Brett Eastin Ellis Novel

"I wish that every night we would have plans we would never fight

Bottle shows free all the time expired cheap beer tastes so fine"

Quality words, Netherfriends.  

You know, I haven't posted in awhile. SO let me address some thangs. Certain phrases such as- but not limited to- "You take forever to respond," "Where the fuck are you?" & "ANSWER YOUR PHONE YOU FUCK!" followed (occasionally) by "Have a nice life..." keeeeeel me. Why? 

Okay, my apologies. I'm being rude by not being rude to whoever I'm with so that I can talk to you and answer such previously mentioned phrases. -, DEWD. Yeah it's great if the point of the incessant texting/calling/stalking HAS A POINT! While I love the random, full of thought, inside-joker texts as much as the next young person, if you text me "i miss you," "what are you doing," or "insert whatever random unimportant thing yo doing like baking bread" with no concrete incentive to actually make plans with me, the answer is I don't care you obsolete SMSer. And my response will always be: "I hate technology."

Higher? Lower? Always.

You know what I'm talking about. That thing. That thing that prickles your exposed skin in the infant hour of the morning when your body peels itself from the blanket oozing with the mantra that everything will be alright, alright? Or when your heart beats for the beat generation and skips, and you are overcome with a vast nostalgia- even though you are among good people who don't have lonely, crumbling insides and you think that it's maddening that you have done everything right, have done what every other maddening soul has done and yet you've never caught it and your hands hang their wilting heads and hold each other soullessly because there's nothing but air molding in the space between their webbed joints and a better story. 

http://www.blalocksirp.com/mixtapes/all/1673-blalock-my-favorite

Abandoned Town

On a more sew burr note-
Lately, my fraaanz and I have happened upon a new activity. It's called "Smoking-ridiculous-amounts-then-turning-to-channel-24-and-watching-the-real-estate-agents-sell-houses-and-prank-calling-them-and-then-taking-a-shot-whenever-Beth-Lube-comes-on." 


Reaaal catchy. Trust me, Beth Lube is the woman. Not only is she extremely friendly-looking, BUT she is in the Remax Hall of Fame and won the Lifetime Achievement Award in 2007!!!! Shit's real!! We have pranked her several times now, highlights of those times when we:


-Pretended to be her dear friend "Martha" and told her secretary that she stood me up for lunch and that she most definitely has my number and that she should call me back immediately.
-Asked if her number was the YMCA because "I" had to lose weight real fast and needed to be enrolled in some fitness classes. And if that wouldn't work, then maybe just calling me back would help me lose weight because I'll put the phone in the other room, far away, and I'd have to run to answer it. 


My only hope is to:
1). Get a Fan Page up and running
2). Be Beth Lube next year for Halloween.....and have people KNOW who that is!!
3). Go to a house showing by Beth Lube herself.
4). Have Beth Lube google herself and find this blog among pages about her.


What is my life. 

Puffin' Pounds

What to say, what to say.

I feel like I have too much love to give.  I'm not a misogamist, but, fuck, if you can't believe in a perennial partnership, in someone reminding your old and twisted brain that the keys are indeed in your hand, then what? What can you believe in?

I am happy, I like my life, I do good. But a lot of the time, I find myself tripping on double takes. No, they're not some new drug- although acid could accurately be nicked that- I'm second guessing the stupid little life I live. My upper story contoured a mental waiting room. And I feel like my head is always present there.

Why do things at all if I'm going to half-ass 'em? (Mawawana is not an excuse). Seriously. I'm the Captain of the Speech Team, but I have yet to win a tournament this year, and why didn't I break more than one event at Nationals? I make movies, but I'm kidding myself if I think they can transcend into anything substantial. Why make this blog if I slack on the posting? Why work out when I just Miss Piggy out? Why bother "talking" or "hanging out" with anyone when I know it's not going to lead to anything concrete and I'm really just leading them on? Why have I built up relationships to have a Titantic-sized influence on my life? Why am I obsessed with Titanic? What the hell am I doing?

Whoever the hell is reading this, stop. I know you're thinking that I'm just throwing myself a pity party in my fucking waiting room of disdain and loathing, OR you might be thinking that I'm absolutely correct (in which case, les bi fraannnz), but I don't really care. I'm sick of caring so much what others think. If you just read this whole thing, meet me at da waiting room, there's pita.

So Grey, So Blue

If I wasn't already crazy, I am now.

Scrambled Eggs

After, but slowly, she composes her irreverent state of mind and walks out of the room for the last time. She struggles to shrug off the room, the hallway, the stairs. Knees betraying her, she buckles at every crack.

Henry’s apartment is three doors down. It’s not exquisite, but it sure is something. He’s simple and sweet and completely finite. She’s been floating towards his room for months now. She knocks curtly, and stumbles inside.

It’s a strange apartment complex. Paint-splattered people, pasted into the decorations: replacement decorum for the lack of furniture. Yet she’s never felt more at home. Or so she’s told.

“Are you the gal that loves motorcycles?” Henry quivers through nervous veneers.

“Henry, come on now. She doesn’t even remember her own children, let alone a motorcycle her husband owned thirty years ago,” Isabel says.

Then, out of the silence, the girl’s eyes break through the mascara-grown ivy of her lashes and she opens her mouth, having no idea what might come out. Her pupils dance and leap, pushing the swing of her former young self up, up, higher and higher, cradling its youth.

“She wouldn’t remember how to brush her hair if I didn’t show her how every morning.”

Isabel’s throw-away jargon fractures the girl’s budding thought bubbles and she quickly closes her mouth as Henry brings her to his window and murmurs, “Look how bright the stars are tonight.” She looks. The stars form a1963 Royal Enfield Interceptor motorcycle; she’s wishing, for the hundredth time, that her head wasn’t scrambled eggs. Her eyes shrink back into their fortress and she trudges back to her room: witness to nothing.

But no one comes clapping, praising this final, sad epiphany. No one comes except Isabel, the nursing-home nurse. Isabel tucks her in her bed, puts the bed-pan in plain sight, and arranges the picture frames cradling her smiling family she hasn’t seen in years. “After my nap, I’ll tell a wonderful story, Isabel,” she swears as she slips into dormant nothingness. She stays that way for a long time, and then, she dies. 

Taking Names & Jumping Fences

I feel nice. I'm high at work. Two of my classes got canceled. I was late to my other. But it was okay. I'm wearing my hair different. And my outfit's cool too. I'm listening to Blalock's September Playlist. But I'm sore. Horribly, incredibly, pitifully sore. I also just ate chocolate cookie dough ice cream. But it wasn't as good as Amsterdam.


So about Sunday night.


Well, it was one of the best night's of my life.


I'll tell you why.


I wasn't drinking, but I wasn't sober. I sat primarily on this porch at this house. A lot of people were drunk. But a lot of people who usually are slopping Captain & Coke messes were completely sober (myself included). That was the first strange but true fact of the night.


Second, there were PRE-PRE-LANYARDS there! YES, IN ENGLISH THAT TRANSLATES TO HIGH SCHOOLERS. Strange but True. Ended up fucking with some of them and told them I went to Colorado University, lived in Pueblo, and was only here for the weekend. And they believed it. For awhile.


Then, the primary, colorful driver of the night drove a pick-up-your-jaw-from-the-floor, 1970's whirlwind of nostalgia. A van. A love machine. The shit. The best part about this fucking van was that the inside of it was outer space. With "lived-in," worn-soft blue carpet, and topped with lines of lights on the ceiling, I was swooning over its aura of loveliness. Mmm. Strange but True.


Other Notable Parts of the Night:

-amsterdam was closed
-but bk wasn't
-and neither was ihop
-the drag queens we saw there figured that out as well
-the pedestrian bridge was an adventure
-i was scared of dogs
-i had pancakes for the first time in 3 years
-i had great conversations
-i didn't go to bed til 10 am
-& i jumped another mother fucking fence. 


But the best part of the night was that I saw people as they really were. They were either real of fake. I realized for the first time, in almost black-and-white contrasted knowledge, that I've always known this, but I've just never let myself think about it. I saw  people as people I could have a holy communion with, and people that I just talk to because they're there, because they exist. 


& then I was thinking about relationships. About how I've always thought relationships were about two people sharing a secret they only understand. When I was younger, much younger, that's how I clearly identified it. I haven't thought about that in years, but honestly, right now, I wonder if I ever stopped believing that. I think I've felt different my whole life, and that's not a bad thing, but I just wonder if anyone is going to find that secret inside me (as ridiculous and hackneyed as that sounds.) If I could commend anything about relationships, and the people who choose to be in them (for better or worse), it would have to be that those two people have guts. I've never put myself in a position with another person where I am brave, where I say how I really feel. 


And I don't know if I ever will. 


When I realized all of this Sundae Fundae night, it made me sad. But I'm glad that I know. 


"Oh, it's sad, but it feels so good, when you remember that you're not dead."

Delayed Stoner Post

My regrets. 


There's a lot of shit going on in the world that I can't do anything about. But there is something I can do. 


So, today as I rock and roll at work, with fake plastic trees closing in on me, it occurs to me that if anything should/could be solved in this world of woebegone wars, agent provocateurs, and up the creek youth, it is the stoner stereotype. 


(Yes, that was one sentence.) 


But listen here. 


People who smoke up tend to get velcroed with stereotypes such as (but not/never limited to):


-Burn-out
-Couch dweller
-Skeeeetchhhhh
-Munchie Monster
-Wizard


I don't know 'bout choo, but I like to do proactive things when I'm toking. I like to call it "Pro-bowler Work." 


Things I have done when I'm high:


-Airport Runs
-Watched many kickass movies. 
-Ate some filalful and hummus at Amsterdamnnn.
-Made movies. 
-Took sharpie-fied notes in Native Americans Studies. 
-Got drunk at bars.
-Wrote. 
-Accidentally sent a prof a meditation guide instead of an excuse sheet.
-Had great conversations with people.
-Attended concerts in parks and non-parks.
-Drank many a Christmas Coke.
-Tried on every piece of clothing in my closet. And then moved on to my brother's. 


See?! 


OKAY, but obviously I know that every time you crank the cannabis is not an experience of wonder. Sometimes, fuck. All you can do is sit on the coach and then try to move your hand to get the spoon in the peanut butter jar, and then tell your mind to tell your hand to move, but it's still not moving, so you try to mentally break down what you need to do to get ahold of that spoo-fuck it's a squirrel! Anddd your mom just called and your talking to your mom on the phone about school but looking at the squirrel outside and then realize that it's mouthing the words your mom's saying and you realize that everyone's fucking with you. All the time. 


But that sort of high is not that consistent. At least not for me. 


And this is a serious warning: just because you're attempting the probowler, stoner, star status doesn't mean you should bite off more than you can chew. First time I showered high, I mixed up the shampoo and the conditioner. Another time, strung out on final all-nighters and ravenous, I devoured a box of Fiber-One Bars. (I'm still recovering from that one). Michael said it best when he said, "They're called Fiber-ONE for a reason."


So why don't you prove the stereotype wrong? Don't waste your brain cells on nothing. 

Is Nothing Sacred?

I’m back. But I’m not all the way back; I’m somewhere between back like Mel Gibson back and back like Kanye West back. So I’m almost there. But I’m still not there. At all.

Recently, I’ve come to realize that nothing is sacred. I literally don’t think I can tell anyone ANYTHING without it traveling through the byzantine conduits of all of my friends’ brains. I mean, don’t get me wrong, these are my people. And I’m guilty of the same thing. But it’s more than just gossip when I step back (a good back) and really take a gander.

 How do you get to know people? You open up to them. You act, you speak, and they construct an opinion of you in their heads. And so is born an idea, a conception of you that lives and exists in their upper story. But when it gets interesting, I think, is when you link your swings together so that you’re married: you're idea of who this person is mingles orison with palpable presence and the acquisition, is that you know them. Really well. So well, that you've xeroxed copies of each segment of them, dissected them, chewed them up and out until that conception is a beaten, unholy corpse of an idea. And that corpse buried deep in your upper story matches how you literally see them. 

I’ve also realized that I’m a magnet for guys I’m not interested in. And this magnet, is pretty fucking strong. GIIIIIIIIT SUMMMMMMMMMM. 

Unknown Track 5

What's in a name? I haven't been sleeping very well lately (Inception-induced or not), and I've been thinking a lot about things I haven't thought about in awhile. Those things happen to come from the highlights of my heartdrive. Although I have loved many people in my life, there are certain souls who will always stay with me. And that is because of one thing: the way they said my name. 

Who the person was, is, or is not, is not significant. When said individual calls your name, references you in a story, or introduces you to someone, you know exactly how they feel about you. But beyond that, I've had people who I thought liked me alright, but said my name with the utmost pride, and it changed everything. You wonder what you did to appear so grand in their eyes, but that doesn't even matter. What matters, (in the big picture) is the unforgettable feeling you got because of it: that you are someone important, dear, worthwhile.

One of my dear friends is going through an overdose of bullshit from her supposed best friends from college. Classic case of Mean Girls, but it's just gone too far (& we all know how Lindsay Lohan fucking turned out). If you allow people to spit on your name, and belittle you in diatribes, then who the fuck are you? And when do you draw the line? It's much easier said then done; easier to spot from the outside than inside. But how much shit are you supposed to take 'til they're satisfied? 

Until you're a broken, hollow shell of a person? 

Oh, if you knew what it meant to me

There are things I've always known.

I biked with my 12 year-old gem of a kin, Michael, yesterday. He's been begging me to go biking with him all summer, and I have been regrettably "tomorrowing" him every time. But I'm so glad I finally went. 

Our destination was Sonic, probably ten minutes from my house via car, but easily 30 plus minutes on cycle. First we went to the nostalgic track I cited a few posts ago. We biked there, and despite the condemning "No Bikes, Animals, or Amateurs" pseudo-sign, we contravened the rules. With a hazy-ing 110 degree feel, Michael and I could only comprehend walking. After one lap of swimming through the deep-end of air, and unable to do another, I trapeezed onto my bike parked next to the bleachers, and started circling the track. While there were no other track-ees to watch out for (or piss off, for the matter), it felt badass, and wonderful. Michael joined me and together we did a couple miles, Best Coast and Beach Boys flooding and fueling my system. I don't know how long he had been doing it, but I noticed, waking from my sun daze, that Michael was standing in the middle of the lawn on the inside of the track, beneath the single, stoic sprinkler, getting drenched. I don't know what it was about the picture I saw, but I've never seen him look so old.

After the track, Michael and I took off on the trek to Sonic. I assumed we would be riding the streets, but to my surprise, we made it almost the whole way a la trail. It was great. It was great to have Michael lead the way as "tour guide." It was great to see how happy that made him. It was great to dust off the settings of so many of my childhood memories treated with thoughtless inattention. It was great to see Michael experience something good and not worry about our financial situation that he should not have to give a shit about. I will tell you this: there are few feelings as great as wind steering your bike down a huge hill while you listen to that one favorite song. 

The highlight of the trek was actually at the very beginning: Plunging into the woods on my 1950s cycle,   I was overwhelmed by the pungent smell of it all, and commented on it. Instead of agreeing, or not saying anything (*not uncommon for most pre-pubescent adolescents), Michael said, "It's life, Katie." 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGYIWrZm5no

Roman Candles

-bits from the work.

"Her apartment was huge. I was surprised at seeing anything at all because she's one of those people I can't picture living anywhere. Even after she took out her keys, I still really didn't believe she lived in the fancy complex. It would, after all, be totally like her to "borrow" an apartment from someone.

But as soon as I peered inside, I knew it was hers. The hard wood floor I sensed was there was not only invisible, but the piles of clothes on the floor were shaped into mountains and valleys, mocking any notion of a floor at all. The clothes were permanent, perennial fixtures in the room that looked like they had been there for years.

Awkwardly, I looked around the room for something, anything that reassured me that someone could actually live there. Hung stark on the bare walls, I spotted a calender. I waded knee deep in clothes to get a closer inspection; it was four years old."

You Stay. I Go. No Following.

So, decided to throw down the old school XANGAA layout for this post. 

Currently Listening To: Light Pollution, Keepaway, Elsinore

Currently Reading: "The Irresistible Henry House"

Current Mood: Strung-out

"Part of the problem is nothing is true 

and nothing has happened at all Used to let me see your yellow wings"

Now I'm gonna accompany the "currents" of xangaism with a harmony of facts.

1. I've been walking on this nostalgic, forgotten track by my house. It's about a mile away, and I manage to bike or walk there almost everyday. And everyday, iPod super-glued to my ears, I walk. Sometimes I vary this walking with running/jogging, but most of the time I walk. I was about to write that I love it, because it keeps me sane, but that's not true. I don't love it, it's just something that I have to do.

 Because out there on the beaten-up track, I fall into a black-turf hole of my thoughts, my nostalgia. I think, I discover, I learn, I cringe, I smile, I wait, I yearn, I can- control one thing in my life: walking on the track. (And yes, I DO REALIZE I am, indeed, walking in "circles." And no, the irony does not escape me.) 

2. I went to Omaha for the fourth of july and although I didn't really manage to see fireworks, I happened to catch them on the ride home with my Dad. I was syncing into hibernation with Bon Iver, when my Dad woke me and pointed to the fireworks. But first I noticed the sky. We were on a highway passing over some forest and lake, and the sky looked......like nothing I had ever seen before. It looked mature. And I felt like I had caught the clandestine sky in an act of finality. On impulse, I looked away, then realized how ridiculous I was. 

SO, I readjusted my eyesight to the eyesore of fireworks. I've always loved fireworks, whether it be fireworks themselves, the Animal Collective triumph, or the in-utterable feeling. But these fireworks were boring: collections of the Time Square Balls on New Year's Eve, all of which would rise, then fall. Predictable, gaudy, and elated with mendacious hope of what is to come after it all. 

Stories I Only Tell My Friends

I feel you swallow my soul with your stare
And when your fingers of aspen trees slip over my face like time from my grip, 
I smile with everything i've got

but then my mind swells into flitting grey puffs
flashing and burning, I reach for you, for your lightning  
i sit down in the darkness and feel for you
i'm afraid
i wait for days
but I still can't find you

Then I see you
Your hair is wet
And your face is tye-dyed with strangeness

And it's not the same

I feel lost

Your indigo grass of today somehow grows on the ground of yesterday
I realize I must go back the way I came

I set you down and thank you, thanking you with all of my heart 

and I am thankful 

that that's the gift-wrapped end-feeling you receive from me 

Too Young to Burn

I'm high and I feel like tonight, well especially tonight, but overall happening over the course of a few weeks or maybe my whole lifetime, everyone is an illuminated, cartoonized statue. And statues don't move, so the people around me don't move, however, because I slowly orbit around their immobile, stoic bearings, it still seems like they can move. Andthis is where the cartoon part comes in ->>>Because cartoons are just a series of pictures manipulated by an artist to become a story, to become a character, to become something meaningful enough for it to seem real. 

That's how I was looking at people tonight. 

^That's what I wrote the other night around 4ishh o'clock in the morning. I wasn't going to publish it because it seemed to be just mary-jane jabber, but a good friend encouraged me to still do it. And so I publish the jabber, but with an attached note. 

I've always claimed that I know what people think of me, but I couldn't ever actually change myself just to change their minds. That still rings true. But lately, I've been realizing how much different of a person I am. And I know, I know, everyone thinks of themselves as "weird," and you know what? We all are weird. Really, ridiculously weird. But I'm talking different in the sense that I function differently than most people. I love people. I constantly need people, but I also like to be alone. I like to do my own thang. I don't like it when people own a piece of me, and so I fear commitment in any sense. Chances are, if you've met me, you would understand the meaning behind the term "KatieLand." (^TM) The people who choose to include me in their life (although sometimes it's not a choice) often drop-kick this saying whenever I'm supposed to be somewhere and I'm not. And that happens a lot. But people often mistag this tendency as "immature," "irresponsible," and (my favorite) "selfish." Believe me, 97% of the time, it's not because of those favorable traits. I'm simply not there because I'm not there. (God that sounds dumb). But it's what I believe to be true, childish, or not.

And how can we ask anyone to stray from what they know is true? 

And I know it well....

In what cases is the cause the best cure?

The Way to Love

SO. Tis that time of year again. And this year, a lot of things are ending. But I never thought that things would be like this....I feel fucking nostalgic, and for what reason? I'm only going to be a junior next year. I have time. But this year was different. 

I feel like I'm missing what everyone else is accepting as I sway in reminiscence. And that is the notion that I appreciate the beings I weld myself to much more than they appreciate me. So am I missing that paste- that gooey glue spooning two perfectly-cut graham crackers? Meh. Bad wording. But, seriously. Why is it that I love telling stories and constantly do impressions and make fucking movies of people? Why do I love my friends so much? Why do I incessantly reject the notion of tightening my already loose grip on reality? The answer, dear friend, I do not own. 

But I do own something. 

I read this book by Anthony deMello for a painful core class I took with a ton of lanyards (freshman). The class: sucked; the lanyards: neon "green." BUT, I did take something semi-substantial away from it because of da man deMello. Essentially, deMello theorizes that the people we love who we think we can’t live without, we actually are not attached to. At all. We are merely deluding ourselves into the belief that without these people, we will not be happy. HMM, deMello, hmm. 

So, technically, ga ga gag-ful, "swimming through maple syrup" greeting cards and cheese-encrusted, ANTI-climatic movie climaxes that use words such as, (but not limited to), "die," "without," "you," and/or "make," "me," "sandwich" are full of shit. Love is built up in society to be this un-popped bubble of wonder and elitism, so is that why our relationships with others is, basically, set up for failure? How can we not compare what our mother/signif othurr/best frann does juxtaposed to society's love slander? 

Although I am a big movie person and bookworm, I still feel like most people can identify with this: when someone nailed into your heart and happiness has declared some defining devotions towards you (or vice versa), instead of settling music swelling in the background (like in every movie) you find yourself, outside of yourself, wondering if you had heard that from an Austen novel (Yes, 'You pierce my soul' is not original) or from a t.v. soap series, because you're not happy like the movie characters, you don't embrace your devotee, you just feel "cliched" and unsettled. 

Because unless you were (lucky enough) to live in the truly rural outbacks of the earth and have no mainstream media influence on your life, how can you claim your Mother's Day card and sentiments weren't fake? Grab your balls. They're fake. 

Yeah, fuck. Does this mean that every sentimental love epic of your life was actually just a cheap rip-off of a Lifetime Original or (dear god) a "should really be in the adult section 'artsy' movie"? The answer, again, I do not own. Because, guess what, those could be rip-offs too.   

Things

Let's talk about things.

"Of course there's always love. WHAT? What! Stop it what are you thinking?!....Love is lovely. Yes, it is. Well, you should know, so should I, because we're in love. THE ONLY THING IS- we haven't met you. It's inevitable that we shall meet, it's just the method that needs to be settled upon. So, so I decide what I'm going to do to meet you is I'm going to sit and wait for you to walk by! (Because of course you're going to walk by). And so I do and so I sit and I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and I wait, and I wait....and I wait. And of course you don't walk by, and of course it starts to rain, and of course I don't have a change of clothes. So I have to sit in the laundromat in my underwear and wait for my clothes to dry. And as fate would have it YOU WALK IN. 

AND OF COURSE YOU DON'T LOOK AT ME BECAUSE YOU'RE TRAINED NOT TO LOOK AT PEOPLE IN LAUNDROMATS IN THEIR UNDERWEAR- but i look at you....And not only do i look at you, but i see you. And i see your overbite, and your chewed-up pencil, and that cute- stupid- look on your face when your sock hits the ground and i think that it just might be. And your reaction when the hot zipper hits your forearm-GOD!- and i think that it is God. 

This is God."

They Built Their Homes, They Built Their Tombs

Dear Elitist Hipster--

You are painfully cool. Your rose-tinted self perception is glowing in the nonconformist dark. You grind your neon teeth with thoughts of mainstream.  You review and condemn and glorify music, movies, arts, people, people, people, especially people. You walk to class, shrugging your shoulders of your fellow collegiate streetwalkers: unworthy, illegit individuals who don't possess a goddamn artistic taste bud. You don't believe anyone can reach your level, even your fools of friends. You think you're funny, a good writer, and ironic. And you are, believe me, you are.  Thank you for bestowing upon us your oxymoronic-flavored judgement. It tastes good. 

.

But what have you done?  

.

You haven't done any good. 

.

And you're not going to change the world. 

.

So how about you stop spitting on the creation those individuals have composed, and start chewing on your own golden tongue? Stop accessorizing your judgement with Ray-Banned sighs. 

Only then will your mind truly romp with the mind of God. Only then will you suck on the pap of life, gulping down the incomparable milk of wonder. 

That was the most fun i've had without laughing

"Too casual and independent; doesn't do relationships." Gag me- that sounds like a bad e-harmony "before-i-was-single-and-it-was-horrible-and-now-i-met-this-person-online-and-now-look!-we're-smiling-and-laughing-in-a-commercial." Nnnnnnnnno. 

Ironically, it's hard for me to find the words for something that I've woven into so many posts. LO-VE. (And, don't worry, this is not me coming out of a "bloget" or anything, dear friend). For the better part of last year, I was consciously lonely (and alone). Now, it's not like that at all. Somewhere between getting some in '09 and getting some maturity in 2K10, I realized that settling is never the answer. 

So there's this guy who likes me. And it's one of those eyes locked, music taste synched, laugh at every funny/non-funny joke kind of thing. I wasn't sure if I liked him or not (alcohol was the third party member the times we had hung out). But then we went and saw Alice in Wonderland in 3D. I wasn't sure how the night would unfold.  The possibility of trying shrooms for (I think) the first time was not balancing on my relationship-tester scale. That night was supposed to be the "okay, we're not inebriated (for once), could this actually go anywhere?" Or, the painful "okay, we're not inebriated, do we actually have ANYTHING in common?!" No matter what, it's going to be awkward. Probably 97.6% of the time, that BudLightLoveyLove hiccups itself out- or purges itself, unmercifully, regrettably, out of your somber systems.

But there are those immortalizing times where you finally feel "something" with someone- and that something is everything. It's in the way you hear their holy laugh over everyone else's. How the imperishable mold of your committed hands in theirs is a work of art. How your heart runs marathons at night, drunk with thoughts of them.  And so you have to take that sober leap, no matter how excruciating that night and the English class you have together will be for the next 6 weeks. You have to, because if you don't, you die. 

i love phoenix. 

"Acres 

Visible horizon 

Right where it starts and ends 

When did we start the end? 

Acres 

Visible illusion 

Where it starts it ends 

Love like a sunset"