Paging David Byrne?

My God.

How did I get here?

I haven't written anything to show for myself in two years. Everything keeps changing, and I'm struggling to find a foothold somewhere in the gray. At the same time, I'm not panicking. It seems that all the elements of my life (The universe? Everything?) have kind of aligned to get me here. I've experienced loss across the entire spectrum, but for the first time, I actually feel fortified by it. I'm standing, alone, with nothing to prop me up but my own sheer will.

And it's awesome.

I'm doing better than I ever thought possible. I haven't shattered into a thousand pieces, not when my brother died, not when my family fell apart, not when I left a relationship that wasn't making either of us happy and moved to a new apartment. I'm now in a (metaphysical) place that feels entirely foreign to me - and as an Earth sign, this is inherently something I don't do well with - but, I haven't completely lost my shit.

I turn 29 tomorrow. I'm so ready to be done with my 20's, but I'm going to make this last year really count. I'm going to do better than I ever have before. I'm going to trust myself, listen to the voices that encourage rather than discourage. I'm not going to be scared of uncertainty anymore, because what has my life been like these past few years? Everything has been uncertain, and continues to be. I have no idea what's coming, and there's absolutely nothing I can do to control the outcome, except adjust how I respond to it.

So, life...

Sick days, sad dreams.

I am just coming down off a two-day cold medicine bender. You see, January has delivered not only almost a Shaq of snow (reference here) but a personal gift to me: my very own Hellvirus - one of those nasty cold-flu hybrids that plants roots in your sinuses and doesn't get better, but rather waxes and wanes from a slight sniffle to an outright tornado that rips up the foundation of almost all of your bodily systems.

For the past couple days, I have been in a Hellvirus wax, and have therefore have been taking Ny-Quil (a substance I usually abhor), so that I might actually sleep at night, rather than thrash around, coughing, snotting, and kicking off covers, creating an utter nighttime hell for both The Ginger and for me. As a result, both my waking and dreaming life have been a little surreal.

The other night, I dreamed of my brother. Well, not him so much as his bedroom.

When Michael was alive, like most teenage boys are wont to do, he spent most of his time holed up there. We affectionately called it "The Cave" and him "The Cave-Dweller", something that may or may not have made him hate us all a little. He would emerge every so often, usually for meals, and stay for the roughly 15 minutes it took him to inhale his food and grunt a few words conversationally. Then he would disappear back into his comfy little hole, amongst the company of the computer, video games, music and art that he loved so.

After the funeral, during the first few nightmarish weeks, the sweet woman from the funeral home came by to deliver a plastic bag of Michael's things that he had the night they found him. My dad took the bag from her, and in a choked-up voice, said "I'll just go put it in his room." I followed him up the stairs, where I watched him crack open the door, lay the bag on the floor, and close the door behind him. That was the last time any of us have been able to even come close to going in there.

My parents have to pass by his door every single day. I don't know how they do it. When I go home to visit, just the sight of the now-bare wooden door, stripped of all his signage ("Do Not Disturb Before Noon on Weekends" and other teenage sentiments) reduces me to tears. It doesn't seem right that the door be sealed shut without him hiding out behind it. I almost imagine that he's still there, and has been since April, and that any minute the door will open, with him poking his sleepy head out to say hello.


Anyway. Michael's room is hugely symbolic. And in my dream, my mom came to me, a complete crying wreck, but with strength and determination in her voice, and said, "It's time to go into Michael's room, and I need you with me." With heavy hearts, we opened the door and crossed the threshold. It looked the way I remembered it - walls sponge-painted dark blue, toys and games and clothes everywhere. My mom went to retrieve the bag from the funeral home and pulled out items one by one: a house key, his wallet, a journal. I, on the other hand, stared at the walls with a combination of sadness and surprised joy.

See, his bedroom used to be mine when I was his age and we first moved into the Harrison Ave house. When   I went off to college, my parents unceremoniously moved Michael into my room and me into the spare room (which was the size of a closet), something that I resented for a while. I eventually realized that I was glad Michael had the bigger room.

In my dream, the pictures of my friends and I that had adorned the walls when it was my room were still there. With tears in her eyes, my mom said, "He left them up there. He looked up to you so much." I realized that Michael really did love me a lot, and that I was a good sister to him after all. And I was still really happy that he had gotten to make the big bedroom his very own for the time he was alive.


Before the other night, I hadn't dreamed about Michael in a long time. So in some sick, twisted universe-logic kind of way, the Hellvirus has been kind of a blessing. I'm even thinking maybe I should trip balls on cold medicine more often, if it means I get another chance to reconnect with my brother.

Childhood anxieties

Okay, that last post was, perhaps, a little too honest for you and I at this stage in our relationship, so I'm going to lighten the mood a little with an amusing walk down memory lane. I call this one "Clues from Amy's childhood that indicated quite strongly that she was going to be a neurotic spaz in adulthood."

Around the age of, let's say, 7 or 8 or so, I developed this sense that inanimate objects had feelings. Now, I realize that most kids develop attachments to their toys, stuffed animals, what have you. Little Amy, however, took this a few steps beyond what is healthy.

I think it began with Spyri.

Perhaps it was because I was an only child with few companions, and had learned to create imaginary friends very early on in childhood. At any rate, there was a period of time that I always needed to carry a little "friend" around with me, most everywhere I went.

Spyri was just one of my many "friends": a little spiral seashell that I had glued little googly eyes to, and to which I had developed a preternatural attachment. One day, choked with the gut-wrenching loneliness that can only be felt by dorky children, I decided that Spyri was going to accompany me to school.

That day, the inevitable happened: I lost Spyri. I realized it in the cafeteria, just as lunch period was ending. Believing Spyri to actually be a living friend, one who I loved dearly, I pitched a complete hissy fit in front of everyone (why the other kids didn't like me was completely unfathomable), leading to the school janitor digging through both giant trash cans filled with milk and government-issued cheese and such.

Spyri was not found.

I was so distraught that my mom had to come pick me up from school early. We went grocery shopping. I remember very distinctly that when Pearl Jam's "Daughter" came on the radio, I had to fight the tears back. The line, "the picture kept will remind me" made me remember that Spyri was gone, and all I had left was this shitty little picture I drew of her in art class. (THIS IS WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED)

From that point on, I was extra special careful never to let my extra special friends out of my sight. Including the time I took a dorky Mario doll to an all-girl sleepover, but that's neither here nor there.

And then there was the Frosted Flakes incident.

My mom and I were in Market Basket one Saturday morning, doing the week's grocery shopping. We always drove either 20-30 minutes out of our way, to Haverhill or Rowley, to go to the Market Basket for groceries. The joys of growing up poor!

Right. So there we were, in the cereal aisle, at my favorite part of the trip: getting to pick out a delicious breakfast treat. I had my heart set on Fruity Pebbles. Goddammit, I loved Fruity Fucking Pebbles. Didn't matter that they got all soggy and gross after about 20 seconds in milk, but even that artificially-colored sugar slime was like taking a bite out of heaven itself.

My mom was also looking at cereals. "Hey, how about some Frosted Flakes?" she suggested to me.

"Frosted Flakes??!!" I replied. No fucking way I was going to eat Frosted Fucks. It was a one-way train to Pebble-Town that day. I grabbed the box and threw it into the cart with glee.

Later on in the shopping adventure, however, I started to think about that incident. And, honest to fucking god, I thought that I had hurt the Frosted Flakes' feelings by rebuffing them the way I did. So what did I do? I took my coveted Fruity Pebbles back to the cereal aisle, put them on the shelf, and grabbed a big-ass box of Frosted Flakes.

Seeing Tony The Tiger's face still kind of fills me with guilt. No wonder I'm such a mess.

Why I am opting out of the holidays this year.

I know that there doesn't need to be a lengthy, verbose Statement of Purpose made on this subject. I know that those of you who know what's happened can most likely understand why I would be making this decision, and those of you who don't could easily be soothed with the old "I'm broke as shit this year, here's your dollar store Holiday Card and a bag of festively colored Hershey's Kisses", but this year, here is my gift to you:

The God-Honest, Gut-Wrenching Truth.

Historically, I have had a love-hate relationship with this time of year. You see, my Day of Birth just so happens to fall on Christmas Day, and if you can't see how that would make me Fucking Hate Christmas time, picture this: EVERYBODY gets presents on YOUR birthday. If you still can't see it, congratulations, you are not a self-absorbed egomaniac.

However, in the past few years (read: since I left college and moved out of my parents' house), the holidays began to form a new, special significance for me. Now, truth be told, I did always enjoy the giving gifts/listening to holiday music/specific seasonal cheer aspects of Christmastime, however trite and put-upon they began to seem as I went kicking and screaming into adulthood. But once I began to really emerge into adulthood, holiday time became something more - one of the few times a year I got to see my family, and just be with them. Corny as it may seem, the past few Christmases have left me with this overwhelming sense of happiness and gratitude for my family.

Now. Imagine that feeling. Imagine the love you have for your own family. Imagine them, however large or small, as you've always known them - together, for better or worse, gathering and celebrating (or drinking heavily in order to tolerate, potato po-tah-toe) whatever holiday that is yours to celebrate.

Imagine all of a sudden that one of them is missing. Suddenly, without warning, a member of your family is gone. Imagine that your family is a small one, like mine. Imagine what it would be like to have one person no longer be a part of your family; their presence has vanished.

Imagine what the holidays would be like then. Without that one person that has always been there, as far back as you can remember, acting as the glue that holds your whole family together.

Would you want to celebrate?

No, dear friends, this year I don't even want to see the colors red and green. I feel like setting fire to every Christmas Fucking Tree I see, want to push over all the Salvation Army bell-ringers, steal their bells and run screaming into the crowd. Just hearing the opening notes of "Silent Night" makes me want to burst into hysterical sobs. If I run into Santa, God help him, I'm going to blacken both of his eyes, break his legs, free the reindeer, and expose the whole damn thing as the scam that it is.

Hyperbole, okay, maybe a bit. I'd only blacken ONE of Santa's eyes, and maybe just twist his ankle a little.

But in all seriousness, this year, Scrooge though I may seem, I just can't get into the spirit. So please, dear friends, understand why I don't want to come to your parties, why I don't want you to give me any gifts, why I can't muster any cheer. When my brother died, so did a part of me, and it's going to take me some time to make peace with that, and find a way to experience and enjoy life's simplicities again.


My birthday, on the other hand, is going to come whether I like it or not. (Not.) So if you want to do your bit of Holiday Charity, come sit by me...and please bring booze.

"Okay Amy, I'm going to need you to take some deep breaths now."

Greetings, interweb! Well, this officially marks my first blog post since The Awful Thing(s) happened to me back in April, causing my entire life to be flipped upside down and leaving me to try setting it right-side up again, armed with nothing but a rusty shovel and a thimble (metaphors!). But, more about that in another post, for another day. Today I'm going to try to get the writing ball rolling again with some rambling about interesting (I think), slightly less tragic things that have happened to me lately.

Yesterday, for example, I had to go to the hospital for surgery. Some back story: I have had, um, lady problems, for what seems like a few years now. After going from doctor to doctor and being told "oh, no, all of your excessive bleeding is perfectly normal for a young, childless woman," I finally went to a doctor who said "well, let's just check and see, just in case." Several specialty visits and mild-to-moderately-invasive procedures later, it was determined the cause of all my suffering was due to uterine polyps. Delightful!

At any rate, my GYN scheduled a trip to the OR to scrape the little jerks out of me. It just so happens that the procedure for removing polyps is the same procedure for removing, uh, other unwanted tissue out of one's womb. (At one point during pre-op, the Ginger leaned over and commented, "Do you think everyone thinks you're here for an abortion?" to which I punched him in the arm, and then thought about it for a second. They probably did, and were probably disturbed by how much we were laughing.)

Now, I just so happen to fucking hate fucking hospitals. I've had enough traumatic trips to them for about several lifetimes. But there I am, dressed in a sexy little johnny, wearing those sexy little brown slippers, lying in the bed while they pump fluids into me and drain other fluids out. I now know what a lab rat must feel like - in the weeks leading up to and including my procedure I had been poked and prodded just about everywhere, had given what seems like pints of blood, and had peed in about 15 different sterile cups (seriously, what is it with GYNs and pregnancy testing?). But I just lay there and smiled as nurses smacked at my veins, laughed at their awkward jokes, tried not to shit my pants.

Luckily for me, I was accompanied by my two favorite people - my Mom, and the Ginger, as I mentioned earlier. So, in addition to all of the above stresses, I also had to restrain myself from knocking both of their heads together as they felt the need to join forces and poke fun at me like a super-strength Sarcasm Monster. Sweet fucking support network, but I guess you reap what you sow. So which came first, the jackass seed or the wiseass plant?

Finally, after what seemed like a week - mind you, when you are scheduled for anesthesia, you are not allowed to eat or drink anything until after the procedure, and holy goddamn if the smells drifting up from the hospital cafeteria didn't smell like a delectable feast of the Gods to me - my GYN showed, and it was time to rock and roll.


The anesthesiologist came over to my bed and said "Okay, now I'm going to give you something to help you relax," and injected something into the IV line. "It will start working almost immediately." "That sounds goo...oop," I replied, as he wasn't fucking kidding, that shit hit me like a ton of fuzzy, warm, kitten-bricks. So there I was, floating on a magic glitter-cloud, surrounded by shimmering unicorns, when they wheeled me into the incredibly bright, incredibly cold OR. As the sweet nurses piled blankets on me, other people stuck sensors onto my skin, hooked me up to machines, lay my arms out on little platforms, tugged me this way and that. I felt like ET when he was in that creepy plastic tunnel place.

Then, the Giver of Drugs appeared, and stuck a white, plastic mask over my face and instructed me to take a few deep breaths. But in all honesty, I was too fascinated by all the shit I was being hooked up to. Were they going to transform me into a cyborg? What does THAT machine do? Coooool.


"Okay Amy, I'm going to need you to take some deep breaths now."


Ugh. Okay, fine. In, out. Iiiiin, out. In...


And when I opened my eyes again, I was lying in a completely different part of the hospital, feeling like someone had taken a frying pan to my skull and a serrated-edge ice cream scoop to my abdomen. As I struggled to open my eyes, my struggling alerted the attention of yet another sweet nurse, who delivered more Wonderful Drugs ("But it still huuurrrtts," I insisted after the first injection) and some wonderful ginger ale, and unhooked me from all of the machines and returned my clothes and let me keep the hospital slippers (my Nana used to be a nurse, so she would give new pairs to me all the time as a kid, and those fuckers are comfy).


Once I managed to get out of the bed, ever-so-grudgingly, and managed to get my clothes on, and managed to plop down in a wheelchair, a kind orderly wheeled me down to the hospital lobby, where my Fan Club waited, and both looked so damn happy to see me. (I'm lucky, I know.) Then the Ginger drove me home, where naps and snacks and TV awaited.


So here I am, still loopy from the anesthesia 24 hours later, or is that all the caffeine I mainlined today in order to make up for my deprivation yesterday? At any rate, that's the story of Amy's first Real Surgery.



And here is a shitty MS-Paint version of what used to live inside of me:

Best of Boston!

(thx to Allie for the tip)

remembering forgotten holiday joy.

heading home a little earlier this evening, I was walking up my street, lost in the pleasures of crappy pop tunes via ipoop, when something on the sidewalk made me stop in my tracks. it looked like someone had spilled a bunch of paint, and it was still wet. upon further inspection, I realized what it was.

someone had painted EASTER BUNNY FEET on the sidewalk.

curious, I looked around to see if there were more. sure enough, the next set led up the sidewalk...

up the stairs...

across the street...

...and into the garden.

after photographing this final set, I realized I was across the street, standing in my neighbor's garden like a creep. some kid is going to wake up in the morning and absolutely flip his shit over this. but, I got to discover it first, and probably enjoyed it just as much as he's going to.

happy easter, slutttts.

I got no motivation/where is my motivation?

Forgive me for being a cliche of my entire generation, but today feels exactly like I'm trapped inside Green Day's "Longview."

srsly, do you remember this video? 

So, Monday. One of my days off this week. Such an awkward day to have off, but I fell asleep last night determined to make the most of it.

I had my alarm set for 9 a.m. so I could start the day by doing some yoga or something instead of immediately funneling coffee into my face. But, of course, I woke up before that because I had to pee and my roommates with real jobs were crashing around the apartment, getting ready. 

As I zombie-walked back to bed after my pee, I knew that I should probably just get up. Just get up, Amy, it will be so great to be so productive early on, then you can spend the rest of the day writing!

But I could hear the rain outside, see the gray skies. Each raindrop taunted me, "Fuck you, there's no way you're going to make a diamond out of this coal pile of a day. Go back to bed, asshole."

So I did, hitting the snooze button until 11:15. Honestly, who sleeps until 11:15 on a Monday?

Grudgingly, the day began. I funneled coffee directly into my face. Items were crossed off my to-do list at a snail's pace. 

I left the house for an hour, bravely braving the elements, but only due to obligation. I bought toilet paper.

Now here I sit, in my bathrobe, sipping on cold coffee from the morning and thinking, "Okay. I should probably write something." So, I'm attempting to read the news blogs that I subscribe to solely so I can tell myself "Hey, at least you subscribe to news blogs!" I'm trying to get some material for a good, solid blog post of my own. But my eyes are glazing over, the words are blurring, I'm thinking about what I should eat. I look at 15 Lolcats instead.

And now I'm blogging about my day where I did nothing of any use to anyone. Just for the sake of saying "Yeah, well, I blogged today," when we all know that bloggers aren't even real writers. I'm trying to bang out some words on the screen before I go meet up with Ginger and then the two of us will combine our powers of laziness and procrastination and spend the rest of the evening trying to beat Time Trials on Mario Kart Wii.

I mean, it's a day off. It's not that bad. If my teenage self could see me, at adulthood, wasting time so gloriously, she would be psyched and automatically put in a little less effort in her classes, knowing this is how she was going to end up anyway. 

I made a JPEG. I can't even copy and paste in Paint properly. What am I doing with my life.

my aging, crumbling body.

today, the mere act of standing up - after having been sitting for about an hour, sending resume after resume to temp agencies, in The Job Search That Will Never End - caused a ligament in my knee to go FUCK YOU and send me tumbling onto the floor.

as I was lying there, the prevalent thought in my head was merely, "well, here we go."

I've gotten used to random pains and malfunctions. this isn't a statement meant to garner sympathy, it's just the truth. I've been cursed with a moody gut, allergies to both inside and outside things, a weaker immune system than most, and in recent years, an affliction that seems to be carpal tunnel but just can't decide which wrist it would rather hang out in.

and I've accepted all of this. my body doesn't work as well as others, that's just how I was made. so, I make it a point to carry Tums, Claritin, immune-strengthening vitamins, and painkillers everywhere I go.


but the Knee Thing. there's only one explanation for it, and that's this: it's been overused. and, since I'm not a marathon runner or any other Legit Athlete, the overuse can only stem from the fact that I've been using it for 26 years. (or that I spend too much time on my knees, go ahead, just get it out of your system so I can continue.)

and I believe that this is just how it's going to be, as part of getting older. I've known people who cross the threshold into their thirties, whose aches and pains require regular chiropractor visits, or even surgery. backs, knees, necks, all these wads of bones and strings and muscly bits...they're not made to last forever.


but I'm prepared. in fact, I'm certain that the older I get, the more legit my complaining will get, about aches and pains, and hell, just about everything else. I'm completely justified in freaking out on just about every birthday following my 30th. and sometimes, in my darkest, most twisted moments, I think about how awesome it might be to be an old lady. that way, I'll finally have grown into my salty disposition.


in the meantime, I should probably start cane shopping...

"get the hell off my lawn."

adorable things done by boys: pun intended.

this afternoon, I was sitting outside of the cafe where I am an indentured servant day in & out, with my boyfriend and a few co-workers. one of my co-workers was enjoying a delicious iced mocha, and when my boyfriend got up to throw some trash away, he pointed at her beverage and said, "livin' la vida mocha!"

now. being of the gratingly sarcastic disposition - so much so that people rarely take me seriously because they can't actually tell when I'm being serious - I tend to snub anything light-hearted and corny. usually, when anybody makes a lame joke, I have to bite my tongue to keep from inadvertently whining, "Moooom, you're embarassing me."

yet, for some reason, when the sweet, dorktarded object of my affection delivers a clever pun with a big stupid grin, I can't get enough. seriously. I laugh my fucking ass off. not only do I find it hilarious, but it transcends mortifying and becomes downright adorable.


it's always been so interesting to me, the things we put up with when we're smitten with someone. how sometimes things you've always written off as unacceptable in another person become tolerable, even delightful, in the right person.

of course, we'll always give them shit for liking "just one" song by Korn, or knowing most of the names of the Pokemon, or playing electronic music incessantly, even first thing in the morning. but deep down, we find it cute as hell.

except for the Korn part. dude, that's never going to be okay.

grammer rool's!!11

I go on the record saying that nothing makes me wetter in my ladyparts than some proper spelling and grammar. I own two grammar manuals, a copy of AP Style, and I sometimes read Strunk & White for shits and gigs. As a kid, a homework assignment to look through a dictionary and find words I wasn't sure how to spell turned up mostly words I didn't even know the definition of. The sight of a superfluous apostrophe sends me into paroxysms of rage.

That being said, sometimes even I am uncertain about proper usage. Which is why I bring you today's Delightful Grammar Tip...

ON PLURALIZING ACRONYMS!

Everywhere I go, I see "CD's" or "PDA's" or "FU's". My first thought is, well, the compact disc's what? But I never thought to look it up. Today, I was called upon to transcribe some notes mentioning a place that donated to "PTO's". I took it upon myself once and for all to get to the bottom of this.

Naturally, I was right. To pluralize an acronym, like most things being pluralized, simply add an "s". So, when talking about laughing out loud multiple times, you would write, "The website induced a fit of LOLs." There is NO APOSTROPHE INVOLVED.

The website I link to above has this to say regarding those nasty little upside-down commas, and it's brilliant:

Apostrophes show something is missing, so we have no reason to use them to create plurals. 

Stop stickin' it where it don't belong.

Songs to Tear You Apart (via me at seventeen)

in keeping with the recent nostalgic music posts, I've assembled a little playlist. it's been gray and dreary lately, and another New England winter is nigh, which reminds me that the seasonal depression is going to come crashing in any day now. so here we have a compilation of the 10 best emo songs ever - a.k.a. the ones I used to play at full volume while driving around my hometown late at night, smoking a clove cigarette out the window of my Jetta, and probably crying just a liiiitttle bit.

"Songs to Tear You Apart"

10. New Found Glory - "Eyesore"

this was right before I started to hate NFG for going "all commercial".

"I say your name when I fall, when I hit the bottom."

9. boysetsfire - "My Life in the Knife Trade"

 

I discovered this one while driving in the car of an unrequited love interest. oh, the irony.

 

"Your comfort in my suffering is no longer disturbing." 

 

 

8. The Get Up Kids - "Don't Hate Me"

God. I had an exboyfriend who dumped me, then came running back to me. he told me he listened to this song nonstop during our time apart. the relationship lasted about two months longer, until he essentially broke up with me because I wouldn't fuck him. I was sixteen. dick.

"At the heart, the heart is you, in everything I do." 

7. Something Corporate - "Konstantine"

I discovered this one when I was legally old enough to drink, but still.

"It's to dying in another's arms and why I had to try it."

6. Juliana Theory - "August in Bethany"

homeboy is crying about his ex-girlfriend while sitting alone on the beach. on a FRIDAY NIGHT. weeeeeeep

"Don't go, don't go...your eyes they through my soul."

5. Alkaline Trio - "Radio"

This was one of the first songs I learned on guitar. while Alk3 certainly owns with their self-pity, they mostly get drunk and pissed off about it. these guys were my FAVORITE my senior year of high school, and would be a band I returned to later in moments of heartbreak.

"In case you haven't heard, I'm sick and tired of trying."

 

4. Alkaline Trio - "I Lied My Face Off"

one of the best "woe is me, but still, fuck you" songs out there.

"I'm bad luck, can't fuck, got no reflection today. Maybe I'll stay down next time I get hit by a train."

3. Dashboard Confessional - "The Best Deceptions"

I played this at a "coffee house" that my high school put on. it was essentially a talent show for the drama kids. I also would run up to the front and scream out the lyrics every time he did this one at a concert (I saw him thrice between 2000-2002). just like the dickheads in the audience in this recording.

"So kiss me hard, 'cause this will be the last time that I let you."

2. "Blindfolded" - Saves The Day

as a teenager, I was unlucky in love. probably because I was such a relentless emo fuck, but then again, weren't we all? so this saga of rejection struck pretty close to home. not too long ago, my biffle and I realized that we both remember every single lyrics. we were quite drunk at the time, so naturally, we proceeded to scream each and every single word along with the recording. it was very therapeutic.

"And you'll say you don't want to be with me, no one ever does, no one ever thinks of me that way."


 

1.  Saves The Day - "Three Miles Down"

Jesus, God. hands-down, this song wins every emo award there is. this was the first song I learned to play on guitar, and you better believe I played it. endlessly.

"Why does my heart always beat before yours does?"

is there anything I've forgotten? what were your favorite sad-kid songs? share 'em in the comments. bonus points for including audio/video. extra triple bonus points for making me a mix cd!

you know you make me feel so good.

so there I was at work, stocking some yogurt, when the following tune hit my eardrums:




naturally, the first thing that came to my mind is "HOLY SHIT, THIS IS SAMPLED IN THAT MA$E SONG." for those of you who don't remember (and therefore were probably a total bummer to hang out with in the late 90's), here it is, complete with shiny fucking green suits and all:

(does puff drive mercedes? you better goddamn believe he does.)

I ran up to the counter and excitedly tried to pull my co-workers into my little world of nostalgia. "HOLY SHIT, DO YOU GUYS REMEMBER THAT SONG THAT MA$E AND PUFFY DID?!"

naturally, they did. then one of the girls said to me, "did you know that Ma$e is a minister now?" my jaw dropped to the floor. NO. WAY. from Bad Boy to Man of God?

surely enough, after some extensive research (6th hit on my Google search) it would seem that indeed, for five years, from 1999-2004, Ma$e went down South for some q.t. with g.o.d.


but, dear friends, this seems to be old news! apparently upon his return, he released a re-entry album in 2004 (appropriately titled "Welcome Back"), he appeared at the 2005 VMA's, and even attempted a comeback THIS YEAR, inspired by Michael Jackson's death.



I feel so detached from "popular culture" right now. first, I find out that Justin Timberlake has been filming Facebook: The Movie, RIGHT AROUND THE FUCKING CORNER FROM ME, and I had no idea? and now I realize that my favorite Bad, Bad Boy is trying to revive his career and I haven't had a clue? note to self: sign up for Perez Hilton's RSS feed, immediately...

unattended children will be shot.

this makes me want to own an establishment so I can get really creative. same goes for a-holes on their cellphones, those who don't tip, and people whose face I just plain don't like. (via passive-aggressive notes)


***


unattended children will be shot.: "
as previously discussed, this hamfisted attempt at wit remains the scourge of retail establishments the world over.



as it turns out, the umpteen-million variations are even more hilariously clever!

for example, while the original version merely confuses a lot of people, this one just seems like a bizarre incentive for child abandonment.



quickly, however, things start to get very un-p.c. (and also…very creepy.)



this version, in fact, is almost as popular as the original. (other examples here and here and here and here and here and…is that a machete?)



child slavery? now that’s comedy gold. but really, why stop there? why not “unattended children will be trafficked into child prostitution”? “unattended children will be sold to pedophiles”? or anally probed? or…







hilarious, right?

related: the “your mother doesn’t work here” of the hospitality industry

"

my parachute is the color of failure.

so I recently checked out a copy of What Color is Your Parachute: A Practical Manual for Job-Hunters and Career-Changers (full title included here for dramatic effect). yes, it has come to that. as it stands, I find the idea of a sudden, inexplicable death far more appealing than having to make another turkey sandwich for another self-important academic type who is pursuing three simultaneous degrees yet doesn't understand the concept of tipping.

"so stop blogging, asshole, and get on craigslist," you might be saying to yourself right now. ah, but see, I would rather be making hummus and avocado nightmares for pimply Harvard first-years than sitting at the desk of some corporate gang-bang in an itchy button-down get up, answering phones in my best fuck-me voice.

in short, I hate my current job, but far prefer it to taking yet another "this will do for now" position just to keep myself afloat. so! the time has come to do some reassessment. what are my skills? what are the skills I enjoy using the most? what would my "dream job" be? what are the steps I should take to get there? and so forth.

the first step in what will certainly be an arduous - yet ultimately rewarding! - journey is making a list. Richard Nelson Bolles (the author of the parachute thing) calls it "THAT ONE PIECE OF PAPER" (caps added for dramatic effect). it is, very simply, a list comprised of "everything you know about yourself". later, important and pertinent information will be extracted from this list. but to begin, it's simple. write what you know. about you, wonderful you.

I have been adding to this list for a few days now.

I am on number 46.

#47 - I have a tendency to procrastinate.


really, dude? I've lived with myself for 26 years, and all I can come up with are FORTY-SEVEN little tidbits, little soundbites about what makes me beautiful, unique me?

this is going to be a lot harder than I thought.

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.