Saturday, July 19, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
fallouts
everything feels 110% unsure. I need to put down the club I've been beating myself up with in exchange for a bouquet of daisies and a cherry coke to walk through the park with. by summer's end, I expect to have landed on my feet, but I've still got a ways to go... this time spent alone is integral. no good ever comes of skipping the 3rd act.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
the funk
I'm downtrodden and can't shake the blues off... save for the internship, I feel as if I'm entertaining a 2 year losing streak. I'm trying to save money for "the move" that I'm starting to believe is never going to happen, but constantly have bills flying at me from every angle, not to mention a strong fondness for 10 dollar belgian beer. (I feel like a troubled teen for admitting this, but jamie stewart has a lyric about his true love drinking herself into not being able to pay rent that has always yanked my heartstrings a little.) yesterday I went out with friends to a fashion show and had a perfectly swell time and then brought home a fellow wholphin intern and his roommates to hang out at the treehouse, one of the friends being a dead ringer for jude law save for his rather small stature. jon came down to grab a drink from the fridge and casually invited me upstairs for a slumber party and I declined, opting to enjoy the reindeer games with my company. as the whiskey flowed and the conversations turned slurry and the space between jude's doppleganger and I diminished, suddenly our hips were touching side by side as we leaned on a banister in the dark and the other boys started to drift down the hallway to talk bikeshop with derek. he touched my fishnets and turned to me and I could feel his breath on my neck so I balked, wordlessly slinking away into the kitchen, and then up the stairs to jon's room. I crawled into his bed, demanded that he spoon me and passed out without saying goodbye to my friend or jude, or maintaining any sort of dignity. I know he's dating the girl he cheated on me with, (constance, ugh) and that he lies to both of us through his teeth for sport. I know he probably screws us both in the same day without showering and goes to soundly to sleep at night perfectly content with existing on a higher plane of evil and disregard for others. I know that she secretly comes to the house when he knows I'm out, a roulette of sorts, keeping fingers crossed that I don't get off of work early. she probably plays with my cat and peers into my bedroom, boiling with curiosity, examining enemy territory with her beady little eyes. I know all this, and I'm aware that he treats me like shit 98 percent of the time, but this morning I was lapping up every iota of attention and smiling at tender cutesy kisses and letting him take pictures of me topless on his stupid iphone. (whatever.) why do I do this to myself? why didn't I suck face with jude and go to sleep in my own bedroom?
I laid in his bed this morning, internally conflicted yet still knowing the Right Thing To Do and that I was failing miserably at doing it, any of it. he smiled at me and invited me into the shower to which I stretched languidly and told him that there was little to no chance of my moving any time soon. he told me to have it my way, I replied that I usually do, and as he shut the door his phone chirped. it was constance. it was a flirty text. my stomach lurched. I felt my blood rushing to my face. I put my party dress back on and retreated down the stairs, feeling lost in my own house. when I saw him on his way out to the post office he'd asked me what was wrong, as my demeanor had clearly gone from relaxed to bristly and removed. I said nothing, and he called me a liar. of course I am. my favorite person to lie to is myself. a few months ago my cousin told me that jon would destroy me, but in a good way. I'm starting to doubt the benefits of being wrecked.
I laid in his bed this morning, internally conflicted yet still knowing the Right Thing To Do and that I was failing miserably at doing it, any of it. he smiled at me and invited me into the shower to which I stretched languidly and told him that there was little to no chance of my moving any time soon. he told me to have it my way, I replied that I usually do, and as he shut the door his phone chirped. it was constance. it was a flirty text. my stomach lurched. I felt my blood rushing to my face. I put my party dress back on and retreated down the stairs, feeling lost in my own house. when I saw him on his way out to the post office he'd asked me what was wrong, as my demeanor had clearly gone from relaxed to bristly and removed. I said nothing, and he called me a liar. of course I am. my favorite person to lie to is myself. a few months ago my cousin told me that jon would destroy me, but in a good way. I'm starting to doubt the benefits of being wrecked.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
btw ftw
soooo, here's how my day began. I awoke at 4am and lurched to the fridge in the dark and ate my ex-boyfriend's leftover little star plain cheese chicago style deep dish pizza, after which I felt moderately painful pangs of guilt. my remorse was only for concern of what my actions would do to my waistline rather than regretting the rage that I knew it would evoke in jon as soon as he made it to the fridge for lunch. I left one crust, one symbolic crust, like a middle finger of lightly browned dough, waiting for its one triumphant moment of vengeance. that's right, fucker, I ate your pizza. AND IT WAS GOOD.
I went back to sleep for a spell, and ended up opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling on hourly intervals until nine when my cell phone alarm went off and rufus put his paws over his eyes in protest. (no kidding, kitty.) my morning routine proceeded as per usual, choosing out a dress, swirl-tap-buffing my way into bare escentuals flawlessness, listerine, toothbrush, cheerios, BM, chapstick, sunglasses, earbuds and out the door with my macbook slung over my shoulder in a totebag. this morning I was scheduled to have a meeting before reporting to wholphin HQ with a prospective new roommate for august first on haight and pierce in my favorite little corner of the lo-hay. amy was her name. I texted amy to let her know that, as she had mentioned her flexible schedule, that I was going to stop off for a cup of joe on my way over and that she should expect me at 10:30 rather than 10:15. I think I even offered to pick her up a croissant, or something equally as flaky, delicious, and considerate. I assumed that her lack of response equated to a silent acknowledgement of the ever-so-slight change in plans, and I was on my merry way. at 10:31, mocha in hand and beaming from ear to ear in preparation for selling myself harder than a QVC queen with 8 seconds left on an auction, I raised my finger to ring the doorbell and I saw that "Amy Haight & Pierce Apt. 3" was blowing up on my caller ID.
"well, helllooooo!" I chirped into my phone.
"is this christina?" she asked.
"why yeeeesss! I'm actually just right outsi--"
"I'm really sorry, I just got your text."
"it's alright, it's fine. I'm here now, actually."
"no, no," she said, starting to sound penitent, "I had thought that you were flaking when you weren't here at 10:15 and another girl that was supposed to interview at 10:45 came early, and..."
"and?"
"and I really wanted to wait for you, you know, because your email was great and you sounded like such a great fit, and..."
"......"
"but then you weren't there and she was and I was like, look, girl, I like you but there's supposed to be another applicant, but she said she had to know today, so..."
"....."
"I just rented her the room. I'm really sorry."
"oh. so you didn't get the text."
"not until just now. I'm so sorry. wait, did you just say you were here?"
"no, no." I sighed, as my gaze fell upon the Apartment 3 buzzer.
"good luck in your search."
"thanks. I'll need it." I said, flipping my phone shut.
that 5 dollar beverage just cost me a place to live and a large piece of my dignity, as I had to hear myself tentatively query a barista about whether they used low fat whip. stolen pizza karma? past life trespass punishment? perhaps, just not the right place? at any rate, the days become numbered before one or both parts of the treehouse's dissolved couple is frantically asking jeeves the most effective way to hide a body. I try and live my life free of regret but this time, I may have effectively screwed the pooch. any way you dress it up, the cold truth remains, I have to leave my pink barbie dreamhouse that is the disneyland of san francisco victorians because I got my tail where I got my mail.
I'm in the basement at wholphin right now and taking a break from transcribing subtitles for issue no. 6, and the sound of the persistent whisper of laptop keys together with magnetic fields playing upstairs are as soothing as lapping waves or a twittering rainforest could ever be. be that as it may, as I stared off at the jumble of boxes lining the walls I focused on one with a logo on it that said "neenah neenah" and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel like an emotional attack. I need a christmas miracle in july.
I went back to sleep for a spell, and ended up opening my eyes to stare at the ceiling on hourly intervals until nine when my cell phone alarm went off and rufus put his paws over his eyes in protest. (no kidding, kitty.) my morning routine proceeded as per usual, choosing out a dress, swirl-tap-buffing my way into bare escentuals flawlessness, listerine, toothbrush, cheerios, BM, chapstick, sunglasses, earbuds and out the door with my macbook slung over my shoulder in a totebag. this morning I was scheduled to have a meeting before reporting to wholphin HQ with a prospective new roommate for august first on haight and pierce in my favorite little corner of the lo-hay. amy was her name. I texted amy to let her know that, as she had mentioned her flexible schedule, that I was going to stop off for a cup of joe on my way over and that she should expect me at 10:30 rather than 10:15. I think I even offered to pick her up a croissant, or something equally as flaky, delicious, and considerate. I assumed that her lack of response equated to a silent acknowledgement of the ever-so-slight change in plans, and I was on my merry way. at 10:31, mocha in hand and beaming from ear to ear in preparation for selling myself harder than a QVC queen with 8 seconds left on an auction, I raised my finger to ring the doorbell and I saw that "Amy Haight & Pierce Apt. 3" was blowing up on my caller ID.
"well, helllooooo!" I chirped into my phone.
"is this christina?" she asked.
"why yeeeesss! I'm actually just right outsi--"
"I'm really sorry, I just got your text."
"it's alright, it's fine. I'm here now, actually."
"no, no," she said, starting to sound penitent, "I had thought that you were flaking when you weren't here at 10:15 and another girl that was supposed to interview at 10:45 came early, and..."
"and?"
"and I really wanted to wait for you, you know, because your email was great and you sounded like such a great fit, and..."
"......"
"but then you weren't there and she was and I was like, look, girl, I like you but there's supposed to be another applicant, but she said she had to know today, so..."
"....."
"I just rented her the room. I'm really sorry."
"oh. so you didn't get the text."
"not until just now. I'm so sorry. wait, did you just say you were here?"
"no, no." I sighed, as my gaze fell upon the Apartment 3 buzzer.
"good luck in your search."
"thanks. I'll need it." I said, flipping my phone shut.
that 5 dollar beverage just cost me a place to live and a large piece of my dignity, as I had to hear myself tentatively query a barista about whether they used low fat whip. stolen pizza karma? past life trespass punishment? perhaps, just not the right place? at any rate, the days become numbered before one or both parts of the treehouse's dissolved couple is frantically asking jeeves the most effective way to hide a body. I try and live my life free of regret but this time, I may have effectively screwed the pooch. any way you dress it up, the cold truth remains, I have to leave my pink barbie dreamhouse that is the disneyland of san francisco victorians because I got my tail where I got my mail.
I'm in the basement at wholphin right now and taking a break from transcribing subtitles for issue no. 6, and the sound of the persistent whisper of laptop keys together with magnetic fields playing upstairs are as soothing as lapping waves or a twittering rainforest could ever be. be that as it may, as I stared off at the jumble of boxes lining the walls I focused on one with a logo on it that said "neenah neenah" and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel like an emotional attack. I need a christmas miracle in july.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
welcome to the working week
my first day as an intern at wholphin was a momentous occasion that bore the weight and importance as one's first day of high school, and I behaved no differently. the night before I was all abuzz with butterflies rioting in my stomach and I laid out my Most Responsible Outfit with care after ironing everything to sleek, crisp finish and matching my accessories accordingly. (did the red beaded necklace say "business" or "floozy"? oh, fuck it. fuck it fuck it fuck it.) I expected everything and nothing, but mostly everything, and woke up every hour on the hour to ensure that I had not, in fact, slept through my alarm and blown the whole thing.
I was supposed to arrive the office at eleven, and having departed 15 minutes or so later than intended after initiating a battle with my flat iron that had not been factored into the preparation itinerary, ended up missing the 22. it rattled past me unsympathetically as I rounded the corner next to the stop and I briefly considered the pros and cons of flinging myself against the side of the bus as if I were wearing a suit made of suction cups the way the life or death muni-goers often do. I decided against it, if only to save face. dignity may be a illusion, but it's one I was willing to uphold to keep my confidence in peak condition.
ah, so this is how the other 80% lives, I thought to myself, strolling in the sunshine to my new office job, fully alert at ten AM and toting a macbook under my arm. autolux was booming through my earphones and I was trying not to obsess but failing miserably, my mind stuck in overdrive with oh god, july, rent is due. what if I forgot something? everything? what if I need a pencil? double stick tape? flash cards? shit. did I turn that stupid flat iron off? will my house burn down? what if it burns to the ground and I am responsible for murdering my cat, rufus, trapped inside, flames licking the walls, wondering why I've forsaken him? I'm a cat killer. christ. what if I don't find an apartment before... oh, and what if these people think I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have worn the red beads. I need more coffee. will they think it's irresponsible to show up with coffee? will they think I dilly-dallied? will they think that my iced latte implicates my irresponsible nature and that I couldn't go to bed early enough and I was just leisurely meandering my way to the first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life unable to function in the normal adult world without the aide of a stimulant? do normal people do this?
no. the answer is no. but at 10:54 I found myself vis-à-vis with 846 valencia, and boldly swung the door open much more gallantly than I actually felt, in case anyone had been watching.
they weren't. the room was well-lit with high ceilings and was reminiscent of what I remember study hall to be like. the bookshelves were tall, loaded and lining the walls, collapsable poker tables set up at odd angles, ikea desks with occupants peering through their glasses at the screens of their laptops. it was silent except for whispering white noise of fingertips deftly dancing across keyboards, and there were perhaps 8 or 10 people inside, two looked up momentarily and then returned to their business. to my relief, no one had yet asked me if I was lost, and I looked askance at a copy machine as if it might be able to provide me with some answers only to find myself face to face with another bespectacled character with slightly unruly hair who raised his eyebrows and simply said, "mmyesss?"
"I'm looking for the," shit, I shouldn't have paused, now I am going to sound stupid, especially if I pronounce this wrong, "hole-fins." I bit my lip.
"ah yes." he answered. "the Wall-Fins are right down that stairway into the basement.
god damnit. I hope no one heard that.
"thanks." I muttered, turning to the concrete stairway that led underground. of course it's wall-fin. wholphin! hello! they're all going to know I didn't go to college.
I swished one last gulp of coffee down as I descended the stairs and noticed one solitary, antique looking mouse trap on the fourth step form the bottom, complete with a bit of cheese bait on the edge. this vermin catcher inexplicably lightened me up, and by the time I reached the basement I was wearing one of my show stopper grins and had my firm handshake ready for quickdraw like a six shooter. yes. here I am, wall-fins! I shall swim with you! eee-eeee! eeeee-eeee---eeeeee!
composure. decorum!
brent brought blackberries and comic relief, emily gave us a warm welcome to the team and some firmer ideas of what our roles would be, and the other two interns brought ambition as well. the initial inauguration speech was exciting and I stopped thinking about if I should've brought donuts and started thinking about all of the amazing opportunities I am about to have to explore art and express myself and be a part of the company that I've been obsessed with for years. the red beads are fine. they love me already. I'm not sure how I feel about the boy-intern's art fag mullet, but they'll love me. I am the kooky blonde they've been dreaming of.
our first task was to watch short film submissions and determine whether or not they are potential material for the quarterly or the website. I took notes on all of them that I screened even though I'm fairly sure that was not required. this was my favorite submission:
• Alex and Her Arse Truck by Sean Conway
This 15 minute film was a sexually perverse romp through the misadventures and deviant behavior of an underage blonde British gutterpunk named Alex and her boyfriend “Babyshoes”. Alex makes her living selling dirty underwear on her website and making amateur porn, spending her spare time soaking in the bathtub under the adoring watch of her equally skewed, yet lovable paramour.
“Even Marvin Gaye once said, “What’s going on?”. I feel the same way sometimes.” -Babyshoes
so, in short. this is awesome. this is amazing. I want to throw myself into the fray with as untainted of a heart that I came to this city with 4 years ago. I'm a believer. I'm a believer.
I think I might bring donuts tomorrow.
I was supposed to arrive the office at eleven, and having departed 15 minutes or so later than intended after initiating a battle with my flat iron that had not been factored into the preparation itinerary, ended up missing the 22. it rattled past me unsympathetically as I rounded the corner next to the stop and I briefly considered the pros and cons of flinging myself against the side of the bus as if I were wearing a suit made of suction cups the way the life or death muni-goers often do. I decided against it, if only to save face. dignity may be a illusion, but it's one I was willing to uphold to keep my confidence in peak condition.
ah, so this is how the other 80% lives, I thought to myself, strolling in the sunshine to my new office job, fully alert at ten AM and toting a macbook under my arm. autolux was booming through my earphones and I was trying not to obsess but failing miserably, my mind stuck in overdrive with oh god, july, rent is due. what if I forgot something? everything? what if I need a pencil? double stick tape? flash cards? shit. did I turn that stupid flat iron off? will my house burn down? what if it burns to the ground and I am responsible for murdering my cat, rufus, trapped inside, flames licking the walls, wondering why I've forsaken him? I'm a cat killer. christ. what if I don't find an apartment before... oh, and what if these people think I'm an idiot. I shouldn't have worn the red beads. I need more coffee. will they think it's irresponsible to show up with coffee? will they think I dilly-dallied? will they think that my iced latte implicates my irresponsible nature and that I couldn't go to bed early enough and I was just leisurely meandering my way to the first-day-of-the-rest-of-my-life unable to function in the normal adult world without the aide of a stimulant? do normal people do this?
no. the answer is no. but at 10:54 I found myself vis-à-vis with 846 valencia, and boldly swung the door open much more gallantly than I actually felt, in case anyone had been watching.
they weren't. the room was well-lit with high ceilings and was reminiscent of what I remember study hall to be like. the bookshelves were tall, loaded and lining the walls, collapsable poker tables set up at odd angles, ikea desks with occupants peering through their glasses at the screens of their laptops. it was silent except for whispering white noise of fingertips deftly dancing across keyboards, and there were perhaps 8 or 10 people inside, two looked up momentarily and then returned to their business. to my relief, no one had yet asked me if I was lost, and I looked askance at a copy machine as if it might be able to provide me with some answers only to find myself face to face with another bespectacled character with slightly unruly hair who raised his eyebrows and simply said, "mmyesss?"
"I'm looking for the," shit, I shouldn't have paused, now I am going to sound stupid, especially if I pronounce this wrong, "hole-fins." I bit my lip.
"ah yes." he answered. "the Wall-Fins are right down that stairway into the basement.
god damnit. I hope no one heard that.
"thanks." I muttered, turning to the concrete stairway that led underground. of course it's wall-fin. wholphin! hello! they're all going to know I didn't go to college.
I swished one last gulp of coffee down as I descended the stairs and noticed one solitary, antique looking mouse trap on the fourth step form the bottom, complete with a bit of cheese bait on the edge. this vermin catcher inexplicably lightened me up, and by the time I reached the basement I was wearing one of my show stopper grins and had my firm handshake ready for quickdraw like a six shooter. yes. here I am, wall-fins! I shall swim with you! eee-eeee! eeeee-eeee---eeeeee!
composure. decorum!
brent brought blackberries and comic relief, emily gave us a warm welcome to the team and some firmer ideas of what our roles would be, and the other two interns brought ambition as well. the initial inauguration speech was exciting and I stopped thinking about if I should've brought donuts and started thinking about all of the amazing opportunities I am about to have to explore art and express myself and be a part of the company that I've been obsessed with for years. the red beads are fine. they love me already. I'm not sure how I feel about the boy-intern's art fag mullet, but they'll love me. I am the kooky blonde they've been dreaming of.
our first task was to watch short film submissions and determine whether or not they are potential material for the quarterly or the website. I took notes on all of them that I screened even though I'm fairly sure that was not required. this was my favorite submission:
• Alex and Her Arse Truck by Sean Conway
This 15 minute film was a sexually perverse romp through the misadventures and deviant behavior of an underage blonde British gutterpunk named Alex and her boyfriend “Babyshoes”. Alex makes her living selling dirty underwear on her website and making amateur porn, spending her spare time soaking in the bathtub under the adoring watch of her equally skewed, yet lovable paramour.
“Even Marvin Gaye once said, “What’s going on?”. I feel the same way sometimes.” -Babyshoes
so, in short. this is awesome. this is amazing. I want to throw myself into the fray with as untainted of a heart that I came to this city with 4 years ago. I'm a believer. I'm a believer.
I think I might bring donuts tomorrow.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
nom nom nom
I am, once again, in my mother's new studio apartment in sonoma, after having a frenzied day of panicked phone calls to dentists and family members because of one of my capped teeth snapping nearly in half on a god damned french fry from orphan andy's at 3am the previous night. I half expected to be forced to run around looking like a methed out jack-o-lantern for the next 2 months for lack of resources as far as mobility to transport myself to the only dental office that allows me to pay as I am able to pay. surprisingly enough, once the phone tree was alerted, I received word that my estranged dad had willingly offered to drive me to and fro, and my emergency appointment had been scheduled a mere 23 hours later. it was heartening, to say the least.
and here I sit, clutching a bag of frozen edamame beans to my face in the dark, ironically (and painfully enough) not to the tooth that is broken, but to a different tooth that will require a root canal in the immediate future. toothache pain isn't comparable to any other pain I've experienced aside from when I had a nasty case of gallstones in my junior year. it's a pain that sears into your brain and halts any activity other than an insistent urge to ease the stabbing, gut wrenching horror at any cost possible. I have taken 4 advil liqui-gels and 3 aleve in the past hour and I'm only just now beginning to be able to see straight. toothaches have given me heart palpitations, deprived sleep, caused consumption of endless canisters of vicodin, and at times caused me to slam my head into a wall for lack of any options left. toothaches... ain't nothin' to fuck with.
the work I've had done in the past is mostly if not completely caused as a side effect of chemo and radiation that without a doubt saved my life. in the big picture, it's certainly a small price to pay to still be sitting here, motor skills intact, gently bombarded by the remarkable sound of thousands of crickets in the countryside on a warm summer night. but still, I can't help but be uneasy. the unsettling memories of cancer treatment that I prefer to leave in deep recesses that I only may visit unconsciously aside from inappropriate jokes at dinner parties, are presented in droves. I suppose I'm realizing that a large part of the reason that I haven't touched the organic beginnings of material for a manuscript all of these years is because I haven't been ready to truly process them. also, my relationship with jon was damaging in ways I was blind to during the throes, in that I was belittled and discredited for how far I have come from the bottom by someone whose respect I thought I had. I've never been in a situation where someone I trusted took merciless potshots at my jugular, and have never given so much of myself to receive nothing in return but callousness. (if you hadn't heard... I'm "weak".) I've got a month left sharing the house with him and my uncertainty and fully justified distrust appears to be a surefire one way fast track to bat-shit crazy, but I'm going to hang in there. I wonder what our future dynamic may be, if he wants one, if I want one. is it possible to remain friends after being smoked out of your beloved dream apartment like a jilted gopher? is it possible, after everything that has happened, and whatever the month of july holds? inconsequential, I guess... lovers come and go, but in my experience, it's 30/70. no man, no cry.
in more cheerful news, I'm in the process of securing myself an internship with wholphin dvd, a division of mcsweeney's publishing house. this is a-maz-ing. more news to come on this as it develops!
and here I sit, clutching a bag of frozen edamame beans to my face in the dark, ironically (and painfully enough) not to the tooth that is broken, but to a different tooth that will require a root canal in the immediate future. toothache pain isn't comparable to any other pain I've experienced aside from when I had a nasty case of gallstones in my junior year. it's a pain that sears into your brain and halts any activity other than an insistent urge to ease the stabbing, gut wrenching horror at any cost possible. I have taken 4 advil liqui-gels and 3 aleve in the past hour and I'm only just now beginning to be able to see straight. toothaches have given me heart palpitations, deprived sleep, caused consumption of endless canisters of vicodin, and at times caused me to slam my head into a wall for lack of any options left. toothaches... ain't nothin' to fuck with.
the work I've had done in the past is mostly if not completely caused as a side effect of chemo and radiation that without a doubt saved my life. in the big picture, it's certainly a small price to pay to still be sitting here, motor skills intact, gently bombarded by the remarkable sound of thousands of crickets in the countryside on a warm summer night. but still, I can't help but be uneasy. the unsettling memories of cancer treatment that I prefer to leave in deep recesses that I only may visit unconsciously aside from inappropriate jokes at dinner parties, are presented in droves. I suppose I'm realizing that a large part of the reason that I haven't touched the organic beginnings of material for a manuscript all of these years is because I haven't been ready to truly process them. also, my relationship with jon was damaging in ways I was blind to during the throes, in that I was belittled and discredited for how far I have come from the bottom by someone whose respect I thought I had. I've never been in a situation where someone I trusted took merciless potshots at my jugular, and have never given so much of myself to receive nothing in return but callousness. (if you hadn't heard... I'm "weak".) I've got a month left sharing the house with him and my uncertainty and fully justified distrust appears to be a surefire one way fast track to bat-shit crazy, but I'm going to hang in there. I wonder what our future dynamic may be, if he wants one, if I want one. is it possible to remain friends after being smoked out of your beloved dream apartment like a jilted gopher? is it possible, after everything that has happened, and whatever the month of july holds? inconsequential, I guess... lovers come and go, but in my experience, it's 30/70. no man, no cry.
in more cheerful news, I'm in the process of securing myself an internship with wholphin dvd, a division of mcsweeney's publishing house. this is a-maz-ing. more news to come on this as it develops!
Saturday, June 7, 2008
malaise
I have writer's block. I need a vacation. I'm dying for a hand to descend upon me from the sky and shake up my sullen, sedentary snowglobe of existence. I'd like to buy a vowel. I'd like to buy a yacht. maybe, that would help.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
once more, with feeling
conversation of the week:
lindsay: "I think I'm in love with him."
christina: "how can you tell?"
l: "I don't want to fuck anyone else."
c: "hah!"
l: "what, I mean, isn't that what love is?"
c: "I was under the impression that it was a many wondrous thing, but if you really break it down..."
l: "right."
c: "so you mean to tell me, that if the hottest man you'd ever laid eyes on walked into this gallery, marched right up to you and said that you were the most exquisite beauty and a 5 star alarm sex bomb, and that his tubes were tied and he had his std test results in his wallet, that you wouldn't ball him in the bathroom?"
l: "yep."
c: "must be love."
lindsay: "I think I'm in love with him."
christina: "how can you tell?"
l: "I don't want to fuck anyone else."
c: "hah!"
l: "what, I mean, isn't that what love is?"
c: "I was under the impression that it was a many wondrous thing, but if you really break it down..."
l: "right."
c: "so you mean to tell me, that if the hottest man you'd ever laid eyes on walked into this gallery, marched right up to you and said that you were the most exquisite beauty and a 5 star alarm sex bomb, and that his tubes were tied and he had his std test results in his wallet, that you wouldn't ball him in the bathroom?"
l: "yep."
c: "must be love."
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