Oh, hello, Verbalblogarrhea, most cherished and neglected pet-project. Please do not get your hopes up. This is, in all likelihood, little more than an e-drunk dial. But that "e" denotes a healthy dose of self-indulgence and sorrow-wallowing. Why not save that for your actual diary, you ask? You mean the one with the unicorn on the cover that collects dust under my night-stand, next to my copy of Du cote de chez Swann and the Weight Watchers Complete Food Companion? That one? Well the answer is rather simple. These days just getting out of bed is just one huge travail (not to mention all the time I spend wandering aimlessly around the grocery store and the hour spent staring blankly out the window at the end of the day), picking up a pen and taking the time to write it all out is just a bummer. But the internet? Well, I was in the neighborhood anyway, and I can type 70 wpm. Plus, doesn't everyone have a blog? Isn't it the norm now to piss and moan in a public forum that is still semi-anonymous (even if there is a scanned copy of your senior photo a few pages back)?

What sent me away? Since our last encounter I was laid off, spent 8 weeks watching every single reality program Bravo and VH1 had to offer, worked for a museum exhibit (which has the distinction of being the most Kafkaesque experience of my life), picked up another job making coffee and worked 50-60 hour weeks with no days off, turned into a monster, and tried to balance it all alongside my first Big Girl relationship ever.

The exhibit has since wrapped up and left town. Shrug. It only served to make me realized how very specialized my social circle is and how esoteric my own interests are. What? You want me to get beers with you after work? And we're going to a generic Irish Pub where you'll tell me about your glory days in Alpha Alpha Alpha and that great book that your girlfriend recommended by Virginia Woolf about the pan-sexual time-traveler? Sign me up!

The Big Girl relationship has wrapped up too, though I keep find His things around my apartment and I don't really know what to do with them. He's not dead, so I don't feel totally justified in throwing them away, because maybe he'll want those t-shirts back when he realizes they're missing. Mostly though, finding these relics is like an ant problem that subsides but never goes away, and every time you encounter one you just get angrier that they're still there. Also my heart hurts, obvs.

And, if I may be so bold as to claim that I have a Love Of My Life before even reaching a quarter of a century of life (what?)...I don't like where this is going. Nevermind. He is back in the picture in a never really went away sort of way, and a good bit of traveling done over the summer only served to make me realize that all my dearest kin and fellows are scattered throughout the country and that fewer and fewer of them are here anymore.

All of this has somehow added up to applying to graduate school. This is an everyday exercise in being optimistic. I was finally beginning to get the hang of college right when I graduated, and so I only feel half-accomplished. There is the graduate student that I would like to be, but I feel like there's a lot of catching up to do before that. I'm not sure that I ever really connected with a professor the way I would have liked to. There was no one I could really count on to champion my cause and I feel like I was pretty much just a satisfactory student through and through. I'm afraid that this is going to prevent me from actually moving forward and sooner or later I will just turn into one of those 40 year old women who just stop using their brains and lust after Coach bags.

Oh, but you know what was good this summer? The Wednesday I didn't have to go to work and it was sunny and I went out to brunch by myself and read my favorite French book at my sidewalk table for an hour and a half and didn't feel any pressure to leave, even though my potatoes got really cold.

Things I See Everyday and Love Just the Same

The first time I ever plugged this into a wall socket, sparks flew out and that outlet is now defunct. After that I had it plugged into a power strip, until one day when I unplugged it and saw that the outlet below was all brown and melty. I don't know why I say 'until'- I continued to keep it plugged in and just lived in fear. Then I got a new heater, and this was one is out on the curb. So I guess I won't be seeing it everyday.



One early afternoon I was cooking up some stir fry in the kitchen when I heard a ruckus in the living room. I went out to see what was going on, only to find my roommates trying to figure out where to put this. They found it on the sidewalk. Which means that someone used to own this. When I came home that night it was all aglow with candles from the thrift store.



I'm not quite sure what Ghostmodernism is, but I like to imagine that whoever wrote "BARD" in wet cement either has a lot of school spirit or a lot of love for Guillaume ShakEsPeeeeer.

These things are in my office at work.

We had two fish before this one. I never met the first one, but the second one was named Bruiser. They both died. This one is only named Sea Kitty, and we recently gave her a mermaid friend.



I bet it's full of Waiting Rooms and Sweet and Low. HIYO!

Meanwhile, in order to maintain my status as a daring eater here are some things I am planning to eat 

Sad Sweetheart of the Rodeo

Today I had the day off from work and in the afternoon I danced alone in my room and it was the best I've felt in weeks. Over and out.

Mish Mash

OH MY GOD I BET BOTH READERS WERE SO WORRIED ABOUT ME.

The Reader's Digest version of where I've been for the past two months is Face-Down in a Gutter, bottle of JB rolling slowly from my hand.

Today I woke up to a really horrifying noise. I went to investigate in the kitchen. Upon entering, I saw my roommate in her bathrobe, head wrapped in a towel-turban, grinding coffee beans in a blender. She turned to me, laughed maniacally and shouted, "WE DON'T EVEN NEED A GRINDER!!!"

The eight-year-old son of this guy I work with kept calling the gallery tonight. I thought it would be funny if, just once, when I said, "B., your son is on the phone," he bellowed in response, "I have no son!" This is also a man who believes my sole purpose in life is to provide him with half and half. I knew Bennington was skirting some issue when they simply wrote "Bachelor of Arts" on my diploma, and now I know it's so glorified used car salesmen can operate under the assumption that I majored in half and half fetching. I think it would be funny if, one day, I barged into his office unannounced demanding that he refill the coffee canister and go to Walgreen's for more half and half.

The last blog post I began writing was a list of public places in the Bay Area where I've thrown up. I don't think I'll be finishing that one.

Rachel Hunter is not a movie star

Tonight, in an effort to escape all the Christmas music being piped into the gallery (I swear I heard three different versions of Frosty the Snowman in a row), I wandered on down to the Barnes and Noble on my break. I was half-looking for a book for my brother since Chanukah is not too far off. I didn't find one, but I did find a book on the best patisseries in Paris, which was infinitely more interesting to me anyway. But the best part came when I went to look at art books (since Brother has expressed a budding interest in art). So I walk past the photography section, noticing a man sitting against the wall whilst flipping through a book. I didn't think much of it until I went back to give the photography section a more serious perusal. And then I took note of what this guy was perusing: The New Erotic Photography. When he realized that I wasn't going anywhere her nervously slammed the book shut and stuffed it back onto the shelf and shuffled away, head hung low. Totally busted! It was awesome! And gross! And awesome!

And speaking of "awesome" check out this link of Vogue's favorite artists' holiday picks! I know I always take my holiday gift cues from Henri Matisse's great granddaughter.

http://www.style.com/vogue/mostwanted/120408/

Lessons in International Relations from the bar at the Buena Vista Cafe

The Buena Vista Cafe recently celebrated its 53rd anniversary, though this evening I heard a waiter tell two customers that the restaurant is over 100 years old. They claim that Irish Coffee was invented on the premises, and I find it very hard to believe that Irish Coffee is a mere 53 years old. I also find it hard to believe that only one person invented it. I think left to our own devices, we humans could easily figure out that Coffee+Whiskey=Things Are So Much Better Now in less than 30 minutes. So I really hope the Buena Vista gets its story straight sometime soon. Anyways, it's really touristy and I try not to go there too much.

But I did go there tonight, and I now have it on good authority that, no matter what you may hear, the British love us because we saved their asses and they owe us one. I picked up this tidbit from an English woman sitting three barstools to my left. But then she started talking about her trip to the Serengeti, and who wants to hear about that? Besides, by this point The Cranberries were playing on the overhead and I was transported away to my happy place. Which is 1995. And the only thing that shook me from my reverie was a Peter Cetera track to which I am rather partial.

Inspired by Liz Turner exclaiming, "Your lack of foresight is INCREDIBLE!"

If my older, wiser, more world-weary 22 year old self ran into my plucky 18 year old self right before she started her first year of college, I'd like to think that she'd hand 18 year old me a pair of tweezers and tell her to take care of her eyebrows, and also that she would give her a few hints and tips. These are the secrets to my success, folks; for me to be posting them in a blog like this is like letting you into one of those Rich Dad Poor Dad seminars, but for FREE. So pay attention.

-Leave the sewing kit at home. You'll soon discover that any holes in your clothing can be mended with a stapler until you're reunited with your sewing machine. You may think that this will look tacky, but no one is going to notice.

-Get off the mind-fuck drugs as soon as you can. And right after that, move as far away as possible from everyone you love. Actually you are going to do this anyway, and it's going to be awesome. But when you do it, don't worry so much about not talking to people/people forgetting you. Because you are great!

-There will come a time when you find more and more perfectly edible food in garbage cans, and you will be tempted to take it and eat it. I'm not saying don't do it, but it turns out that people generally frown upon that kind of behavior if you're not homeless, so use a little discretion. I know it seems a little counter-intuitive- you're a born scavenger! And no one's making fun of you for that sweet pair of badminton rackets you found in a dumpster, so I really do think you're onto something here. Just don't offer to share that found quesadilla with anyone. More for you anyway!

-Don't kiss anyone you've only known for fifteen minutes. Sometimes they're married!

-If you absolutely insist upon drinking a whole box of Franzia by yourself, make sure it's a red and not a white. Really. Even if you ignore all the other advice, take this part seriously. Really.

-When someone invites you home to meet their cats, chances are they probably don't have any. Okay, they really don't have any. But I think you should probably go home with them anyway because it makes for a really funny story later on.

-An empty can of beans is not an acceptable substitute for one of those windshield scraper thingies. And just because I don't know its proper name does not detract from its importance. Buy one. They're like 7 bucks and you're really not old enough for people to be making Cheap Jew jokes yet.

-You can use the foil from packs of cigarettes to spit your gum into.

-Don't feel bad about eating bacon. Also don't feel bad about eating French toast and bacon sandwiches.



Hindsight's a bitch.