716

It has been quite some time since I've updated this little guy. Turns out I'm really bad at keeping it up to date.

The semester is off to a great start. I like my apartment. This picture is from San Fransisco. Blah, blah, blah.

No wonder I never bother updating - I've got absolutely nothing to say.

Oh, and 716 signifies the number of posts on this blog, including this pathetic one.

(Yes. That's seriously the end of this post.)

And so it goes

I am out of creative ideas for this blog. Instead, I am going to just start doing things on a somewhat daily basis, creating a buildup of short stories and insights that would make for terrific short novel material and then never bother writing about any of it. You dig? Great. Here's a picture.

If I were a rich girl...

I'd buy a bunch of these.

Butts

Pickles are ruining the entire damn world.

gaygaygay.jpg

Remember those guys from the PAAS Easter egg dye kits that you never used except to stick in your sister's hair when she wasn't looking? The girl I sat next to on the bus this afternoon was equally as stupid. Let me explain:

Beautiful, sunny afternoon. Jumped on the 9 and got the last seat. Bus takes off, wheels go round, etc, etc, etc.

The girl next to me takes out her phone to call who I can only assume is an equally shallow iPod girl with handbags bigger than an average steering wheel. She starts talking about ohmygosh FINALS! and, like, thu-ree papers I have to turn in by Friday, and that's why last time I made Kev drive when we went home last weekend and I just CRASHED when we got there!!!

So basically it's any old 4 o'clock ride home - until she brings her ass into it. She didn't use my dumb girl voice but if I were to recount this tramatic incident of indecent overhearing to you in person, I'm afraid I would have to use it. I swear this is what Paris said:

"Oh my gosh. I NEEEEEED to start, like, working out and stuff more. Like, you know, like I'm not gonna do the whole eating right thing and stuff, but like the working out I NEED to do. I've really let myself go. I mean, I used to be okay and now I'm, like, I'm CHUBBY!!!"

Okay. Whatever. I can deal with a fat chick. But that wasn't the end of her cry-story:

"Like, yeah. We should work out. Like, not the eating healthy shit, but like go running and stuff. 'Cause, like, I was noticing in my class today how everyone else is gaining weight, too. 'Cause now it's hotter out so, like, people are, like, wearing more, like, REVEALING clothes and we're all a little fatter. Like, winter and stuff and holidays, ya know?"

The topper on the cake wasn't that she was skinny; the only girls bitchy enough to say something like "Everyone's getting SUUUUUUPER fat!" on a crowded RTS bus are always the size of my wrist and have never had to suffer through thighs that - heaven forbid - have touched. No, no. What did it was that this bitch is in MY CLASSES! And we've had that damn assignment all semester, taint-fritter!

So you know what? Chug a Natty Ice. No one's gonna love you no matter how much more weight you lose 'cause you suck and still don't get why they play Postal Service on the UPS commercials.

Now I'm gonna go drink some Tang and watch Even Stevens.

I've been writing some of the weirdest shit lately.

No, I meant on paper. But thanks for your encouragement.

Ever since my first writing experience in which I told the story of Cinnamon the talking cat in all her glory and misadventure I have found a certain pleasure in writing, one which I have replaced time and time again with new, sometimes less-productive means. I always seem, however, to come back to this basic method of communication with myself. Whenever my thoughts run dry and I feel I will never again pen a pathetic, metaphor-ridden line, I somehow manage to write. I don't always think, and indeed I do think this is a central reason why my hobby cannot simply up and die.

It is a mode of self-discovery for me. I like art - I do. I don't always like your art, but (biased as I am) I will always fall in love with mine. Sometimes it is easy to understand; other times it is a labyrinth of red and white, me standing in the center, the target. I don't even know what I've done most of the time until I reread some novel passage months after the ink has stained, realizing only then that perhaps there was more to what I wrote than originally intended.

I'd like to think I effect some sort of interest by never sharing a majority of the lines I scribe, but in all honesty I'm never hiding them, either; my entire collection, the past nine years of my life, is relatively easy to find. And besides - if I up and died tomorrow, wouldn't someone find it anyways? The only part about this fact that bothers me - truly bothers me - is that if (Well, I suppose when would be a more appropriate word - wouldn't you be intrigued if you stumbled upon a copious collection of loose-leafs and wire-bounds?) all my friends and family were to read my writings, would anyone ever really get what each piece meant? Sure - what they become is much more important, I know, I know; but you can't read the whole if the pieces don't make sense.

I'll wrap this up: My blog sucks.

"Well, I didn't have my coupon at the time, and the person I checked out with told me I could bring this back with my receipt..."

Today has been quite blah. Maybe it's because I'm tired and out of things to say, or maybe it's got something - a teeny, tiny little something - to do with all the excuses I'm so sick of hearing.

But probably it's just the fact that I've kept this miserable excuse of a generic LJ for almost THREE BF-ING YEARS.

I don't know. Just a speculation.