This weekend has been a blur of excess, waking up in foreign beds, champagne straight from the bottle, dancing till my feet hurt, vinyl records, ex-boyfriends, hangovers, sleep deprivation, New York boys, random run-ins, pathetic heartache from 3000 miles away despite not a single word exchanged, and dreams that I don't want to decipher. So, it has been a good weekend, although I don't know if I want to repeat it. Strike that, this Saturday will probably be a round two, and hopefully sans the bad boy karma. Now how do I pick up good boy karma? One handbook, please.
It was a mutual decision between the friends who partook in the previously mentioned activities that you really need to spend your 20s getting shitfaced so you can spend your 30s sobering up while waiting in your 40s for a liver transplant. Thus, I say HOORAY to my short term brilliant/long term piss-poor decisions.
And oddly, at the end of the day, no matter how tired, how hungover, how [insert delicate emotion here], a helping of McDonald french fries is a good cure. Amazing.
See ya later, 2008!
-------thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they tumble blindly as they make their way across the universe
Monday, December 29, 2008
Sunday, December 21, 2008
She said
The Japanese Fan Girl says: What the hell, Clamp? You are a mindfuck and need to stop these crossover in xxxHolic and Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicle! And these new revelations that so-and-so character is actually a clone are making me angry. Kill a character and keep 'em dead!
The Psuedo-Fashionista says: Is anyone else not impressed by the new Alexander McQueen line? This is heartbreak.
The 14 year old in me says: I just bought season one and two of Dawson's Creek for ten bucks each, and I'm not ashamed to admit so. In fact, there is pride.
The recluse says: I just bent down to pick something off the ground and heard the inevitable RIIIIPPPPPPPP! sound that comes after wearing a part of PJs for one year too long. Good bye plaid pink pants, hello nudity.
The sleep deprived girl asks: Why do you marathon shows in one sitting? Okay, it might have only been a 13 episode series at 20 minutes a piece, but why did you start at 10pm and then stayed up a few more hours watching interviews on youtube?
I've been trying to be more focused in these posting, as in sticking to a single subject and soapboxing my heart on the topic. But lately, it's been a no-go. Which means a few things: a) I really don't care about blogging; b) my life is not that interesting; c) my life, actually, is interesting but by the time I sit to write about it, I don't care anymore; or d) Writing (publicly) is not fun anymore.
Writing is my way of coping with the world. I keep diaries, dream journals, and notepads full of random thoughts, which are all very private things. And the blogosphere is a not-so private place that I've been having trouble treading about lately. For when I blog, it seems to be at my most-for lack of a better term-passionate moment. When I'm most angry, excited, annoyed, you pick the emotion I'll peak at. Naturally, I had my fair share of such emotional standpoints these past few months that back in my high school days would have me racing for my keyboard. Except that now, I'm not in high school and I can't really point fingers at people that have broken my heart, disappointed me, or made me reach for that shotgun under my bed out of anger because chances are, they might be reading. So I've reached that existentialist impasse most blogger reach but would never coin the phrase as such: Why blog at all?
To be a blogger, you have to be egoistic at some level. Why write for the world to read, to post pictures for the world to see, upload songs for---you get the picture. For human connection, to derive an emotion out of someone else? Uh, sure. I've yet to reach an answer, nor reach a state of self-confidence to admit I'm pretty fucking egoistic. So again, why do the blog thing? Because it's a form of virtual hedonism and you all are Internet voyeurs for peeking behind web browsers to read my silly words. So let's continue the way of instant gratification as I'll still stand on the soapbox and perhaps the new year will see a better me. And by that, I mean, a better blogger me as I already know 2009 will be a continuation of fuck-ups, fuck you's, and fuck me's.
The Psuedo-Fashionista says: Is anyone else not impressed by the new Alexander McQueen line? This is heartbreak.
The 14 year old in me says: I just bought season one and two of Dawson's Creek for ten bucks each, and I'm not ashamed to admit so. In fact, there is pride.
The recluse says: I just bent down to pick something off the ground and heard the inevitable RIIIIPPPPPPPP! sound that comes after wearing a part of PJs for one year too long. Good bye plaid pink pants, hello nudity.
The sleep deprived girl asks: Why do you marathon shows in one sitting? Okay, it might have only been a 13 episode series at 20 minutes a piece, but why did you start at 10pm and then stayed up a few more hours watching interviews on youtube?
I've been trying to be more focused in these posting, as in sticking to a single subject and soapboxing my heart on the topic. But lately, it's been a no-go. Which means a few things: a) I really don't care about blogging; b) my life is not that interesting; c) my life, actually, is interesting but by the time I sit to write about it, I don't care anymore; or d) Writing (publicly) is not fun anymore.
Writing is my way of coping with the world. I keep diaries, dream journals, and notepads full of random thoughts, which are all very private things. And the blogosphere is a not-so private place that I've been having trouble treading about lately. For when I blog, it seems to be at my most-for lack of a better term-passionate moment. When I'm most angry, excited, annoyed, you pick the emotion I'll peak at. Naturally, I had my fair share of such emotional standpoints these past few months that back in my high school days would have me racing for my keyboard. Except that now, I'm not in high school and I can't really point fingers at people that have broken my heart, disappointed me, or made me reach for that shotgun under my bed out of anger because chances are, they might be reading. So I've reached that existentialist impasse most blogger reach but would never coin the phrase as such: Why blog at all?
To be a blogger, you have to be egoistic at some level. Why write for the world to read, to post pictures for the world to see, upload songs for---you get the picture. For human connection, to derive an emotion out of someone else? Uh, sure. I've yet to reach an answer, nor reach a state of self-confidence to admit I'm pretty fucking egoistic. So again, why do the blog thing? Because it's a form of virtual hedonism and you all are Internet voyeurs for peeking behind web browsers to read my silly words. So let's continue the way of instant gratification as I'll still stand on the soapbox and perhaps the new year will see a better me. And by that, I mean, a better blogger me as I already know 2009 will be a continuation of fuck-ups, fuck you's, and fuck me's.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Harvard's loss
Me: Ok, if we go to Souplantation, you're going to have to eat, too.
Sister: That's fine, I like soups. And plants.
Me: From the plantations? Do you even know what a plantation is?
Sister: (long pause)
Me: It's a field, mainly where the slaves had to work.
Sister: I knew that, I just needed a reminder.
Me: I worry about you in college. For instance, who's Karl Marx?
Sister: He's that black guy.
The end.
Sister: That's fine, I like soups. And plants.
Me: From the plantations? Do you even know what a plantation is?
Sister: (long pause)
Me: It's a field, mainly where the slaves had to work.
Sister: I knew that, I just needed a reminder.
Me: I worry about you in college. For instance, who's Karl Marx?
Sister: He's that black guy.
The end.
Saturday, December 06, 2008
Really? No.
Cashier with my ID in hand: Cammie, that's a pretty name.
Me: Thanks, so's Miles. I once dated a Miles, but he wasn't as cute as you.
Cashier: Really?
Me: No, but that would have been a great pick-up line, huh?
All's fair in love and war, and small talk with your cashier as you're waiting for your credit card to be processed.
Me: Thanks, so's Miles. I once dated a Miles, but he wasn't as cute as you.
Cashier: Really?
Me: No, but that would have been a great pick-up line, huh?
All's fair in love and war, and small talk with your cashier as you're waiting for your credit card to be processed.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Story time
Person with a bunch of health and possibly mental issues: Well, I've gained a lot of weight over the last year.
Doctor: How much?
Person: Like a hundred.
Doctor: You've gained about a hundred pounds?
Person: Yea.
Doctor: So last year, you only weighed 54 pounds?
There were more stories but they needed to be in context. My workplace is full of stories, some to make you laugh, some to make you disgusted, some to make you feel intellectually superior, and some to make you cry because unfortunate things can happen to good people who don't deserve them.
Today is day one of my self-inflicted no smoking resolution. So far, I hate Di Lam who is a taunting she-devil and a reminder that I can't succumb, even though I'm about 85 percent sure that this Friday will be my downfall. Oh well, we'll just mark these days as a reprieve for my lovely organs. Like the LA smog hasn't done its damage already.
Doctor: How much?
Person: Like a hundred.
Doctor: You've gained about a hundred pounds?
Person: Yea.
Doctor: So last year, you only weighed 54 pounds?
There were more stories but they needed to be in context. My workplace is full of stories, some to make you laugh, some to make you disgusted, some to make you feel intellectually superior, and some to make you cry because unfortunate things can happen to good people who don't deserve them.
Today is day one of my self-inflicted no smoking resolution. So far, I hate Di Lam who is a taunting she-devil and a reminder that I can't succumb, even though I'm about 85 percent sure that this Friday will be my downfall. Oh well, we'll just mark these days as a reprieve for my lovely organs. Like the LA smog hasn't done its damage already.
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