump females attired in holiday sweaters and floor-length skirts – that maybe, they were not simply trying to mystify children into becoming a work force – a happy and docile proletariat. That these teachers actually knew what the fuck they were talking about. Those under appreciated, seemingly clueless people had it figured out all along way before our male protagonist. God, why the fuck can’t I take advice when it’s offered, he thought to himself, regretting that it had taken him so long to realize it. Wondering just how much further along he’d be mentally and spiritually, if only he could quit being such a dickhead and motherfucking quit being so goddamn reactionary to everyfuckingthing. He let their mantras again enter his consciousness, this time with an open mind towards their message(s). You can do anything you set your mind to. And countless other affirmations extolling the powers of one’s imagination – they all came back to him. He heard them all for the first time. His imagination was his only limits. He wanted to cry with happiness at this knowledge. The moisture came to his eyes and they even watered, but no teardrops fell, so technically, I guess we can not really refer to it as crying. But, you know the feeling: it was the a-ha type times a hundred. A fucking goddamn yes! - I see it! – I see how it all motherfucking works! And yet, if you were asked to explain it or to verbalize your feeling of near enlightenment – the feeling would be lost, or at least tempered by the embarrassment at your lack of verbosity. But whatever – this is the type of feeling where you know everything is, and is always going to be all right – and it’s not a feeling easily translatable into the narrow medium of language. These are feelings infinite, which overflow the definitely finite boundaries of language. And he, too, knew this.

For this reason, and also because he was too caught up in the moment to give a shit about such things, he did not try to verbalize his feelings. Rather, he just savored his flight. Closing his eyes, feeling the wind grace his skin with its touch, floating past Mars, waving at cosmonauts in passing spaceships, dodging the occasional asteroid, and finally getting it.

Wednesday, February 13, 2002

if it feels good...

i quit my job today. i can do that. i can do whatever the fuck i want. whose life is this? shut-up, you structuralist bitch - this is my fucking life. and i can do whatever i please - can go wherever the wind takes me. and okay, so right now, the wind is taking me nowhere other than my couch. i am jobless. and you know what else? that is okay. i am sort of getting into telling myself postivie affirmations lately, and so, everyone together now (and out loud too): Everything is going to be okay. okay, let's try that one more time for those of you who didn't read aloud the first time through - it really does feel good to say it out loud: Everything is going to be okay. We're going to be all right. doesn't it feel good? also, start talking in a proverbial "we" all the time. emphasize our common humanity - the bonds of brotherhood - and we're going to make it. we will not do things that we do not want to do - like serve espresso drinks in chain bookstores in suburban strip malls. we will do things which we enjoy. they will find us. we have no need to worry. Everything is going to be a-okay. we will come out on top.


last night, at ruby tuesday, over the in-store radio, they played eva cassidy's cover of "fields of gold," from the live at blues alley album, which i listened to all the motherfucking time for a good three months after i got it. and i heard the opening piano keys and i recognized the song and freaked out, wondering why the hell they were playing eva cassidy at ruby tuesday's, but still excited beyond belief. sarah did not know who eva cassidy was, only heard the smooth jazz sound of it, and thought my music tastes were shit.


i talked to bonnie on im tonight, and i wished i was still in sarasota so that mark could have made me a sno-cone last weekend. i would have cherished it like it was the handkerchief of a princess and i were a knight or something. unable to decide whether to consume the sno-cone, getting off on each bite of sno-cone as it went down my throat, or rather, to let it sit in my hand and just hold it, watching it slowly melt down my hands, making them gunky and sticky.

ilovetempeh: i can't believe you like alanis still
ilovetempeh: you are such a super dork
Indigopig: bonnie, YOU are a super dork for not liking alanis
Indigopig: any marky mark sightings
ilovetempeh: yeah i saw him a lot during parents weekend
ilovetempeh: apparnelty all the people who work in student affairs had to help out
Indigopig: was he with his parents
ilovetempeh: so he was making sno cones at the concert
ilovetempeh: no his parents weren't there
Indigopig: are you kidding?
ilovetempeh: and he was helping set up new college day
ilovetempeh: i'm not kidding
Indigopig: did he make you one
ilovetempeh: yes, cherry flavored
Indigopig: that is the cutest thing ever, i could so picture him serving sno cones
ilovetempeh: and he danced a little to paul cebar
Indigopig: i want him to make me a sno cone


i started reading infinite jest today. i had bought it in high school, but never actually read it, and so now that i am not in school and can do whatever the fuck i want, i am reading books that i've always meant to get around to reading. on page 23, i came across the line, "She had an artisitic manifesto that involved radical feminist themes." i want "an artistic manifesto." shouldn't everyone have one? in the next few days, i am going to start hashing out my very own artistic manifesto, outlining my beliefs about art and what i'd like to do with it. i just think it'd be a real fun thing to do.


tomorrow (because i feel like it, mind you), i am going to hit the streets and find me a motherfucking job - one which, when i have to go to, i will not feel like shooting myself in the head. everything's going to be all right. just say it. it's good to remind ourselves sometimes. scratch that. all the time.

and i all really want is ____________. (fill in the blank! for real! what do you want? ask yourself.

i usually listen to music while i am on the computer and writing these silly diary entries. right now i am listening to alanis' jagged little pill, and shut the fuck up bonnie, i really dig this album. but, i love it a little too much to be trying to do anything else while listening to it - like writing an entry. i keep singing along and cranking it, and yelling, and fuck yeah. but, i feel like my writing is being shaped by alanis' wails. this is always the case - that my writing reflects what i'm listening to when i write these. usually i listen to sade or gillian welch or tom petty and it works out pretty well, but i feel like alanis is not working so well, but whatever, i'm going to keep listening to this album.

and yes, that may seem like a real lame opening - like why the fuck don't i just start writing already, right? but, i sat here with this empty box on my screen for a good ten minutes listening to "all i really want" a couple of times.

okay, so to the subject of my day today: i don't want to dissect everything today / i don't mean to pick you apart, you say / but i can't help it / and there i go jumping before the gunshot has gone off

okay, that's the fucking end of this. i'm going to change the album and start all over, i obviously cannot multi-task.

Tuesday, February 12, 2002

how to be indie in ten easy steps

why do i ever bother to make plans? to make schedules for my day? to plan on actually leaving the house? to think that i actually might not sleep away the whole day? last night, i set my alarm for nine, with plans to get up early and go job hunting so i wouldn't have to go to work at barnes and nobles on tuesday. well, i did not wake up until one something, played around online, read the paper, and masturbated for way too fucking long. i took a shower and got dressed to go job hunting and next thing i know it is four-fucking-thirty. fucking shit!well, it is too late to go into dc and seriously expect to get a job. it will be well after five, by the time i start looking for jobs. god, why am i such an unrepentant slacker?

i lie on the couch, resign myself to the fact that i am destined to be a barista, hawking espresso drinks to people whose throats i dream of slashing. yeah yeah and the blood will pour. it will seep across the cafe floor. i will hop onto the counter. jump down on your now dead body, and spike your froo-froo cafe mocha with soymilk on your fucking lame ass. and surely, the brown drink and the blood will form an interesting color combination.

god damn motherfucking shit. that is how much i do not want to work at barnes and motherfucking nobles. i talked to niki today, and she refered to it as "the intellectual wal-mart." and man, i wish i would have thought of that. i called borders to see if maybe i could work there, but the hiring dude was not there. i'm supposed to be at work at ten tomorrow, and i am for real (this is no lie) going to wake up at 7, and call yes! organic market, hoping that they will hire me again, so that i can call into barnes and nobles and tell them to shove their cafe americano up their corporate americano ass.

i hung out with sarah tonight at ruby tuesday. i thought it would be really funny to dress up like a hipster. and so, i wore thick-framed glasses, old pumas, a tight, frattered rugby shirt, some fun pants, and a tight, orange winter hat. when i saw sarah, i told her that i was playing dress-up, and trying to look like "a little emo hipster." sarah is not bonnie, and did not understand what this meant or why this would be funny. i tried explaining it to her, and she nodded and said okay, but i know that she didn't know what the fuck i was talking about. i need bonnie here, so that we can talk about "being indie" and about "hipsters," and know that we know better. but, yet still be drawn to and maybe a little obsessed with the indie kids. and exclaim how cool they are, to our non-hipster selves.

we then went to tower records so that sarah could say hi to her friends, john and beth. while she was saying hi, i wandered around the store, listening to the listening booths, and snagged a jack johnson album, which i am listening to right now and motherfucking love! oh god, is it good stuff. we left the store, and in the car, sarah told me that john had asked her who her emo friend was? i told sarah to shut-up, and asked her if she was lying. she sincerely said no. and i made her repeat what he said. and he asked who her emo friend was!!! and motherfucking yeah!!! for some reason, this made me happier than anything in the world. i am someone's emo friend!!! ha, that fucking rocks!

Monday, February 11, 2002

our existence is colored by the orangish glow of streetlights, among other things

a wet street is a beautiful thing. but what the fuck does that mean? what does it mean to throw around words like beautiful and love and life and gorgeous? i mean, what about it is beautiful? what type of love do i have for wet streets? these are some of my favorite words to use, and i am beginning to question my frequent usage of these words. is it an accurate usage? does it mean anything? it means something specific to me, but surely, you must have your own associations and meanings tied to these lollipop words. a wet street is a beautiful thing. it is true. but, it is also a little too easy to say that something is beautiful - evoking all of the baggage and emotions affixed to these words (beautiful and love). love. love. beautiful. say the words out loud. love. i mean, these are words with an incantatory power. you associate crushes, kisses, and everything wonderful with these words. wonderful is another such word that forces you to recall butterflies-in-stomach type moments. the things that we try to describe using these words are the things that make us swoon. the words are broad catch-alls for all things which produce a manic feeling in us. and that's why they are too easy to use - because they don't really mean anything specific; they are just a bone thrown to the reader - words that pacify our mood - that make us feel good about ourselves. but, the usage of these words is also an admittance that these things which we attempt to describe with said words are indescribable, and so we resign ourselves to words like "beautiful" and "love," knowing that language is definitly limited in its capacities. some things and feelings are not translatable into the medium of words, and so, i say things like: a wet street is a beautiful thing. knowing that that means nothing specific, other than the fact that the sight of a wet street is something that gives me a high of sorts, and i will foolishy try to verbalize it, and call it beautiful. but, what else can i do?

a wet street is a beautiful thing. i went for a jog tonight at about eleven o'clock. desolate streets, no one around to make me feel self-conscious about my jogging. no passing cars which i am convinced are always watching me jog. today was a moist cloudy day. my body was in motion. i was a cheetah on a national geographic special. a mammal running. an addict addicted to the thrill produced by running. feeling slightly sick to my stomach as i jogged past the hospital. they must have just put down fertilizer and the scent was making me big time sick. cheetah picks up speed hoping to catch an unlucky antelope. and i picked up speed, hoping to quickly escape the scent of excrement - of not good - of the stuff that bodies reject. my body was rejecting just the smell of it. i quickly got past the hospital. out of breath, i decided to start walking. tried speed walking. felt real stupid, swinging my arms real high like a granny. walked slow, since i was pretty winded anyways. occasionally, a big drop of water would form in the moisture above, and drop on my shirt. and i could feel the little dot of wetness seep from my shirt onto the skin of my shoulder, and i wanted someone to touch me all over, not just an infrequent little prick on my shoulder. looking for love. but, it was not to be found on this empty street. at least not the variety of love i was at the time desiring. alone but not lonely, i walked down the middle of the street, fascinated by the street lights - trying to think of an accurate word to describe the color of them. i kept on saying orange. but it's not real orange. and it's sort of yellow. but yellowy-orange seems even more inappropriate than orange. it's a lo-fi orange color that i love. the moist black street glistened lo-fi orange in lines of water. sporadic tiny pools of water formed at the street's low points and potholes. these, for the most part, resisted the orangifying of the street, and were a deep black color. and i too would glisten a lo-fi orange when i walked into the streetlight's circle of light. and, yes, i will say it again: a wet street is a beautiful thing.

i, then, walked past a playground on my way to our backdoor. and the swing was calling my name. i answered its call, sat on it, and started to swing slowly, still slightly winded from my jog. i started to pick up speed, but the motion started to make me sick. so, as our good friend the tortoise once said: slow and steady wins the race. i slowed down my speed, closed my eyes, and listened to the whir as i swung forward, to the silence as the swing paused for a brief moment before swinging backward, and then to the whir of the air rushing past my ears as i swung backwards, and then that beautiful moment of silence as the swing again wavered in mid-air before i heard another whoosh. and i opened my eyes for a moment, but quickly closed them, realizing that the experience was much better with my eyes closed. with my eyes closed, i was not surrounded by townhouses - i was not merely a foot and a half off of the ground. no, i was in heaven, swinging from a star - all the space of the universe below my feet. and i continued to listen to the whooshes and the silences, and my breathing soon began to mirror the rhythm of the air rushing past my ears. a whir of air/an inhalation. a brief silent moment when the world was at perfect peace. a whoosh of air/an exhalation. and then a silent moment. and that's why we do it all - that's why we stress out about shit and like to freak out - so that we can have that whooshless moment and realize how beautiful it all is.

Saturday, February 9, 2002

they refer to it as friday, or so i am told

tonight was beautiful. not just tonight - today was beautiful. every day is, in fact, not just today. today, i was simply aware of this beauty. sometimes - in fact, a lot of the times - i forget exactly how beautiful life is. but then, i'll see a reflection of the night sky in the potomac, or feel a chill breeze that makes me wish i had worn a hat, or drive by a runover cat that makes me cringe, and i become completely aware (or at least more so aware) of what people mean when they say that they are high on life. the next time i hear some old person say it, i'll probably still think that they are cheesy and will not relate at all. but, there are those moments when i do get it - when i feel chills down my spine and sing songs slowly like i am stevie fucking nicks or someone.

i woke up at six, worked for eight hours, came home at five, wiped out on the couch, wavered between taking a nap and trying to leave the house before six to go catch a seven-thirty showing of the man who wasn't there, which was playing at the cineplex odeon foundry in georgetown for three bucks. i decided that, as tired as i was, i should go see this movie since i've been meaning to see it for months and it probably won't be playing anymore the next time i'm motivated to go see it.

i think about calling someone to go with me. i decide against it, thinking that it would be good for me to go to the movies by myself. i run upstairs to grab a pair of shoes out of my room, and for some reason (horniness? lots of energy? danciness?), start doing a pole dance against my door frame. does anyone else do this, or am i the only freak? sometimes when i'm about to take a shower, i pretend i'm a stripper or an exotic dancer and do a little show for myself. well, dancing up against my doorframe got me horny, and i decided to masturbate before i left for the movies. this was a bad idea. probably the #1 reason that i ended up being late to the movie. i came on piece of notebook paper, threw it away, got the pair of shoes that i came upstairs for in the first place, peed, and then left for the metro station.

i rode the metro to rosslyn, since i did not feel like driving to georgetown. for those of you who were never a high school student in alexandria who occasionally hung out in georgetown - georgetown does not have a metro stop, the closest one is rosslyn, which is right across the river in virginia. you just have to walk across the key bridge over the potomac river. i have not walked across the key bridge since probably 11th grade - after that point there was usually someone that could drive into dc.

well, walking over the key bridge is one of my favorite walks ever. it brought up so many pleasant memories of high school. the sky was gorgeous. its reflection in the river's ripples was even more so. the dark trees on columbia island, the lit up kennedy center, a distant washington monument, and other postcard vista scenes being transmitted by my eyes to some area of my brain that responded with happiness and nostalgia. the cold wind blew against my ears. i cupped them with my hands to warm them. and the world was all right. i was not self-conscious at all about going to the movies by myself on a friday night. i was proud of it. i don't know why i have never done this before. i got to the movies at 7:40, and the film started at 7:15. i thought about seeing mullholland driveagain since it was starting soon, but thought that if i didn't see this movie now, then i might never see it. so i bought my ticket, after explaining to the ticketseller about three times, that yes, i want to see the 7:15 showing, no, i don't care that i've missed half an hour. i sat in the last row, not wanting to have to climb over anybody.

i don't even think there is one thing that the film could have done to make me not like it. i love black and white movies, no matter what. and then if they're noirs, oh boy, i love them even more. i was real impressed with the coens' b+w work. it was a little too polished, they had like every noir shadow effect possible - but again, it was pretty damn impressive. did i mention that i was tired? so i fell asleep about twenty minutes after getting there, not really paying too much attention to the plot, just being enamored with the camerawork, wishing i went to a school with a photo program, where i could learn how to take decent b+w prints. oh, and i decided that i am going to start saving up money to buy some darkroom equipment. i have not printed a picture in three years. so yeah, i fell asleep for about half an hour, before waking up and being even more clueless to the plot. but, i still really loved the parts of the movie that i did see, and might go see it again this week, or may just rent it.

afterwards, i walked over the c and o canal, stopping to drop spit into it, and then stopped at starbucks. shut-up about starbucks, this is georgetown. okay? walked along busy m street with my coffee, looking at all the chic groups of people walking around. and they too were beautiful, not because they were trying their damnedest in their posh outfits, but because they were here with me. we were here under the sky, happy as clams, doing our things, living. most of these people doing the most beautiful thing ever - attempting to mate. cruising bars, looking for a suitable partner to bone. they were of noble pursuits. and the wind would blow, and we, a collective of people in love, would simultaneously clench our coats and gaze towards the wind, looking for the source of it all - for god. and i smiled at them, at the sky, and drank my hot coffee. warmness going down my throat, through my insides, and the chilly air brushes the surface of my skin - and the sensation of both at the same time was heaven. and who said we couldn't be the source? or maybe we knew that, and we weren't looking off into the distance for the source of the wind - but our eyes were focused closer. we were looking at ourselves - at each other - at the mass of us. the source.

Friday, February 8, 2002

treasure this island

work today was blah blah and then some more blahs. i was very much so the popular image of an american worker today. homer simpson daydreaming the day away and waiting for work to end. visions of sugarplums, duff beer, and doughnuts dancing in my head. okay, and also occasional visions of marky mark and other cute boys. this ain't fucking prime time television. no standards of decency have to be upheld. visions of hot sex and cocks shooting semen and other dirty thoughts to wile away the minutes that seemed like hours. i had to be at work at eight this morning and at eight o' one, i was already checking the clock to see how much longer before i could leave - how much longer until 4fucking:30. i so don't want to be a worker, getting paid to basically sit somewhere. occupy space. the american workforce (from my admittedly limited encounters with it, during my few retail jobs) is a workforce that dreads work. everyone, myself included, is hoping/knowing that we will shortly strike it big. winning the lottery. selling that novel that we still have yet to start writing to some big publishing house. or just somehow. we're not too concerned with the logistics of it all - the hows and whys, after all, we're americans - we don't concern ourselves with such things - we just know that in the near future we will be wealthy and no longer have to fret over monetary concerns. with getting paid seven dollars an hour to steam and froth milk to pour into some asshole's cafe mocha. we will forget that we were once concerned with such issues as economic inequality and an equal distribution of wealth. we will have an economic position commensurate with our self-perceived talent. we are pirates. we will somehow discover buried treasure. i mean, we have to - tom sawyer fucking did it. in the meantime, we are just biding our time in low-wage jobs, smiling through our teeth at dickheads like you, who try to make small talk. we don't need to spit in your drink or shortchange you to feel better about ourselves - we content ourselves with the knowledge that the revolution is coming.

Thursday, February 7, 2002

luke and his calves are still single

today i worked for a whoping two full hours. i was so mad, it was the biggest waste of my time ever. they are dumb as dirt there, had nothing for me to do, and so sent me around the store with a map to learn where things are. i finished in about ten minutes, sat around for a while, told them i was done, and they told me that i could go home. i think i'm going to hate working there big time. while i was waiting in the backroom, for my "training" (aka handing me a map of the store) to start, i had to listen to these three white broads, talking about "friends." one was going to get off work in time to watch it. the other two were jealous and wanted her to tape it. here is me shooting myself: bang bang bang. sometimes white people are so fucking dumb. dude, how come they aren’t getting billyclubbed just because? these kids were for real excited about "friends" and not in an even slightly ironic way.

so i wandered around the store with my stupid map, thinking that my intelligence could be put to better use than doing this stupid activity. fuck this shit, my intelligence could be put to better use than working at fucking barnes and nobles with these idiots. i looked at leonard peltier's book, some html books, the fiction section, making a mental list for myself of books to read. after doing this for what seemed like an insane amount of time, i told them i was done, and went to go sit in the stupid break room to wait for my trainer to get his head out of his ass. while waiting, i sat there quietly and listened to the b and n breakroom gossip. there was some thirtyish gay man that was reading "attitude," and i was so disgusted that he was not embarrassed to be reading such a lame magazine. okay, so we actually had a copy of it at our house last semester, but that was just because we stole tons of magazines, and i didn't read it seriously, i read it like the asswipe it was and is. and why the hell was this dude reading this in public and without any shame? the lucky “friends” girl was about to clock out, and the gay guy reminded her to watch "will and grace." i don't know what was wrong with me - i forgot that i was at my place of employment and forgot that normal civilities should be extended to co-workers even if they are lame. but anyways, i gave him a look of disgust, with my mouth real wide open, like what the fuck is wrong with you? he noticed my look, and i quickly averted my eyes, and started reading the paper sitting in front of me.

the stupid trainer got his head out of his ass, and told me there wasn't much else to do. bang bang bang. so, i left for home and stopped at the thrift store on the way home, picking up some really fun tapes to listen to in my car:
-chris isaak, "wicked games" single
-tracy chapman
-lynard skynard, one more from the road
-journey, captured
-helen reddy, long hard climb, an album that is no longer even available. they had so many old seventies tapes that you'd never see anywhere. the tapes are in really weird cassette cases, too. they close and open like the video cases of blockbuster videos, and the cases are an opaque white, with the cover pasted to the front of the case.

i then came home and looked for a needle and thread so i could sew up a pair of pants. my mom, so not the martha stewart, gave me a look like i had asked her if we had any dog poo, when i asked her if we had any sewing needles. so, i went up to wal-mart, bought a pack of needles. sewed up a pair of black pants while watching "true life" on mtv. tomorrow, i start working in the cafe and we have to wear black pants and a white shirt. i think i am going to start looking for another job because so far the people at barnes and nobles seem real lame. there has got to be a place that is hiring with a somewhat hipper staff. well, i have to work at eight fucking o clock tomorrow morning, so i'm going to go catch some z's.