Well, a new blog I am affiliated with, anyway. It's Dana's blog.
http://knucklesdeep.blogspot.com
It's basically the best idea Dana has ever had. We write two-word phrases (four-letter words, natch) on her fingers, then take a picture of it and post it, with a brief explanation. The first day showcased the iconic "Thug Life," then Dana got creative and came up with "Taco Bell." I'm the Art Director, which means I draw the words on her, and take the pictures. I've also come up with some of the knuckle phrases. "Head Lice"? That one was all me. The forthcoming post (I don't want to ruin the surprise) is my favorite yet, and I wrote the blurb explaining why it was such an important choice. The credit for the phrase is all Dana, though.
If you can think of any sweet knuckle phrases you'd like to see written on Dana, please pass them along.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Yay school.
Right, quickly: Had my procedure, everything is fine. Also, I did tell my mom about it, she was very supportive. I still don't have internet at home, and have very limited access at work, so... I exist only in the real world, for the most part. Sad, but also liberating, as I no longer feel the need to hit "refresh" every few minutes when I do happen to be on a computer. I've completely stopped Slogging, am rarely on myspace, and as you can see don't do much updating here. It's just a phase, I'm sure.
The biggest thing going on for me right now (aside from hanging out with Jon all the time, because I'm one of those people who falls in love and stops calling her friends) is the Creative Writing class I'm taking. It's basically great. Almost everyone in the class seems to want to be there, which makes a huge difference. There's a real sense of camaraderie when we discuss our pieces, and I love it. With that said, I'm going to include my first assignment, a short dialogue in the style of a one-act play (not that I'd expect anyone to act it out, the point of the assignment was writing dialogue and making believing characters that the reader/listener cares about). Sorry subscribers, I don't know the blogspot equivalent of an "lj-cut," so it's going to be long.
"The Forever Girl"
Characters:
Cecilia; 30 years old, dark hair, business-casual dress.
Tom; 35 years old, tall, conventionally attractive, wearing a suit.
Setting: Mid-scale hotel room, not fancy, not dirty. Both sitting on the made bed, both fully dressed, except for Tom’s jacket, which has been hung on a chair. Her purse is on the desk, above which hangs a mirror.
Cecilia: So, she’s "the one?"
Tom: She fucking better be. I asked her to marry me, didn’t I?
Cecilia: Don’t swear at me. You never used to swear at me.
Tom: (Stands) I didn’t swear at you, I swore to emphasize how insulting your question was. What’s your problem, anyway?
Cecilia: What’s my problem!? I’m not the one who walked in and announced I was getting married with as much gravity as if I had said I was buying a new couch.
Tom: Well, it is like buying a couch. A slightly used couch, that I’m keeping forever.
Cecilia: You’re disgusting.
Tom: Oh come on, that was funny. I’ve never known you to be sentimental, Cecilia. You’ve picked an odd time to start.
Cecilia: Well excuse me for not being overwhelmed with joy at your connubial bliss.
Tom: Impending connubial bliss; we’re not married yet.
Cecilia: Same difference. I want my records back, by the way.
Tom: Your records? Jesus, Cee. (Sits) Nothing is changing, I’ll just have a ring on my finger. I can take it off before we meet if it bothers you that much.
Cecilia: Nothing is changing!? Everything has changed. You’re changing everything, and you act like it’s nothing.
Tom: Don’t be so dramatic. I’m marrying Angie because she’s put in the effort, because she deserves it. She’ll be a great mom and she’s not afraid to host Thanksgiving dinner. She’s everything a man could ever desire, and she’s given me her loveliest years. So I’m giving her half of my assets. It’s only fair.
Cecilia: You’re revolting.
Tom: If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.
Cecilia: (Making eye contact) If she were everything a man could ever desire, you wouldn’t be here.
Tom: (Pregnant pause) Fine. She’s all a normal man should desire. I need a little more. That’s why I have you. (reaches for her hand)
Cecilia: (Withdraws hand) Had me. I don’t sleep with married men.
Tom: Oh for crying out loud. What’s the difference? I was with her when we met, it didn’t stop
you then.
Cecilia: She was your girlfriend then. Now she’s your fiancee, soon to be your wife. I refuse to be the "other woman."
Tom: (Gently) Cee, you were always the "other woman."
Cecilia: (Staring ahead, refusing to meet his gaze) Not like this.
Tom: (Tom looks thoughtful. He stands and paces the room slowly) I had no idea you could possibly care about this so much. I thought we understood each other.
Cecilia: Funny, so did I.
Tom: Did it really never occur to you that I might marry someone else? You couldn’t have thought that I was going to propose to you.
Cecilia: Don’t be stupid, of course not. Not any time soon, anyway... I mean, no, I don’t want to marry you. Not actively. But I guess I saw more romance in our liaison when it didn’t end with your swearing loyalty to someone else before God and your mother.
Tom: But that’s what I’m saying; we don’t have to end with that. It circumvents that entirely, because the two are unrelated.
Cecilia: Unrelated!? Incredible. (Stands) So, if you thought that you and I understood each other, do you think you and Angie understand each other? (Paces contemplatively)
Tom: Of course. We’ve lived together for years. We’re practically symbiotic.
Cecilia: So she knows about me? Knows about us?
Tom: Are you kidding? Of course not.
Cecilia: (Sarcastically) What, she wouldn’t understand?
Tom: You know perfectly well why she doesn’t know about us. I’ve never met a girl who was that understanding.
Cecilia: Well, maybe she’ll surprise you. Maybe she’ll still want to marry you when she finds out.
Tom: I guess I’ll never know, because she’s not going to find out.
Cecilia: Oh? What makes you so sure?
Tom: (Looking her in the eye) Because I’m not going to tell her, and you’re not going to tell her, and no one we know is going to tell her.
Cecilia: You’re never going to tell her.
Tom: That’s the general idea of an affair.
Cecilia: (Sits on the bed, bouncing a little. Mischievously) And what if I tell her?
Tom: (Nears Cecilia and kneels to meet her eye level) You won’t, because you wouldn’t get anything out of it. It would do absolutely nothing for you. You hate scenes, you don’t like emotional women, and most of all you couldn’t stand being marked as a woman scorned. You would look jealous, and you would look weak. And that’s not the Cecilia I know. That you are neither of those things is why I couldn’t stay away from you.
Cecilia: I liked you because you were emotionally unavailable and good in bed.
Tom: A match made in heaven.
Cecilia: (She breaks his gaze, and stares ahead as she lets the sadness well. Tearfully, more to Fate than to Tom) Why does this always happen to me?
Tom: (Rises and sits next to her on the bed) I can’t answer that for you.
Cecilia: I’m always the temptation, the private conquest, the secret. I’m never THE girl, the bring-home-to-mom girl, the Forever girl.
Tom: Maybe not everyone is made to be that girl. Maybe you’re meant for something else. You don’t strike me as the white-picket-fence, happily-ever-after type, Cee.
Cecilia: (Absorbs what Tom said. Collecting herself, she stands and walks over to the desk, looking at herself in the mirror) You’re right, I should have expected this. You can marry whomever you like, it makes no difference to me.
Tom: And what about us?
Cecilia: There is no "us."
Tom: I thought you might say that. I’ll miss you like crazy, you know.
Cecilia: (Turns to face him) You’ll cope. I need you to leave, now.
Tom: (Stands, crosses the room to her and takes her in his arms. He leans in to kiss her, but she
turns her face).
Cecilia: Now.
Tom: (He releases her, and removes his jacket from the chair, putting it on) That’s more like the woman I know. I’ll have my assistant drop those records off . They’re great recordings, you have good taste.
Cecilia: I know. Goodbye, Tom.
Tom: Take care, Cee. (He opens the door, turns to look at her, then exits, closing the door behind him)
Cecilia: (Turns to the mirror and smooths her hair) "White picket fence." Of course I don’t want
a white picket fence. That’s the most boring idea of forever I’ve ever heard. If that’s what he thinks "happily ever after" is, she can have him. (Picks up her purse and exits, without looking back)
It looks like the italics on the stage directions didn't copy. I'll try to fix that later, but for now I'm posting it as-is. The assignment is due tomorrow at 6, so I don't have a lot of time to make edits from feedback, but if you have a suggestion between now and like 5 pm tomorrow, please post it. Obviously, "It sucks, rewrite it," wouldn't be a particularly helpful suggestion;I'm more looking for small changes in wording to make it sound more natural, or anything someone thinks needs clarification.
That's all for now. Our next assignment is poetry, so in the near future I'll be posting some of that, looking for help. Poetry is not a strength of mine and I'm a little nervous, but also excited to hopefully improve my skills.
OH. And I have the dates for Maine: August 27th - September 2nd. Not very long, I know. But, Jon is coming with me! He's going to meet my family and see where I grew up and it's basically a big deal. So I'm excited for that.
The biggest thing going on for me right now (aside from hanging out with Jon all the time, because I'm one of those people who falls in love and stops calling her friends) is the Creative Writing class I'm taking. It's basically great. Almost everyone in the class seems to want to be there, which makes a huge difference. There's a real sense of camaraderie when we discuss our pieces, and I love it. With that said, I'm going to include my first assignment, a short dialogue in the style of a one-act play (not that I'd expect anyone to act it out, the point of the assignment was writing dialogue and making believing characters that the reader/listener cares about). Sorry subscribers, I don't know the blogspot equivalent of an "lj-cut," so it's going to be long.
"The Forever Girl"
Characters:
Cecilia; 30 years old, dark hair, business-casual dress.
Tom; 35 years old, tall, conventionally attractive, wearing a suit.
Setting: Mid-scale hotel room, not fancy, not dirty. Both sitting on the made bed, both fully dressed, except for Tom’s jacket, which has been hung on a chair. Her purse is on the desk, above which hangs a mirror.
Cecilia: So, she’s "the one?"
Tom: She fucking better be. I asked her to marry me, didn’t I?
Cecilia: Don’t swear at me. You never used to swear at me.
Tom: (Stands) I didn’t swear at you, I swore to emphasize how insulting your question was. What’s your problem, anyway?
Cecilia: What’s my problem!? I’m not the one who walked in and announced I was getting married with as much gravity as if I had said I was buying a new couch.
Tom: Well, it is like buying a couch. A slightly used couch, that I’m keeping forever.
Cecilia: You’re disgusting.
Tom: Oh come on, that was funny. I’ve never known you to be sentimental, Cecilia. You’ve picked an odd time to start.
Cecilia: Well excuse me for not being overwhelmed with joy at your connubial bliss.
Tom: Impending connubial bliss; we’re not married yet.
Cecilia: Same difference. I want my records back, by the way.
Tom: Your records? Jesus, Cee. (Sits) Nothing is changing, I’ll just have a ring on my finger. I can take it off before we meet if it bothers you that much.
Cecilia: Nothing is changing!? Everything has changed. You’re changing everything, and you act like it’s nothing.
Tom: Don’t be so dramatic. I’m marrying Angie because she’s put in the effort, because she deserves it. She’ll be a great mom and she’s not afraid to host Thanksgiving dinner. She’s everything a man could ever desire, and she’s given me her loveliest years. So I’m giving her half of my assets. It’s only fair.
Cecilia: You’re revolting.
Tom: If that were true, you wouldn’t be here.
Cecilia: (Making eye contact) If she were everything a man could ever desire, you wouldn’t be here.
Tom: (Pregnant pause) Fine. She’s all a normal man should desire. I need a little more. That’s why I have you. (reaches for her hand)
Cecilia: (Withdraws hand) Had me. I don’t sleep with married men.
Tom: Oh for crying out loud. What’s the difference? I was with her when we met, it didn’t stop
you then.
Cecilia: She was your girlfriend then. Now she’s your fiancee, soon to be your wife. I refuse to be the "other woman."
Tom: (Gently) Cee, you were always the "other woman."
Cecilia: (Staring ahead, refusing to meet his gaze) Not like this.
Tom: (Tom looks thoughtful. He stands and paces the room slowly) I had no idea you could possibly care about this so much. I thought we understood each other.
Cecilia: Funny, so did I.
Tom: Did it really never occur to you that I might marry someone else? You couldn’t have thought that I was going to propose to you.
Cecilia: Don’t be stupid, of course not. Not any time soon, anyway... I mean, no, I don’t want to marry you. Not actively. But I guess I saw more romance in our liaison when it didn’t end with your swearing loyalty to someone else before God and your mother.
Tom: But that’s what I’m saying; we don’t have to end with that. It circumvents that entirely, because the two are unrelated.
Cecilia: Unrelated!? Incredible. (Stands) So, if you thought that you and I understood each other, do you think you and Angie understand each other? (Paces contemplatively)
Tom: Of course. We’ve lived together for years. We’re practically symbiotic.
Cecilia: So she knows about me? Knows about us?
Tom: Are you kidding? Of course not.
Cecilia: (Sarcastically) What, she wouldn’t understand?
Tom: You know perfectly well why she doesn’t know about us. I’ve never met a girl who was that understanding.
Cecilia: Well, maybe she’ll surprise you. Maybe she’ll still want to marry you when she finds out.
Tom: I guess I’ll never know, because she’s not going to find out.
Cecilia: Oh? What makes you so sure?
Tom: (Looking her in the eye) Because I’m not going to tell her, and you’re not going to tell her, and no one we know is going to tell her.
Cecilia: You’re never going to tell her.
Tom: That’s the general idea of an affair.
Cecilia: (Sits on the bed, bouncing a little. Mischievously) And what if I tell her?
Tom: (Nears Cecilia and kneels to meet her eye level) You won’t, because you wouldn’t get anything out of it. It would do absolutely nothing for you. You hate scenes, you don’t like emotional women, and most of all you couldn’t stand being marked as a woman scorned. You would look jealous, and you would look weak. And that’s not the Cecilia I know. That you are neither of those things is why I couldn’t stay away from you.
Cecilia: I liked you because you were emotionally unavailable and good in bed.
Tom: A match made in heaven.
Cecilia: (She breaks his gaze, and stares ahead as she lets the sadness well. Tearfully, more to Fate than to Tom) Why does this always happen to me?
Tom: (Rises and sits next to her on the bed) I can’t answer that for you.
Cecilia: I’m always the temptation, the private conquest, the secret. I’m never THE girl, the bring-home-to-mom girl, the Forever girl.
Tom: Maybe not everyone is made to be that girl. Maybe you’re meant for something else. You don’t strike me as the white-picket-fence, happily-ever-after type, Cee.
Cecilia: (Absorbs what Tom said. Collecting herself, she stands and walks over to the desk, looking at herself in the mirror) You’re right, I should have expected this. You can marry whomever you like, it makes no difference to me.
Tom: And what about us?
Cecilia: There is no "us."
Tom: I thought you might say that. I’ll miss you like crazy, you know.
Cecilia: (Turns to face him) You’ll cope. I need you to leave, now.
Tom: (Stands, crosses the room to her and takes her in his arms. He leans in to kiss her, but she
turns her face).
Cecilia: Now.
Tom: (He releases her, and removes his jacket from the chair, putting it on) That’s more like the woman I know. I’ll have my assistant drop those records off . They’re great recordings, you have good taste.
Cecilia: I know. Goodbye, Tom.
Tom: Take care, Cee. (He opens the door, turns to look at her, then exits, closing the door behind him)
Cecilia: (Turns to the mirror and smooths her hair) "White picket fence." Of course I don’t want
a white picket fence. That’s the most boring idea of forever I’ve ever heard. If that’s what he thinks "happily ever after" is, she can have him. (Picks up her purse and exits, without looking back)
It looks like the italics on the stage directions didn't copy. I'll try to fix that later, but for now I'm posting it as-is. The assignment is due tomorrow at 6, so I don't have a lot of time to make edits from feedback, but if you have a suggestion between now and like 5 pm tomorrow, please post it. Obviously, "It sucks, rewrite it," wouldn't be a particularly helpful suggestion;I'm more looking for small changes in wording to make it sound more natural, or anything someone thinks needs clarification.
That's all for now. Our next assignment is poetry, so in the near future I'll be posting some of that, looking for help. Poetry is not a strength of mine and I'm a little nervous, but also excited to hopefully improve my skills.
OH. And I have the dates for Maine: August 27th - September 2nd. Not very long, I know. But, Jon is coming with me! He's going to meet my family and see where I grew up and it's basically a big deal. So I'm excited for that.
Sunday, June 1, 2008
And I'm back.
A few people may have noticed my complete disappearance from everything. As was touched upon in the never-finished B-word entry, that was due largely to a broken foot and a new boyfriend. It was extended by moving out of my house (where I lived for three years) and into an apartment with Dylan in lower Queen Anne. That was a month ago. I don't have any good excuses for the last month, other than my internet access at work being severely restricted. Yeah, it sucks.
For the most part I've been settling into a routine of housebound-coupledom. I've been reading a lot, since there isn't internet at my new apartment yet (we're lazy), and I spend most of my time at Jon's, where the only thing to do really if he's on the computer is to read. I've been reading A. M. Homes, first The Safety of Objects, then Music for Torching, and I just finished The End of Alice. I bought Things You Should Know as well, but I forgot it at home. If you've read her, you know that she specializes in suburban dystopias (which is almost redundant, anyway), and is generally a pervert. After filling my head with affairs, death, supreme unhappiness, unlikable characters, and the half-mad musings of a blood-thirsty Humbert Humbert knock-off (The End of Alice really wasn't very good. Maybe someone who hasn't read Lolita could possibly enjoy it, though "enjoy" probably isn't the right word), I feel like I need a brain bath. Hers is a consciousless, cum-stained, hate-filled, self-involved universe, and I feel infected somehow, like I couldn't possibly be happy with anything, ever. It's gross.
I'm debating whether I want to read the last book of short-stories just to get it over with and put her away once and for all, or if I need a break. It's a short book. I'll probably just read it. And then I need to find something vaguely hopeful to read, before I give up on humanity. Any ideas? Not The Audacity of Hope, thanks.
What else. Nick has been at BEA for the last five-ish days, and all of his reports from there (which include high-rise hotel rooms and meeting Alec Baldwin) have made me unconsolably jealous. Why don't I attend celebrity-dotted parties? Why don't I ever go anywhere new? Why don't I have a real job? These are not nice questions to answer. In fact I'm thoroughly disgusted by the answers to all of them.
My most notable accomplishment of late was volunteering at the Emerald City Comicon, which earned me the opportunity to gawk at Jamie Bamber, who plays Apollo on BSG. I also walked by Will Wheaton on numerous occasions. I could have met either of them, but didn't have anything to say, so I decided against it. I guess I'm not as big of a geek as I thought.
This part is slightly personal and not meant to alam anyone: my once-robust health has noticeably declined, and I've been to the doctor more times in the last three months than I had been in the last three years. Aside from the foot troubles, I went in for a lady exam, and had an abnormal pap result. This was followed by a colposcopy (which is a terrible thing to endure and I don't recommend it to anyone; though I hear dying of cervical cancer is worse, so, your call), and I just received word on Friday that I have CIN2, which requires further treatment. It's not cancer, but it can turn into cancer if not removed. I'm 24 and I feel suddenly very mortal. I've possibly expressed my premature-death daydreams to some of you, but that's generally more a fear of Final Destination-type accidents involving log trucks, stray bullets, or improbable electrocution. I've very rarely considered the possibility of my body turning against me and taking me down from the inside; yet here I am. I'm squeamish about medicine in general and things involving my reproductive health specifically, so this is essentially the worst thing ever for me to have to go through. Well, disembowelment would be worse. But that's filed with my above, fanciful death scenarios. This is much more... realistic.
I haven't told anyone in my family (I don't think they read my blog? If I'm wrong, well, surprise!), mostly because I don't want to answer any questions about it or have them be worried about me. Assurances from my doctor and internet research concur in the estimation of this diagnosis as both not-terribly-serious and entirely-treatable, but I think my this-only-happens-to-other-people sense of entitlement has kicked in and is making me feel victimized by the universe. Rather, I'm allowing it to make me feel victimized by the universe; I'm not so far gone as to not take ownership of my feelings. Phew.
Moving on: I'm feeling homesick for Maine and my family and have just started planning a Summer sojourn, but it's being complicated by the fact that I would like for Jon to come with me and meet everyone, but he has work-related issues with the time and length of the trip I'd like to take. Some resolution should be found soon (I may just go alone, obviously), and I will of course announce as appropriate when any dates are set.
For the most part I've been settling into a routine of housebound-coupledom. I've been reading a lot, since there isn't internet at my new apartment yet (we're lazy), and I spend most of my time at Jon's, where the only thing to do really if he's on the computer is to read. I've been reading A. M. Homes, first The Safety of Objects, then Music for Torching, and I just finished The End of Alice. I bought Things You Should Know as well, but I forgot it at home. If you've read her, you know that she specializes in suburban dystopias (which is almost redundant, anyway), and is generally a pervert. After filling my head with affairs, death, supreme unhappiness, unlikable characters, and the half-mad musings of a blood-thirsty Humbert Humbert knock-off (The End of Alice really wasn't very good. Maybe someone who hasn't read Lolita could possibly enjoy it, though "enjoy" probably isn't the right word), I feel like I need a brain bath. Hers is a consciousless, cum-stained, hate-filled, self-involved universe, and I feel infected somehow, like I couldn't possibly be happy with anything, ever. It's gross.
I'm debating whether I want to read the last book of short-stories just to get it over with and put her away once and for all, or if I need a break. It's a short book. I'll probably just read it. And then I need to find something vaguely hopeful to read, before I give up on humanity. Any ideas? Not The Audacity of Hope, thanks.
What else. Nick has been at BEA for the last five-ish days, and all of his reports from there (which include high-rise hotel rooms and meeting Alec Baldwin) have made me unconsolably jealous. Why don't I attend celebrity-dotted parties? Why don't I ever go anywhere new? Why don't I have a real job? These are not nice questions to answer. In fact I'm thoroughly disgusted by the answers to all of them.
My most notable accomplishment of late was volunteering at the Emerald City Comicon, which earned me the opportunity to gawk at Jamie Bamber, who plays Apollo on BSG. I also walked by Will Wheaton on numerous occasions. I could have met either of them, but didn't have anything to say, so I decided against it. I guess I'm not as big of a geek as I thought.
This part is slightly personal and not meant to alam anyone: my once-robust health has noticeably declined, and I've been to the doctor more times in the last three months than I had been in the last three years. Aside from the foot troubles, I went in for a lady exam, and had an abnormal pap result. This was followed by a colposcopy (which is a terrible thing to endure and I don't recommend it to anyone; though I hear dying of cervical cancer is worse, so, your call), and I just received word on Friday that I have CIN2, which requires further treatment. It's not cancer, but it can turn into cancer if not removed. I'm 24 and I feel suddenly very mortal. I've possibly expressed my premature-death daydreams to some of you, but that's generally more a fear of Final Destination-type accidents involving log trucks, stray bullets, or improbable electrocution. I've very rarely considered the possibility of my body turning against me and taking me down from the inside; yet here I am. I'm squeamish about medicine in general and things involving my reproductive health specifically, so this is essentially the worst thing ever for me to have to go through. Well, disembowelment would be worse. But that's filed with my above, fanciful death scenarios. This is much more... realistic.
I haven't told anyone in my family (I don't think they read my blog? If I'm wrong, well, surprise!), mostly because I don't want to answer any questions about it or have them be worried about me. Assurances from my doctor and internet research concur in the estimation of this diagnosis as both not-terribly-serious and entirely-treatable, but I think my this-only-happens-to-other-people sense of entitlement has kicked in and is making me feel victimized by the universe. Rather, I'm allowing it to make me feel victimized by the universe; I'm not so far gone as to not take ownership of my feelings. Phew.
Moving on: I'm feeling homesick for Maine and my family and have just started planning a Summer sojourn, but it's being complicated by the fact that I would like for Jon to come with me and meet everyone, but he has work-related issues with the time and length of the trip I'd like to take. Some resolution should be found soon (I may just go alone, obviously), and I will of course announce as appropriate when any dates are set.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Making good.
Receptionist = me.
Dana R. Larkin says:
what do you think about ween? band for pretentious college students or awesome?
Receptionist says:
hahahaha
Dana R. Larkin says:
no, seriously
Dana R. Larkin says:
i'm trying to form my opinion and therefore, need you opinion to make my own.
Receptionist says:
Well... I have an ex who's way into them, and he's not what I'd call pretentious. Actually, I know a few people I respect who really like Ween.
Receptionist says:
But... they can go both ways, for sure.
Receptionist says:
I've never been super into it.
Receptionist says:
But I can appreciate how random and awesome some if it can be.
Dana R. Larkin says:
ok, cause i don't want to start liking them more only to be shunned. i mean, it's not like they're dave mathews band or anything,
Receptionist says:
hahahaha
Receptionist says:
no
Dana R. Larkin says:
ok, good.
Receptionist says:
I've never heard of anyone being shunned for liking Ween.
Dana R. Larkin says:
i don't know man, they really do make me think of, like, uber cool college kids.
Receptionist says:
I mean, maybe if you only listened to like, Ween, and Mr. Bungle, and Blood Brothers, and experimental noise, shit, then there could be a problem.
Receptionist says:
But, you mix it up.
Dana R. Larkin says:
well, obviously.
Dana R. Larkin says:
i mean, i listen to r. kelly.
Receptionist says:
I don't think JUST liking Ween has ever nominated someone for shun status.
Receptionist says:
Totally.
Dana R. Larkin says:
okay, then it's settled. i like ween.
Receptionist says:
Excellent.
Dana R. Larkin says:
i have a whole bunch of them on my ipod, but haven't ever really listened to it. but, i'm going to now.
Dana R. Larkin says:
please make sure to tell everyone you know about this conversation we just had.
Receptionist says:
Will do.
Fin.
"B" Words.
(Note for anyone who commented on the last entry: I finally wrote back. Sorry for the delay)
I've been dealing with a few "b" words lately.
"Bitch."
"Broken."
And... "Boyfriend."
"Bitch" is, I feel, an appropriate term for everything that's going on right now. For one, there's some turnover going on at work, and it basically makes everyone super cranky pants and constant complainers about everyone else. I mostly try to stay out of it, but it's all going to trickle down to me at some point, which I'm not excited about. That alone wouldn't be such a big deal, but it's on top of some other things, such as the fact that I'm moving. Yep, moving.
I've lived in the same house for almost three years, and I have a lot of stuff. It is also a huge mess (one of the reasons I'm excited about moving - a smaller place will have less surface area that requires washing!), and contains many things that belong to none of the people currently living there, because it's been occupied for so long and never had a proper mucking-out. Leaving that house is a daunting task, and I'd probably be freaking out more overtly if it actually felt real. I left a message for my landlord, but I haven't communicated directly with him yet, so it still feels a little abstract. That'll change soon.
Dylan and I have applied for an apartment together, which is awesome, but also brings with it a host of issues. For one, the decision that we were all leaving the house was a little sudden, and neither of us were financially prepared for it, meaning we had to borrow some money from our dad. I HATE BORROWING MONEY. I don't have any credit cards for a reason: I don't like spending money that isn't mine. Having to suck it up and ask for money was hard, but necessary. I've never really asked for money from my parents before (other than "Hey, if you want to help with school..." but that's more implying I could use some money than it is asking for it), but at least I only needed like $200, which I can pay back quickly. Dylan, on the other hand, has asked for money before, plus they're just way harder on him than they are on me, so I've had to hear a lot lately about how irresponsible Dylan can be. Yeah, I know. But he can also be responsible. Maybe we could assume the best before we assume the worst? But that's hard to point out when I also need a hand-out. I'm not in a moral-superiority bargaining position.
Most of you know by now that my foot is broken. Yeah, it sucks. Yeah, I have a stupid cast that my stupid friends wrote stupid things on. Yeah, my armpits hurt like a motherfucker.
When I first broke it, I thought the whole thing was kind of funny. It was 4 am, I was at home with my drunk roommates having a "dance party," and I was jumping up and down to "Flagpole Sitta." Some of you know why the last part makes it take the cake on ridiculousness. I was all hobbled, and could hardly get out the door of my house to go to the doctor, since there were video game cords everywhere. Hilarious, right?
There's obviously more to say, but I started this at lunch and need to get back to work. Will update later!
I've been dealing with a few "b" words lately.
"Bitch."
"Broken."
And... "Boyfriend."
"Bitch" is, I feel, an appropriate term for everything that's going on right now. For one, there's some turnover going on at work, and it basically makes everyone super cranky pants and constant complainers about everyone else. I mostly try to stay out of it, but it's all going to trickle down to me at some point, which I'm not excited about. That alone wouldn't be such a big deal, but it's on top of some other things, such as the fact that I'm moving. Yep, moving.
I've lived in the same house for almost three years, and I have a lot of stuff. It is also a huge mess (one of the reasons I'm excited about moving - a smaller place will have less surface area that requires washing!), and contains many things that belong to none of the people currently living there, because it's been occupied for so long and never had a proper mucking-out. Leaving that house is a daunting task, and I'd probably be freaking out more overtly if it actually felt real. I left a message for my landlord, but I haven't communicated directly with him yet, so it still feels a little abstract. That'll change soon.
Dylan and I have applied for an apartment together, which is awesome, but also brings with it a host of issues. For one, the decision that we were all leaving the house was a little sudden, and neither of us were financially prepared for it, meaning we had to borrow some money from our dad. I HATE BORROWING MONEY. I don't have any credit cards for a reason: I don't like spending money that isn't mine. Having to suck it up and ask for money was hard, but necessary. I've never really asked for money from my parents before (other than "Hey, if you want to help with school..." but that's more implying I could use some money than it is asking for it), but at least I only needed like $200, which I can pay back quickly. Dylan, on the other hand, has asked for money before, plus they're just way harder on him than they are on me, so I've had to hear a lot lately about how irresponsible Dylan can be. Yeah, I know. But he can also be responsible. Maybe we could assume the best before we assume the worst? But that's hard to point out when I also need a hand-out. I'm not in a moral-superiority bargaining position.
Most of you know by now that my foot is broken. Yeah, it sucks. Yeah, I have a stupid cast that my stupid friends wrote stupid things on. Yeah, my armpits hurt like a motherfucker.
When I first broke it, I thought the whole thing was kind of funny. It was 4 am, I was at home with my drunk roommates having a "dance party," and I was jumping up and down to "Flagpole Sitta." Some of you know why the last part makes it take the cake on ridiculousness. I was all hobbled, and could hardly get out the door of my house to go to the doctor, since there were video game cords everywhere. Hilarious, right?
There's obviously more to say, but I started this at lunch and need to get back to work. Will update later!
Friday, March 7, 2008
Numbers.
I lost my virginity at 18, after graduating high school, and I had kissed five people up until that point. I didn't need a list (I could recite everyone I had kissed in chronological order until the number reached around 20), but I had one. The list had the boy's name, as well as symbols signifying "how far" we went. Also, everyone I kissed received a journal entry (so quaint!). So, numbers were big to me. HUGE. Anyone I dated, I wanted to know their numbers as well - how many he had kissed, how many of them gave head, how many he slept with. Since my numbers were pretty low and I mostly dated guys who were a little older and little more experienced, sharing wasn't a big deal. But, once I hit six, I started to worry. My last boyfriend, who was two years older than me, had only slept with four. Was I a slut?
The next sexual situation I was in was with a friend with whom there was no chance of dating, since he lived in Maine and I live in Seattle. We were hanging out one day, and he kissed the back of my neck while we were in a toy store. My entire body responded, every hair on end, a current running through my spine. We couldn't get back to his house fast enough. When we were naked on his bed in the light of the afternoon sunshine, he said I was beautiful, and I believed him. I felt perfect in that moment. It was electric, one of the most arousing experiences of my life. And I stopped it short for the sake of a number. (We never went all the way. He has a serious girlfriend now, and once she found some old racy correspondence of ours, so he had to stop talking to me because it made her uncomfortable, regardless of the fact that we live on different coasts. But irrationally jealous girlfriends are another topic.)
A few months later, I had sex with someone else, and it was lousy. I had wasted an opportunity for GREAT sex for the sake of the number, then had mediocre sex with someone I had no intention of dating, or even sleeping with again. I felt defeated. I still had a higher number, and not even a good story to show for it. As anyone who has experienced phenomenal sex knows, it's an unrivaled experience. What had I passed it up for? I then vowed to never let myself miss another opportunity. (That was later revised to not allowing myself to miss an opportunity except for the sake of monogamy, but that's another story.)
I still kept the list, more for curiousity's sake, but I didn't allow fear of adding to it to interfere with whom I chose to sleep with. Now, I'm not proud of everyone I've slept with, and I would take a few back in the light of hindsight. But the lion's share, I don't regret one bit, number be damned.
This last Summer, I stopped updating the list. At first I panicked: was that really someone I wanted to be? I remembered with horror the first female friend who told me she honestly had no idea how many men she had been with. Then I thought about it more. I consider myself to be a sex-positive person, and I think the double-standard of males with a high number of sexual partners versus females is ludicrous. Tucker Max doesn't know how many people he's slept with, why should I? (Note: it's nowhere near as many as Tucker Max. I'm double-digits, not triple ((double-note: why do I feel the need to clarify?))). Also, I prefer to date a guy who has had many partners - he tends to have more sexual skill, be more confident in bed, and be more adventurous, all things that I value.
Rather than be afraid of how someone else would react to my number, I thought about it this way: Do I even want to date the kind of guy that would judge me for something like that? The answer was no. A relationship is about mutual respect, and trust; if my past makes him feel insecure, that's his problem, not mine. I would rather weed out guys who are uncomfortable about that sort of thing than pussyfoot around someone else's prejudices.
This was originally written in response to a question about whether "notches on the bedpost" really mattered, which he asked in advance of his own blog post on the matter. I don't think of his general readership as my peer group, so I want to ask you the same thing: What are your thoughts on numbers? Do you keep track? Do you ask? Does how many people someone else has slept with affect your opinion of them?
(PS- the timeline of my experiences with the "friend" is a little off - it made more sense this way, in order to maintain flow as well as to protect his anonymity.)
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Now - "Welcome."
So, new blog. You may have noticed the 49 posts preceding this one: they have been pulled as a representative sample from five years of blogging on other sites. Some are lightly edited, but most were left unmolested as a testament to my young and angsty blogging beginnings. Lucky you.
The move to this "grown-up" blog will mark the end of my other blogs; not that they were updated that often, anyway. I'm not going to delete them - the ability to search through past entries for reminscing purposes is too valuable - but they will not receive any new posts other than a final one redirecting (my very few) readers here.
That said, I'm hoping to keep up my interest in writing by shying away from the boyfriend-related gush-or-sob-fests that dominated my previous postings and sticking to the areas of social commentary, philosophical poderings, or bitchy snark; you know, my strengths.
Thanks for your interest. I'll do my best to deserve it.
The move to this "grown-up" blog will mark the end of my other blogs; not that they were updated that often, anyway. I'm not going to delete them - the ability to search through past entries for reminscing purposes is too valuable - but they will not receive any new posts other than a final one redirecting (my very few) readers here.
That said, I'm hoping to keep up my interest in writing by shying away from the boyfriend-related gush-or-sob-fests that dominated my previous postings and sticking to the areas of social commentary, philosophical poderings, or bitchy snark; you know, my strengths.
Thanks for your interest. I'll do my best to deserve it.
January 08 - "Bad Blow-Job Face and You: The Comprehensive Guide."
This is a detailed explanation of what makes a "bad blow-job face," as requested by interested parties. To clear up confusion, this term refers to the face of a potential giver of blow-jobs, not the receiver, and also is a general condition of the face that occurs normally at rest, not just in the act. For the sake of simplicity, I've focused on female faces affected by BBJF, though it certainly occurs in men, as well. BBJF should not be confused with simple ugliness - there are plenty of "conventionally attractive" people whom I would give a BBJF diagnosis to. And I am apparently the preeminent authority on the matter.
PS - I wouldn't necessarily call this NSFW, but tread lightly.
The Humble Beginnings
The concept of "bad blow job face" (BBJF) came from a fairly innocent conversation between Chris and myself, regarding a sure-to-be-perfectly-nice girl he had recently met and attended a party with. She quite obviously had a crush on him, which made me want to know what she looked like, which resulted in Chris sending me a link to her Flickr and directing me toward this photo:
(Please note: I do NOT have permission to use this photo, nor any of the photos to follow. If anyone in any of these photos were to contact me and ask for their photo to be removed, I might consider it.)
My response to the picture was something to the effect of, "Oh. She doesn't look like she would give very good head."
This comment was meant to convey two ideas: 1) I'm a snarky bitch, and 2) Chris is well-endowed and possesses an insatiable sexual appetite - he needs to be with a girl who can take it like a pro. Plus, he's a good person who deserves GOOD blow jobs. Expressing my opinion that she wouldn't meet his needs was actually an example of me looking out for his best interests; the snark is just an added bonus.
He seemed amused by this and asked why she looked like she wouldn't give good head. I couldn't come up with anything concrete, and simply asked if he really disagreed; he didn't, and the subject was more-or-less dropped. Well, dropped until she was mentioned again. After that, whenever he brought her up, I immediately thought "girl-who-looks-like-she-gives-bad-head," and I think he perpetuated the nickname himself a few times by referring to her as such. It became a bit of an inside joke between us.
Fast-forward to last weekend. Pat and I went down to Portland, OR, so he could see the city before he leaves the wonders of the West Coast for the banality of Shithole, USA. There we stayed with some friends of mine, and Chris came out to meet us at a bar (Dante's, where we watched a fire-dancer - aka stripper - set her titties on fire). I honestly do not know why, but his unfortunately-nicknamed former friend came up, but this time under a truncated title: "Bad blow-job face girl." Pat, being of sound mind and inquisitive spirit, asked what exactly made up a "bad blow-job face." I found it difficult to name specific characteristics, and instead tried to name a celebrity that qualified, but could only come up with pinch-faced, hollow-cheeked ones like Calista Flockhart and Lara Flynn Boyle, who do not actually personify the spirit of BBJF. In hindsight, Renee Zellweger would have been a better example; but I digress.
Even working together, Chris and I were not able to come up with a list of characteristics for BBJF, and the subject was dropped at the time. But apparently, after the weekend, Chris revisited the idea with his good friend Scott, who was also dissatisfied with the lack of parameters. He came to me asking for BBJF "rules," and I have the sad task of informing him that there are no rules regarding this affliction. Only guidelines. Let's look at these guidelines in greater detail.
A Brief List
In preparation for this entry, I brainstormed a few facial characteristics that could be construed as BBJF. While sitting in Psych class, I came up with:
-Thin lips (please note that the originator of BBJF actually has full lips)
-Cold eyes (frequently beady)
-Inexperienced-looking (not to be confused with innocent-looking)
-Unenthusiastic about the task
-Large nose (wide, long, or both)
-Underbite (overbites have a surprisingly low impact on BBJF)
-Weak chin
While no one trait consigns a face to BBJF territory, the combination of a few of these traits can have an erection-killing result. For instance:
(like my slick editing job? MS Paint for life!)
This girl is clearly a professional, so she must appeal to someone. But when I look at her face, I see BBJF written all over it. She has a big nose, cold eyes, thin lips, and certainly lacks enthusiasm. If I had a dick, I would NOT put it in her mouth.
A non-professional example of combination-trait BBJF, exhibiting large nose, underbite, and cold eyes (not having a dick in her mouth, her enthusiasm is difficult to measure):
This girl has a nice full lower lip, but it is not enough to excuse her face from BBJF-dom.
In this example, she has pretty eyes and acceptable lips, but the large-nose/weak-chin combo is too strong:
No blow-jobs, please.
In Conclusion
Our original BBJF, while possessed of thick lips, warm eyes, and likely enthusiasm (she did have a pretty major crush on him), still qualifies for BBJF status because of her large nose and because she is inexperienced-looking, as well as an unidentifiable je ne sais quoi. BBJF doesn't have to be based on an aforementioned trait; it can be more of a feeling. I apologize to those looking for a more definite explanation: this is not yet a science.
If anyone has received a blow-job from any of the ladies used as examples and can vouch for its quality, please let me know. I am only making general observations, and any additional research could be helpful in the advancement of the field.
PS - I wouldn't necessarily call this NSFW, but tread lightly.
The Humble Beginnings
The concept of "bad blow job face" (BBJF) came from a fairly innocent conversation between Chris and myself, regarding a sure-to-be-perfectly-nice girl he had recently met and attended a party with. She quite obviously had a crush on him, which made me want to know what she looked like, which resulted in Chris sending me a link to her Flickr and directing me toward this photo:
(Please note: I do NOT have permission to use this photo, nor any of the photos to follow. If anyone in any of these photos were to contact me and ask for their photo to be removed, I might consider it.)
My response to the picture was something to the effect of, "Oh. She doesn't look like she would give very good head."
This comment was meant to convey two ideas: 1) I'm a snarky bitch, and 2) Chris is well-endowed and possesses an insatiable sexual appetite - he needs to be with a girl who can take it like a pro. Plus, he's a good person who deserves GOOD blow jobs. Expressing my opinion that she wouldn't meet his needs was actually an example of me looking out for his best interests; the snark is just an added bonus.
He seemed amused by this and asked why she looked like she wouldn't give good head. I couldn't come up with anything concrete, and simply asked if he really disagreed; he didn't, and the subject was more-or-less dropped. Well, dropped until she was mentioned again. After that, whenever he brought her up, I immediately thought "girl-who-looks-like-she-gives-bad-head," and I think he perpetuated the nickname himself a few times by referring to her as such. It became a bit of an inside joke between us.
Fast-forward to last weekend. Pat and I went down to Portland, OR, so he could see the city before he leaves the wonders of the West Coast for the banality of Shithole, USA. There we stayed with some friends of mine, and Chris came out to meet us at a bar (Dante's, where we watched a fire-dancer - aka stripper - set her titties on fire). I honestly do not know why, but his unfortunately-nicknamed former friend came up, but this time under a truncated title: "Bad blow-job face girl." Pat, being of sound mind and inquisitive spirit, asked what exactly made up a "bad blow-job face." I found it difficult to name specific characteristics, and instead tried to name a celebrity that qualified, but could only come up with pinch-faced, hollow-cheeked ones like Calista Flockhart and Lara Flynn Boyle, who do not actually personify the spirit of BBJF. In hindsight, Renee Zellweger would have been a better example; but I digress.
Even working together, Chris and I were not able to come up with a list of characteristics for BBJF, and the subject was dropped at the time. But apparently, after the weekend, Chris revisited the idea with his good friend Scott, who was also dissatisfied with the lack of parameters. He came to me asking for BBJF "rules," and I have the sad task of informing him that there are no rules regarding this affliction. Only guidelines. Let's look at these guidelines in greater detail.
A Brief List
In preparation for this entry, I brainstormed a few facial characteristics that could be construed as BBJF. While sitting in Psych class, I came up with:
-Thin lips (please note that the originator of BBJF actually has full lips)
-Cold eyes (frequently beady)
-Inexperienced-looking (not to be confused with innocent-looking)
-Unenthusiastic about the task
-Large nose (wide, long, or both)
-Underbite (overbites have a surprisingly low impact on BBJF)
-Weak chin
While no one trait consigns a face to BBJF territory, the combination of a few of these traits can have an erection-killing result. For instance:
(like my slick editing job? MS Paint for life!)
This girl is clearly a professional, so she must appeal to someone. But when I look at her face, I see BBJF written all over it. She has a big nose, cold eyes, thin lips, and certainly lacks enthusiasm. If I had a dick, I would NOT put it in her mouth.
A non-professional example of combination-trait BBJF, exhibiting large nose, underbite, and cold eyes (not having a dick in her mouth, her enthusiasm is difficult to measure):
This girl has a nice full lower lip, but it is not enough to excuse her face from BBJF-dom.
In this example, she has pretty eyes and acceptable lips, but the large-nose/weak-chin combo is too strong:
No blow-jobs, please.
In Conclusion
Our original BBJF, while possessed of thick lips, warm eyes, and likely enthusiasm (she did have a pretty major crush on him), still qualifies for BBJF status because of her large nose and because she is inexperienced-looking, as well as an unidentifiable je ne sais quoi. BBJF doesn't have to be based on an aforementioned trait; it can be more of a feeling. I apologize to those looking for a more definite explanation: this is not yet a science.
If anyone has received a blow-job from any of the ladies used as examples and can vouch for its quality, please let me know. I am only making general observations, and any additional research could be helpful in the advancement of the field.
10/12/07 - "I've got something to put in you."
I am so hungover. BUT, but, I was totally on time to work. Believe me, I'm more surprised by this than you.
Electric 6 was amazing. There was much pre-funking with my awesome coworker Dana and her rad friend/bandmate Tracy (Dana and I each had two 24's of Rainier, and the three of us killed two bottle of champagne), then some gay bar action and strawberry shortcake shots at the Crescent Lounge (where Johnny met up with us for a bit, yay!), then much dancing (with a smattering of face-rocking), then much giggling over a beer at Pony, and finally much walking around the city with my friend Steven. After seeing him safely onto the bus, I finally grabbed a cab sometime around 2:30? I think? Maybe before that. But after 2.
The opening band was called "The Gore Gore Girls" and it was noisy and sweaty, but in the bad way. I don't like all-girl bands, and I don't think that makes me misogynistic. I just don't like things that suck, and girl bands tend to suck. This particular girl band was fronted by a mannish, horsey girl with frizzy drag-queen hair who attempted to make up for her lack of stage presence by wearing sequined underwear, which were admittedly pretty sweet. The band wasn't that together, they weren't that interesting, and watching them play actually made me kind of angry, because I find it frustrating when girls fail in male-dominated activities. It's like we're supposed to pat them on the back and say, "Good effort," just because they tried.
When the Girls finally made their much-anticipated exit we bee-lined it for the front and secured spots up against the stage. Electric 6 played a nice long set, and despite being sick with something icky they caught on tour (I'm assuming it's more in the vein of a cold than gonorrhea, but he didn't specify) they exhibited excellent showmanship and the whole show was, well, electric. Sorry. They saved "Gay Bar" for the encore and it was presented with surprising enthusiasm, considering (as Dana pointed out earlier in the evening) they're probably getting tired of playing it. I don't have much sympathy for such things (hey, if Nada Surf can keep playing "Popular," then anyone can suck it up and play a song they're no longer fond of), because refuseniks are basically biting the hand that feeds them. Oh, to be burdened with a hit song.
When the show let out Tracy and Dana went to either continue the evening or crash at Tracy's, I'm not sure which. I started to leave, but then texted Steven and we agreed to meet up at Chapel. Chapel is lame. Sure, it's beautiful inside, great ambiance blah blah blah, and the couches upstairs are great (if your posse can score one), but we showed up a few minutes after 1, and they had already called last call. Their service is notoriously awful, but calling last call before 1:30 (bar time, even) is unconscionable. So we took our perfectly spendable money up the street to Pony, which also had a couch to sit on, and speculating about what sort of bodily fluids might reside on that couch made it that much more enjoyable. This was my first time in Pony, and I must say that I like it waaaaaaay better than the old Cha (haven't yet been to the new location, so I will refrain from passing judgment on their current iteration). Though I was a little bummed that I couldn't get a PBR. No matter.
We stayed till closing (we were asked to finish our drinks at a completely respectable 1:45, thankyouverymuch), then walked downtown through the refreshing Autumn night. The late-night bus scene down on 4th was quite the screen-shot of urban living. Buspimps for days. Had I bothered to check, I would have seen that I could have taken the 82 - it ended up right behind my cab on the way home. Oh well.
And that was that. Now I have but a few short hours before I fly to LA and undoubtedly get into some sort of trouble with Joseph! Yay! Hopefully I can sleep on the plane, but I'll probably be too jazzed. It's okay, I'll sleep when I'm dead. Which may be sooner than later, at this rate, but I'd rather have a shorter life brimming with intrigue and action than a very long life with a very short eulogy. I think.
Electric 6 was amazing. There was much pre-funking with my awesome coworker Dana and her rad friend/bandmate Tracy (Dana and I each had two 24's of Rainier, and the three of us killed two bottle of champagne), then some gay bar action and strawberry shortcake shots at the Crescent Lounge (where Johnny met up with us for a bit, yay!), then much dancing (with a smattering of face-rocking), then much giggling over a beer at Pony, and finally much walking around the city with my friend Steven. After seeing him safely onto the bus, I finally grabbed a cab sometime around 2:30? I think? Maybe before that. But after 2.
The opening band was called "The Gore Gore Girls" and it was noisy and sweaty, but in the bad way. I don't like all-girl bands, and I don't think that makes me misogynistic. I just don't like things that suck, and girl bands tend to suck. This particular girl band was fronted by a mannish, horsey girl with frizzy drag-queen hair who attempted to make up for her lack of stage presence by wearing sequined underwear, which were admittedly pretty sweet. The band wasn't that together, they weren't that interesting, and watching them play actually made me kind of angry, because I find it frustrating when girls fail in male-dominated activities. It's like we're supposed to pat them on the back and say, "Good effort," just because they tried.
When the Girls finally made their much-anticipated exit we bee-lined it for the front and secured spots up against the stage. Electric 6 played a nice long set, and despite being sick with something icky they caught on tour (I'm assuming it's more in the vein of a cold than gonorrhea, but he didn't specify) they exhibited excellent showmanship and the whole show was, well, electric. Sorry. They saved "Gay Bar" for the encore and it was presented with surprising enthusiasm, considering (as Dana pointed out earlier in the evening) they're probably getting tired of playing it. I don't have much sympathy for such things (hey, if Nada Surf can keep playing "Popular," then anyone can suck it up and play a song they're no longer fond of), because refuseniks are basically biting the hand that feeds them. Oh, to be burdened with a hit song.
When the show let out Tracy and Dana went to either continue the evening or crash at Tracy's, I'm not sure which. I started to leave, but then texted Steven and we agreed to meet up at Chapel. Chapel is lame. Sure, it's beautiful inside, great ambiance blah blah blah, and the couches upstairs are great (if your posse can score one), but we showed up a few minutes after 1, and they had already called last call. Their service is notoriously awful, but calling last call before 1:30 (bar time, even) is unconscionable. So we took our perfectly spendable money up the street to Pony, which also had a couch to sit on, and speculating about what sort of bodily fluids might reside on that couch made it that much more enjoyable. This was my first time in Pony, and I must say that I like it waaaaaaay better than the old Cha (haven't yet been to the new location, so I will refrain from passing judgment on their current iteration). Though I was a little bummed that I couldn't get a PBR. No matter.
We stayed till closing (we were asked to finish our drinks at a completely respectable 1:45, thankyouverymuch), then walked downtown through the refreshing Autumn night. The late-night bus scene down on 4th was quite the screen-shot of urban living. Buspimps for days. Had I bothered to check, I would have seen that I could have taken the 82 - it ended up right behind my cab on the way home. Oh well.
And that was that. Now I have but a few short hours before I fly to LA and undoubtedly get into some sort of trouble with Joseph! Yay! Hopefully I can sleep on the plane, but I'll probably be too jazzed. It's okay, I'll sleep when I'm dead. Which may be sooner than later, at this rate, but I'd rather have a shorter life brimming with intrigue and action than a very long life with a very short eulogy. I think.
6/12/07 - "Departure."
My last day at work is this Friday. I wish it were right now, and I could get up and walk out and never come back.
Last night I stayed up far too late with a boy who was far too cute doing things that were far too familiar. I've known him for years and we also just met. It's a long story. It was sort of bittersweet having one of those nights, the nights where you talk about everything and feel so immediately, tenuously close to the person and it's exciting and scary, momentous and monstrous, knowing that I'm about to leave and that nothing will come of it. Sometimes you just get the one night, and that's okay. Those nights are so compelling to me, I could tell my life story as a string of the details of each one. Cory. Ben. Augie. Jonathan. Matt. Dave. Andy. Marc. And now another Dave. There have been more that fit the general description, and technically two of them were dates that became "the night" which is sort of not what I'm talking about because part of the wonder is the spontaneity, but these are the ones that stand out right now in my memory. Some of them became relationships, some friendships, and some were just the once.
The encounter gave me a much-needed confidence boost, as he had very kind things to say(you're smart, you're cute, you're beautiful, you're hot, you're sweet, you're good at that - I don't think any of these things can be heard too much), and on Sunday I found out for sure that I'm going to see Cory again at the end of the month, and there's nothing like the prospect of seeing the first person who ever saw you naked to make you wish you were considerably skinnier.
Last night I stayed up far too late with a boy who was far too cute doing things that were far too familiar. I've known him for years and we also just met. It's a long story. It was sort of bittersweet having one of those nights, the nights where you talk about everything and feel so immediately, tenuously close to the person and it's exciting and scary, momentous and monstrous, knowing that I'm about to leave and that nothing will come of it. Sometimes you just get the one night, and that's okay. Those nights are so compelling to me, I could tell my life story as a string of the details of each one. Cory. Ben. Augie. Jonathan. Matt. Dave. Andy. Marc. And now another Dave. There have been more that fit the general description, and technically two of them were dates that became "the night" which is sort of not what I'm talking about because part of the wonder is the spontaneity, but these are the ones that stand out right now in my memory. Some of them became relationships, some friendships, and some were just the once.
The encounter gave me a much-needed confidence boost, as he had very kind things to say(you're smart, you're cute, you're beautiful, you're hot, you're sweet, you're good at that - I don't think any of these things can be heard too much), and on Sunday I found out for sure that I'm going to see Cory again at the end of the month, and there's nothing like the prospect of seeing the first person who ever saw you naked to make you wish you were considerably skinnier.
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