The Coachella Gods are dead.

Mother of god!!!! Third year that I'm being screwed over to see Conor Oberst at Coachella. It's ridiculous to the point where I think the world is against me and Conor ever locking eyes and falling madly in love for fear that our children will usher in the Apocalypse, or at least write terrible pop songs that no person should ever be subjected to. Let's see what previous (and soon to be previous) years have forced me to choose between:

2004, Conor versus Air/Muse.
2005, Conor versus me having a ride home because he was the last act of the night.
2009, Conor versus Franz Ferdinand.

I mean, COME ON! It's Franz FREAKING Ferdinand! They're the love of my dancefloor life! The odds are constantly stacked against me each year that it doesn't make sense anymore. I'm going to sulk underneath my desk at work now.

God save the queen!

Okay, I suck at this blogging thing. Strike that, I really, really, really suck at this blogging thing because I'm no longer an angst-ridding 16 year old girl who believes the world hates me and I'm condemned to a life of misunderstandings by anyone over the age of 30, therefore I have to spend 15 minutes every day writing about the terrible and at times gasp-inducing moments of my life. Instead, I grew up to be a 24 year old girl with bad sleeping and eating habits and who has a freaking good concept of "perspective." I also grew up to be a girl with a run-on sentence problem, but that's neither here nor there. Rather, it's a "I suck at grammar forever" issue. So my consolation to myself is to keep a weekly list of things and see where things go from there. Here's this week list, and in no particular order:

My Top 4 Biblical Moments
1. When Michael fought Lucifer, which gave rise to the concept of good and evil, archangels, fallen angels, and epic tattoos.
2. Noah and his ark, which must of had some secret compartment to Narnia or how did he fit two of every dinosaur? Have you not seen a T-Rex? They're huge!
3. Adam and Eve chilling in Eden with polar bears, lions, and alligators like it was an every day occurrence, which it actually was for them.
4. Cain and Abel, the first recorded tale of sibling rivalry and source of my favorite biblical quote, "Am I my brother's keeper?"
5. The Rapture, it just sounds cool and a constant reminder of people's paranoia.

I like the Bible, which I even capitalized to show how much I like it. Only I'm a fan of it from a very non-religious stance. Broken down in base terms, I think it's a very good book with very interesting plots. Taken out of Christian theology, the bible is filled with epic stories. For instance, the destruction of a city? Parents using their children as sacrifices? Lion dens, murder, a whole lot of this "begetting" issue, and a civil war in heaven instigated by a former angel? If you were to fictionalize that last one, you would have a really keen tale of two ex-friends (Michael and Lucifer) at war with each other to keep their sides from fall apart, a ruler who stands on the edge of events and watches it unfold, and a war with sword fights and crossbows. There's probably a lot more to that but I haven't read that verse in detail.

I'm not even going to explain myself any further because that would probably lead to a lot of people getting angry at me or not willing to see things from where I stand. Hey, remember the 24 year old girl with the good sense of "perspective?" She's backing away right now and just wants all to know that she's currently reading Paradise Lost, so that list stems from 2am reading of prose.

Till the next week, now to ponder what list I'll write up then. (I'm also noting the odd factor of this list being posted on Easter Sunday.)

Down the rabbit hole

I vasovagal-ed today. That has never happened to me before, it was a weird feeling to be the one on the exam table while my co-workers hovered beside me to make sure I wasn't going to lose consciousness. Then my chest tightened and I wish I had my inhaler. Today is one of those stupid days, where all signs pointed to Rome, or in my case, the doctor's office. Screw 2009 being the year of the Ox, it's the year of health care bills. I'm about 700 down. How did that happen? That's a new laptop right there--before shipping, handling, and taxes, that is. Still, NEW computer!

Be kind, rewind

Working in a health care profession is too tempting to call in your own prescriptions for happy drugs. Although, I found out today that my friend had to fire someone from her clinic for doing such a thing. But that's because the person was stupid. You don't do orders for 40 vicodin tablets because most insurances will only pay for a 30 quantity supply fill. Well, that's your after school special from me this week: How to Manipulate the System for Drugs.

But yeah! Drugs, please! My mouth is a bit sore from the dentist. The trip wasn't all that bad, considering I'm no longer eight years old and require three medical assistants to hold me down and a bite guard to prevent me from chomping off the dentist's fingers. The diagnosis was not awe-inspiring at all. Instead, I have multiple follow up visits that will result in numbing parts of my face/mouth. Oh, and I need to get some wisdom teeth pulled. Mothereffer. I really hope I get some vicodin.

On another close but separate tangent, I would make a really bad drug addict.

So the other half of this horrible, no good, terrible week's recap involves my launch into the past on Sunday. I was catapulted about 15 good years into my past at the engagement party. Met the bride who was my BFF when I was five, because Barbies are friendship builders and she had quite a few. Met the guy after my dad reintroduced us for five seconds, then met him again after his tipsy dad re-reintroduced us. To commemorate the encounter, we had an awkward conversation and our picture taken. At the party, my family ran into the husband of my pre-kindergarten days babysitter. I was the flower girl for their wedding and spent many nights asleep at her place. So of course, we hightailed it to his house for a 15 year reunion. Seeing her teenage kids was an odd experience, especially when I told them that I knew their mom and dad before they were married.

That marks my foray into a time period I'd never think to revisit. Oh, and t-minus 15 minutes until I turn 24. Hooray???

Some time travel please

I'm not looking forward to the following week. Sunday has me at an engagement party where my parents want me polished up so they can start on my own engagement. They've got high hopes for an old world hook-up between me and a friend of the family's son. I wonder if a dowry will be included and how many horses I'm worth. Please say ten.

Thursday is a trip to the dentist, who I abhor. I have nothing against the person, just their profession. My fear of going to the dentist is so bad that I will let you push me down a flight of stairs. I will let you slug me across the face or even gently hit me with a car.

Then my birthday on Saturday. Granted, I'm going to Disneyland, but still, I hate my birthday and hate the fact I'm turning 24. 23 was such a good number, not so much a good year, but a good number. When I hit 30, I think I might cry. Strike that and reverse it, 23 was a good year. I got a job, reconciled with an old friend and made a new one, and went to Europe.

Somebody just hit me with a bat right now and let me sleep till Saturday. Just wake me up so I can strap myself on at Space Mountain.

Comatose Joy

I love my friend Carlos who drags me from one random LA event to the next and if it weren't for him, I would probably become a recluse. Thursday night as I'm driving home, he calls me to go out for a drink, unwind, and just shake off the work day stress. But hanging out with him means I don't leave until after 10 and with the rain that day, I really didn't feel like it. "Come on, there'll be some cool DJs and just stay for one drink. I RSVP'd and can bring in two people for free, you and Phuong." Ugh ugh ugh. Guilt. "Ohhhhhh-kay. I'm just staying for a bit."

Hours later and we don't leave until 2am.

I hate you Diplo.

And by that, I mean, I love you so much I want to kidnap you so you can spin for me on the drop of a hat. Diplo is a DJ god and people can write off spinning as slipping one record on after another but that just means they've never been privy to such a good set. How good? I was ready to blow the place around 1am, jacket on, bag slung over one shoulder when that sweet note of a song came and I stayed rooted and dance till lights out. Then woke up for work 3 hour later. Hate you Diplo that I would do it all over again.

Oh, bought the Coachella tickets. Desert dance party is officially on now. Countdown, please. In the meanwhile, I'm applying for a semi-new job, very convinced that Fleet Foxes is this year's Bon Iver, and speed reading at a book a night. So far, I'm 3 for 4 nights. Not too shabby.

Desert dance party

I should have gone the last three years but didn't for whatever lame reason. This year, finances be damned. Foreign trips abroad be damned. And heat exhaustion be damned. Now to work the overtime to pay for this April's bite in my wallet.

So won't you come hang out with me in the dance tents and cry along to Leonard Cohen and Conor Oberst?

Wanderlust

I want to live in the following cities for however long they hold my fancy: NYC, Tokyo, Saigon, Seoul, and Vienna. I've been to all sans for Tokyo but that can be easily remedied with the emptying of my bank account. They're all metropolis cities and I know that my life won't change even if the location will. Movies, meals, and concerts will most likely hold a reservation of one even across the globe. I'll still thread through crowds like a needle waiting to reach the fabric's end. I've got the travel bug bad that I dream of skyscrapers and walking down dusty roads cramped with houses and buildings. It's also self-satisfaction, really. Where is home and when will I find it?

I want to think that it's just more than a travel bug, that it's the universe telling me that I need to leave LA. That I am going to have major epic adventures in some foreign city and meet some of the most absolutely amazing people ever (even though I think I've met a good fair share already). But days like today where it's 82 degrees in January and girls are walking around in sun dresses and flip flop, I question the guidance of the universe. It so happens that aside from Saigon, those above listed cities are home to snowy days, which with my tiny physique and large mouth for complaints might equal to a lot of day huddled in mountain-thick blankets. Win some, lose some, my ass. And still, the Queen Mab of travel beckons me with her wayward whispers.

To the end!

RIP Red shoes, we hardly knew ye. It was only your second outing in this world but you were no match for the cold streets of San Francisco on New Year's Eve. May your alcohol-soaked soles rest in shoe heaven.

And then some

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!

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.

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.

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.

Thank you for playing

Day 2 and a-HAHAHAHAHAH.

Nice attempt on my part, maybe next time, kiddo.

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.

To the birthplace of the summer

Some mornings I wake up with the strangest desires, though most have to do with food cravings. This morning was the want to see the California coast line along the 5 freeway. It reminds me of Sunday afternoons where I'm driving from home back to college and the sun rays that pierce through loose forming clouds, glittering upon ocean waves. The small stretch of ocean that I get to see always brings a quiet smile to my face, and I miss it.

It's lazy Sundays like today that make me want to act on nostalgia and just drive straight on down down down to see the coast, then past the border gates, and right into the heart of Baja Mexico. Instead, I'm blissfully spending the day reading in a hammock in midday sun.

Pinky up, please!

I wonder what do people expect when they ask you "How have you been?" Is there supposed to be a correct answer to that or should the universal "I'm good" suffice? The questions seeps a little further down my brain when I think of old friends meeting up after long stretches of time. Granted they're meeting up to reacquaint themselves with each other but how concise of an answer should surface? Variables do include the time elapsed and the state of the friendship, so I wonder in what right situation I'd be able to say:

"Well, I was madly in love with this boy who played guitar for some dinky band. But he left me for New York City in order to pursue his career, promises of faithfulness were exchanged. So one weekend, I surprised him by showing up at his place only to walk in to see his treacherous lips on some girl's. Romance aside, I got into a huge fight with my co-worker who's also a really good friend of mine. It wouldn't be so bad if he and I weren't the only two out of three people working at the clinic. Awkward hostility has been commonplace for us. I also think I might have a drinking problem but aside from all of that, I'm good. And you?"

I'm guessing, very few situations would be proper enough to illicit such an answer from me. But one can always dream, can't they?

Bend to Sqaures

After heavily drowning my sorrows in chili cheese fries from the somewhat passing of Proposition 8, I researched universities in Boston. I'm pretty much convinced at this point that I want to go to grad school in Boston or NYC, or anywhere in the New England states, really. I blame my romanticism of the city, where I'll spend nights walking home from bars (or the library, because this is grad school and apparently, they do heavy duty reading) along the quiet slumber of streets awashed in snow. Like I said, it's a very romanticized version of the hell I'm unleashing onto myself come fall of 2010. Assuming I get into grad school, that is.

And of all things to get me started on this wondrous academic trek: a boy. I bought my first GREs book this past weekend so when I'm studying at the local library, nice Library Boy will not think I'm 17. Proud of the fact that it took a random boy I haven't even met to get me studying? Hardly. But one has to start somewhere, so if I get into Boston U, I will send Library Boy a singing telegram, a happy gift card, or whatever passes for gratitude these days.

Looping back to my earlier sorrows, I'm disheartened by the conservative nature of so many Californians. I take that back, I'm stymied by their selfishness, that they would dare keep two people from marriage. I can marry a jerk of a man but never wed some lovely girl? Why should it really matter so much when the only difference is biological? If we were all born asexual, this wouldn't be such a big deal. It's frustrating, utterly so but tears can only get you so far before it's time to join the social revolution. So away with the crying, because everything will be okay in the end, they always are.

To the center of the city

Saturday night proved to be another reason why I need to move to NYC: taxi cabs and all night dance parties. In honor of John Peel's death-iversary, there was some art show/dance party in LA that me and the gay boyfriends attended, complete with a taxi ride there and phone-a-friend ride home. I'm pretty sure I did a number on my liver and lungs that night but when Belle and Sebastian are blasting from turntable speakers, a girl has to flashdance her way through the night. Twee pop had my dance card filled to the margin and I'm not sorry to say so.

So a move to NYC or San Francisco is in order because I'm tired of driving home during the witching hours. Cheap taxis and adequate public transportation, please. Granted it's all the more reason to stumble home drunk but at least, I'll be doing it safely. I've hurt myself with parked vehicles, think of me in a moving vehicle. Danger to society, much?

On a more global scale, perhaps a move to a foreign European country is on order. They've got public transportation down to the wire and drinking is a national pastime. Now to just find a job there or smuggle myself across borders, same diff.

Love from Wien!

Drunk in Vienna right now, loving the city and had my first meal in a restaurant in 48 hours. So far, the roll call has been Dublin, Budapest. The second was more of an accident as there was fog where our flight should have landed in Bratislava, where I sat by the most horrid family. Grown sons that may have never heard of a "shower" and parents who were hacking up a lung complete with phlem. Lovely. So we took a train from Budapest to Vienna instead. Next stop, Prague.