ways to reconnect with my muse...

...that don’t actually involve writing.


1. hire a P.I. to find her exact whereabouts, then follow her home from work, knock her kneecaps out with a baseball bat and stuff her in my trunk

2. stare at blank Microsoft Word document for hours until eyes tear up and brain threatens to evacuate (NOT RECOMMENDED)

3. read work done by other people, realize I am a million times more talented, feel smug

4. go on psychedelic drug trip, disappear in the urban jungle for a few days, come back with a fresh spiritual perspective and sense of self-righteousness

5. have nervous breakdown and run screaming into the nuthouse; enjoy a highly medicated vacation

6. drive loved ones to nervous breakdown through excessive whining and self-pity

7. fake death, flee country (and debt)

8. strike self upon head repeatedly with classic works of literature (paperback versions only)

9. fall asleep with books on writing instruction under pillow, hope for absorption of knowledge through osmosis

10. accept the fact that maybe I’m not meant to be a writer, consider alternate methods of artistic expression (interpretive dance, experimental noise bands, suicide, etc.)

coagulated dairy! yes!!

I take serious issue with sour cream commercials.

first of all - there is absolutely nothing appealing about someone running a ridged potato chip through a vat of straight-up sour cream with a few chives sprinkled on top. or, even better, some bland-looking white dude spooning a vast amount of the stuff onto a fajita and grinning like he can't possibly imagine a more fortunate scenario.

also, the word "dollop"? a) there are only so many times a human being can hear that word repeated in a 30-second period of time before wanting to tear their own ears off and b) when does anyone ever actually use that word in colloquial conversation? imagine your lover crawling across the bed to you, looking as sexy as humanly possible, then purring in your ear, "baby, I'm going to give you a dollop of my love tonight?" I actually just puked a little bit, thinking about such a thing. gross. fuck you, sour cream.

who will love you, who will fight, who will fall far behind?

I don't know why I always insist on listening to bon iver this late at night. that motherfucker only makes me crazy nostalgic, especially when I'm alone in bed. and through the achingly clear lens of sobriety, no less.

okay. so. I have been effectively single for over a year now. and pleased about that fact, mostly. but in this past year, I have had some of the worst dating experiences of all my 25 years on the planet thus far. which I get it, it's part of the whole "dating" package. and yes, okay, most of these specimens I have gotten involved with I have chosen to get involved with. I'm not escaping accountability here, trust me.

but seriously. I have met some of the worst dudes.

there have been some of the most self-involved, egotistical douchetards I have ever known. I have entered colossal spheres of drama without even realizing it. I have held men as they cried about their absent fathers, and at the time, have seen nothing at all wrong with that. I have woken up in rooms that look like crack dens. I have been propositioned for threesomes, by people who weren't even slated to be involved in said tryst. I have had some of THE WORST sex of my life.

I have also stooped to new lows. I have posted missed connections. I have checked the missed connections. obsessively. I have gone after the friends and co-workers of exes, even when said exes were in the same room. I have traveled long distances on a whim and full of hope. I have dated dudes older and younger, with about the same results.


now, at the same time. I have met some of the sweetest, most honest and most promising dudes. and each time, that mindfuckingly unfair paradox has applied: the ones I'm not interested at all are the ones making themselves available (sometimes excruciatingly so) and the ones I actually do show interest in are the ones running in the opposite direction. I exaggerate not, every SINGLE time, either of these constraints apply.


still, I trudge on. this isn't a "OH GOD WOE IS ME I AM GOING TO BE ALONE FOR THE REST OF MY MISERABLE AND MEANINGLESS LIFE" kind of thing. as tempted as I am to sink into that familiar, comfortable nest of self-pity and old, worn emo-kid tendencies.

no, no. I am fairly confident that this string of consecutive disasters and utter failings will continue, as I will continue to put myself out there. because, here's the deal. it's not that my standards are low...STOP LAUGHING, RIGHT NOW. it isn't.

the way I see it - I'm just willing to take chances. my most successful relationship to date was with someone I normally never would have gone out with, so I guess you can just never know for sure. plus, if that day ever comes that I find the one person who is utterly batshit insane enough to kick it with me for the long run, well...at least I'll know for sure that I looked goddamn everywhere else first.

blame it on Twilight.

this story got sent to me earlier. it's breaking news. it's actually the most e-mailed on boston.com right now. are you ready?


WAIT. before I link to anything, I'm just going to show you the lede real quick:

A school administrator wants to set the record straight: There are no vampires at Boston Latin.

yup! that's right! vampires.

ok, quick. all of those jokes you're composing in your head? get them out of your system. in fact, if you scroll to the bottom you will see someone - a lot of someones - have already gotten there.


now, we must point fingers. who is to blame for this?

it's not the economy this time. or media seizing on non-news stories and blowing them out of proportion to fill the gap caused by slashed budgets and/or journalistic laziness. no, we won't even go so far as to blame this on, say, teenage girls acting like the cruel, shallow, hateful sacks of hormones that they are.







nope! it's that damn Robert Pattinson's fault! with those bright eyes and those cheekbones and that smile and that...tousled...hair...

and...


...what was I saying?

right. to sum: kids are cruel, adults are gullible and panicky, local journalism is using its last dying breaths to choke out a load of swill, and teenage boys are way hot.


goodnight!

and the follow-up!

superb journalism there, Globe writers.

Steps for Preventing Shaken Baby Syndrome:

1. DON'T SHAKE YOUR FUCKING BABY.

shaken, not stirred.

this story is pretty fucked. according to the Boston Globe, the number of "shaken baby syndrome" cases has increased over the past few months. the culprit? wait for it...

...you got it, it's the economy!

okay. seriously? what exactly are these parents doing? holding the kid up and going 'DAMMIT, YOU LITTLE BASTARD! WHY CAN'T YOU BE A SACK OF TWENTIES??!!'


yes. OKAY. we get it. we're in a recession. but how much ridiculous, unacceptable human behavior is going to be blamed on this fact in the meantime?

BREAKING NEWS! earlier this morning, a garage full of human skulls was been found at the home of this local business owner! upon investigation, our news team discovered that this man had, in fact, been luring employees to his home with the promise of liquor, barbeque, and charades! instead, he had set up a makeshift gas chamber in his two-car garage, and was stashing their bodies in a crawlspace! it is understood that it was his intent to build a new workforce out of their skeletons! a statement from the man's lawyer quotes him as saying "my new staff could work for free! I just can't afford to pay my employees anymore! WE'RE IN A RECESSION!!!"

wisdom from kiddos, vol. 1

a couple months ago, I began volunteering at the Boston chapter of 826 National, a non-profit writing center for kids that runs various activities and workshops, including an after-school tutoring program, which is the one I'm involved with.

after about two sessions, one afternoon I found myself paired with a 5th grade girl, who was working on a short story about a family dog - based on her chihuahua at home - who gets kidnapped by a miserly old neighbor.

we were brainstorming reasons why the neighbor might commit such a heinous crime. her first idea was that the dog “did her buisiness” on the neighbor’s lawn, but I suggested, as foul as this was, it wasn’t quite reason enough for a treacherous dog-napping. as she scratched her head with her pencil and stared at her story outline, she asked me what I did for a job. I told her I work at a cafe, making coffee and sandwiches and such.

“Oh! So you must be really good at making sandwiches!” she said with a big smile.

I mentally indexed my professional resume - publicist, event coordinator, editor, student facilitator, assistant manager - and smiled back at her. “Yeah, you’re right, I guess I am really good at making sandwiches.”

we went back to our brainstorming session, and to help get some ideas flowing, I asked her to tell me what the story was like so far. she began giving me the rundown, and then her eyes lit up.

“It’s like making a sandwich!” she said. “First, you have the bread, and that’s the family and their dog. And then you have…” she looked to me for guidance.

“Lettuce and tomato,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“Right, the lettuce and tomato, which is the dog getting lost! And then you have the MEAT, and that’s what we’re working on right now! And then the mustard, or ketchup, and then the top of the bread, which is the end. And then…”

I grinned at her. “You’re right. Writing a story is just like making a sandwich!”

she got excited then, and started going off on a tangent about her dog, and her best friend, and her mom goes to school, and her little cousin and...

“Ohhkaayy,” I interrupted her, grabbed a pencil from the table, and pulled her homework binder closer to the both of us. “How about for now, let’s work on the meat.”

I swear, these smart, creative little bastards are going to save me from the wretched monotony that my life has become.