What's up, new decade?

Since I'm planning on being indisposed for the next 36 hours, at least, and since making lists is my only natural talent, I decided I would make a list of all things good 2009.

I wish I had read more books this year, as I wish every year. And as I resolve every January 1st, I hope to read more in 2010. My newly discovered favorite things to read are short-shorts. Short fiction in general, but short-shorts of 1,000 words or less (usually 500 or less) are more concentrated compared to normal-length short stories, and I find the scenes, however mundane or typical, are teeming with restrained emotions, so that a scene about buying oranges is never about oranges. Some are uncomfortable vignettes that make you feel like you intruded on the wrong hotel room. They show you the faintest breath of life before definitively shutting the door.

My favorite short-short anthologies of 2009 (both put out by Rose Metal Press):


Brevity & Echo: An Anthology of Short Short Stories. All stories in this collection are 1500 words or less, most of which are less than 400.

Excerpt from "I Always Know It's Over When They Say" by Melissa McCracken:

You never met a man like me before. My wife has nothing to do with this. You remind me of my mother. I want seven children. I have three kids. I'll never get over her. My ex wouldn't swallow. Lemme buy you a drink. I only drink when I'm depressed. My British accent only comes out when I'm drunk, Love. Last time, I wrecked the El Camino. I only bet on college ball. I haven't finished a book since high school. I quit the hard drugs. I can't wait till deer season.



A Peculiar Feeling of Restlessness: Four chapbooks of short short fiction by four women (Amy L. Clark, Elizabeth Allen, Kathy Fish, and Claudia Smith)


Excerpt from "I Tell / I Don't Tell" by Claudia Smith (I chose this one because it's strikingly similar to my own life...especially the prom part):

My prom date was gay. He wore a beautifully fitted tux. We went bowling instead of doing it, afterward.
I didn't know he was gay. Not for sure. I had him pick me up at my best friend's house. My own house smelled of rotting.
I lost pregnancies.
I won't tell the details, but some are sloppy.


My favorite albums of the year:

It's Blitz by Yeah Yeah Yeahs

Swoon by Silversun Pickups

To Be Still by Alela Diane

Crossing the Rubicon by The Sounds

Manners by Passion Pit

Best shows:

Alela Diane @ the First Unitarian Church, March 1st(my birfday present from Rachel. I got Alela Diane's new cd and her autograph, locked the keys in my dad's car, chatted with her drummer while waiting for AAA, and drove home in a blizzard...near white-out conditions. Truly a stupendous night.)

The Sounds + Foxy Shazaam @ the TLA (feel good show of the year)







Best movies:

Up

Brothers

Fantastic Mr. Fox (I haven't seen this one yet, but I'm adding it in anticipation.)







2009 was an odd year, no pun intended. Lots of ups and downs, as with any other year. It's strange to think that the first decade of the century is over. 10 years ago I was almost 15, adjusting to life without mom, and I was thinking how strange it felt to see a whole century end. It felt like being a part of history by default. Now I'm almost 25, and I cannot believe how far I've come. I'm very proud of myself. Way to be, me.

See you all next year!

My dad told me that Jonathan Safran Foer was on Ellen yesterday. I missed it :(

But for good reason ;)

idon'twanttogotoworkohmygodihateit.

Read Miranda July

I undeleted this blog for a second time. I plan to utilize it for book reviews (maybe music, tv and movies...whatever is in front of my face at the time) and better updates about my work. Etcetera. All writers have them. Let's be a writer, shall we?

Presently I'm reading (or preparing to read) No One Belongs Here More Than You, a collection of short stories by Miranda July. My first Miranda July experience involved Jeffrey Eugenides (The Virgin Suicides, Middlesex). You could say it was a menage, I'll allow it. Jeffrey Eugenides, perhaps my top-most favorite author, edited a wonderful and eclectic collection of love/anti-love stories called My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead. The anthology spans numerous decades--maybe centuries, I'm not sure--and it pulls from the oeuvres of classic greats such as Faulkner, Joyce, and Nabokov (who I find annoyingly verbose, but whatever), and it features contemporary lesser-knowns such as Miranda July.

Something That Needs Nothing is a witty tale about an 18-year-old girl's pathetic and painfully one-sided infatuation with her girlfriend (later, ex-girlfriend). I hate using the words "honest" or "real" when describing stories, so I'll refrain here. But July's story is a relatable and often humorous rendering of how embarrassing and pathetic we are in the wake of heartbreak and losing a significant other (who never really loved us) to another:

I could not let her leave the building. I ran down the hall and threw myself on her. She shook me off; I locked my arms around her knees. I was sobbing and wailing, but not like a cartoon of someone sobbing and wailing--this was really happening. If she left, I would become mute, like those children who have witnessed horrible atrocities. No one would understand me but those children. [...] Before they pulled away, I shut my eyes and hurled myself onto the sidewalk. I lay there. This was my last hope--that Pip would take pity on me.

As someone who jokes her way through difficult things, I fell in love with this story and immediately wanted to gorge myself on July's prose. Several months and one amazon.com wishlist later, I have the yellow version of No One Belongs Here More Than You (see also: green, pink, and orange). What makes me love her more is the fact that she is also a filmmaker, screenwriter, poet, and actor. Quintuple threat! She's also cute to boot.

Anyway, I hope to some day be a quintuple threat while maintaining my humble good looks. In the meantime, I'm reading this book.

Look alive

I just turned the heat on in my room. It felt like giving up. But after spending much of today fast asleep under piles of blankets I needed to do something to keep me comfortably awake. My summer clothes began swapping places in storage with my winter clothes. This also feels like giving up. The windows are shut tight. I burn candles for additional warmth. My tea kettle has been dusted off for a season of use. Every day I want to hibernate.

Someone make this chill go away.

It's cinnamon season

Autumn, the anti-spring--when colors bloom for death and not life. Your parting gift. Everything from here on revolves around warming yourself internally. Mulling spices. I'm catching cold. I woke up with a sore throat and I thought a cup of tea would be a quick fix, but 2 cups later I'm not feeling much better. I can feel my glands swelling. I can feel my sinuses bracing for impact. I feel the sick kind of tired. Curse me, never wanting to shut the windows when I sleep. I've been feeling a tickling in my chest for the past day or two, but blamed all the smokers around me.

I was supposed to go to an arts festival in West Philly today with my friend Chris, but looks like I'm going to pass on that. My throat is feeling worse by the minute. Garbage.

It's not just a one-night stand

Nothing keeps me up at night anymore, save my boyfriend's cat nagging me like an irreverent step-child--and I should know. My mother remarried when I was 21 and too old to be tricked into second-string father-daughter relationships. My father had been wearing dresses for 7 years and 5 days by then, and every wedding anniversary thereafter will be the year + 5 days anniversary of my dad painting his toe nails and secretly wishing I had nicer clothes and prettier hair.

But the point of all this: I no longer write out of desperate need. That's the worst of it. I'm stable.

I stayed up till 2 watching the rerun of Oprah. Mackenzie Phillips was on talking about her memoir and her drug-fueled sexual relationship with her father (John Phillips from the Mamas and the Papas). Her drug-fueled life in general. I hate Oprah as an interviewer.

"At 16 I started shooting coke, and I--"
"Wait, let me just clarify, at 18 you were raped by your father, and after 10 years you were 29 and weren't you old enough to know better?"
"Yes, I was and I knew better. At 16 he taught me how to shoot--"
"So you knew having sex with your father was wrong."
"Yes, and he allowed me to do so many drugs--"
"You knew having sex with your father was wrong and you kept doing it for 10 years."
"Yes, I was on drugs all the time and that ruins your capacity to reason--"
"So it was wrong and you kept doing it?"

Ugh. Anyway, it hit me that I seem to be drawn to women who crumble. Regardless of whether they fall into ruin or rebuild, I admire them. Perhaps it's because in either case they never say they found Jesus or "by the grace of God." In either case they find themselves and proceed accordingly. I'm just enthralled by the awful things that are repressed and that build pressure over years till they explode one way or another. Super volcanoes.

Side note: the women on The View are at least mildly retarded.

I've been having such weird/bad dreams lately. They're super vivid and really ugly. I'm never quite sure what they're about. One I had last night involved some sort of altercation in which AE got shot and died. I didn't see it happen, and I think Biff's boyfriend got shot and died, too. I'm not sure, but there was someone else that also died. The thought of AE dying was enough to make it a nightmare and I kept thinking, this isn't right, and I forced myself awake and had to talk myself out of calling him at 3 or 4 am to make sure he was really still alive.

I found a press last night that caters to writers like me who write poetry, but specifically prose and short-shorts (vignettes). They're called Rose Metal Press and they're having a chapbook contest. I need 25-40 pages of good stuff by Dec. 1st. Fingers crossed. There are a couple books I want to buy from them, so I need to reason with my budget. I'm going through the classified section of P&W magazine and researching different presses to see which contests I'll enter and who I'll submit to. My to-do list today. Let's get movin', kid. Let's get it on.

The dreams I dream, the song I sing for you

Some thoughts I had on seeing Foxy Shazam, The Sounds, and Bam Margera all in one place last night:

1. Foxy Shazam is, for all intents and purposes, a group of really drunk friends who got together and decided to play music while drunk, and it's possible that none of them are playing the same song, but it works as a soulful and irreverently entertaining spectacle. That's what it is. It's a spectacle. And I would gladly see them again. So if you find yourself in the unique situation where you're feeling blue and have an opportunity to see Foxy Shazam, see them and a smile will spread across your face. For days you will not be able to comprehend just what exactly you saw. There are no words for it.

2. Bam Margera is a rich asshole who dresses like a rich asshole. His wife is waif thin, and they're both so full of it despite the fact that Bam made his fortune by being an idiot on TV and not because he did anything relevant, noteworthy, or particularly skillful, and when you get down to it he's not different than any other douchebag in Southeastern PA except that he's a millionaire for no good reason and he drives a Mercedes. But I'll admit I was mildly star-struck; I got a small kick out of seeing a local "celebrity" from cable television.

3. Gay men LOVE the Sounds. According to my BFF, gay men love Swedish pop in general. There were lots of jazz hands and limp wrists. I'm not hating. I thought it was funny in a nice way. I mean, my dad is half gay, so...I'm practically gay myself. Anyway, I wouldn't have called myself a Sounds fan prior to this show; I went mostly because my best friend has been aching to see them for at least 2 years and I knew it was something special for her. But they put on a really fun, energetic show, and at times we felt like we were in a circa 1992 spaceship. Asymmetrical hair cuts, vests, curled lips. Look at the guitarist or keyboardist and you'll probably understand another reason why gay men love The Sounds. The singer is incredibly sassy and has nice legs, but spits a lot on stage. I'm probably a fan now.

All in all it was a good night that made me feel kind of happy despite my current situation with my dear boy. Essentially, I do dumb stuff and think nothing of it because it's all nothing to me; but he's something and he's something very special, and if the nothing hurts him then it's not nothing--it's something I have to fix. Sometimes I wish that, when you can't find the right words for a particular situation that you could crack open your heart and show someone the colors inside and it would be enough to make them want to take a chance and keep investing in you. Maybe someday I'll gather enough strength/courage to crack open my rib cage and incandescent light will shoot out everywhere.

My brother is moving today. I'm helping because, frankly, I have nothing else to do, and I'm looking forward to not finding ass hair on the toilet seat whenever I go into the bathroom. Seriously, I could knit a sweater.

And frankly, my heart is too anxious to do any serious work today anyway.

AE's friend went home to Egypt today. I'm astonished/baffled/speechless that a whole month has passed since I quit my job. I'm mostly shocked at how quickly the month passed.

Perpetual Sundays.

Been pushing myself to write. I spent all of Monday at Temple sitting in the grass, people-watching, eavesdropping, reading and writing. I have a general theme for my portfolio; it's something of change/progress/metamorphosis/growth/rebirth/etc. Kind of hopeful and moving forward with the respectful nod to the necessary things such as death, and with the nature aesthetic and the subjective journalistic quality that I think is becoming signature of my work. My portfolio will be something of a journal much in the way my other blog is ambiguously my diary. I have the first two pages decided, though I'm sure they will change greatly between now and December. I'm pushing myself to get the new stuff out; can't rely on the old stuff.

My time has been unbalanced. I read more than I study or write, and I think the most important thing is writing, with studying coming in second. People keep telling me I have time, but I think when we tell ourselves we have time that's when we lose track of it all.

Fall is upon us.

I saw a girl (young woman?) today wearing jeans that said PENIS ENVY across her thighs.

Things I've learned thus far as an aspiring professional poet: you pay money to have people tell you they don't like you. (For free, you can hear people say they don't get it.)

My Destiny

I re-stumbled on some pieces I had written when I was in second/third grade. Looking back, I can see my fate was sealed long before I decided to "be a writer." Please note my obsession with Power Rangers. Grammatical and spelling errors intact. Enjoy.


Untitled

I couldn’t believe what I saw today on Penrose St. I saw a scarecrow and a witch, and a black cat, two pumpkins, and a moon talking, and a boy screaming out of a tree. I called the cops and they arrested the scarecrow, and the witch, and the two pumpkins, the black cat, the talking moon, and the boy who was screaming out of the tree.

--

Spring is fun because you get to play baseball. Spring is cool because it’s not could like winter. Spring is nice because it has flowers, trees with leaves on them. Spring has birds in trees.

--

Once upon a time there was a princess. Her name was Kim. Her best friend was Trini. Kim and Trini needed a prince. Kim and Trini had horses. Kim’s horse’s name was Thunder. Trini’s horse’s name was Storm. One day when they where rideing Storm and Thunder a maid came up to them and gave them a letter. The letter said, THERE IS GOING TO BE A PARTY AT 1002 MAPLE ST. TONIGHT IT’S NINE P.M TO THREE A.M. p.s the party is for to prince’s to pick a princess. Trini are you going to that party. Yes. What if your parents say no. I am still going. Then I will go to. So they went to they party and went out on dates and got marryed and lived happily ever after. THE END.

--

HALLOWEEN

One Halloween four kids. There names were Niki, Kim, Jason, Tommy. There went out trick or treating and they came to a haunted house. They didn’t know it was a haunted house. They went there and saw three people. Tommy asked “who are you?” Then a girl with black hair and Japanese eyes said “I’m Trini.” Then another kid said “I’m Zach and this is Billy.”

--

MY FEELINGS ABOUT SCHOOL (3-17-94)

On the first day of school Ashley and me went to take Donielle to Mrs. Nagurney’s class. Then when we were going back to our class’s a fourth grader came up to us and asked what class’s we were in. Ashley said, “Miss Walter’s class.” Then I said, “Mrs. Tise’s class.” She said Mrs. Tise is mean. That’s when I started to feel nervese. She was already in Mrs. Tise’s class.

--
MY TROLL (1-6-94)

My troll’s name is Bennie. I got him from my Mom and Dad. Bennie has blue couteroy pants and a green, blue, dark pink, black, yellow, light pink shirt. He has dark pink hair. Bennie has four toes and fingers. Bennie has tan skin and dark blue eyes. He is cute.

--

I WON A TICKET TO… (9-15-93)

I won a ticket to Hawaii. where there are hardly any people. I won a ticket to Hollywood where famuse people live. I won a ticket to the bahamas where it is so hot. I won a ticket to canada where it is so could. There are more places to go but…I just won a ticket to Detention witch is better than sespention and then I got grounded. The end.

--

MOUNTHS [MONTHS] (10-4-93)

Mounths have holidays. Janurary has New years holiday in it. February has Valintins day. March has Saint Patricks day. April has Easter. May dose not have any. June we get out of school. July has 4th of July. August has labor day. September we go back to school. October has Holloween. November has Thanksgiveing. December has Christmas.

--

SORROW

I felt sorrow when my great grandma died. She died from a stroke. I got to go to her funeral.

--

CHRISTMAS

I like Christmas. Christmas is my faverite day of the year because my family is together on Christmas day. and we get lots of presents. Last year I got a glass troll from my mom’s friend because he wanted all expensive stuff. and that’s the good part about Christmas.

Finally, to start remembering what day it is

I had a rather exhaustive breakdown of sorts last week. I cried for about an hour because of my writers block, and fearing that I won't be prolific (or that I won't be read, or that being read or prolific isn't relevant), and comparing myself to other people who are already in grad school (like Columbia) and who are getting published in modest independent publications, and thinking I'm 24.5 years old which is pretty close to my life being over and I'm nobody.

I woke up the next day and didn't feel like I had anything left to get out. So I had a lovely 4 day weekend complete with 2 fires, some family, (no burgers...sad), the city, my best boy, and some kids I don't see nearly enough. Went to Franklin Fountain and got green tea ice cream; it was a lot greener than I remember. I want to go back to try a chocolate/peanut butter combination before I'm off my chocolate/peanut butter kick. A homeless man asked for change, but we kept walking; he then asked me to take his picture, so I stopped. I took two pictures; he thought they were very good. He talked to us for a little, asked our names. He pointed to a man sitting on the sidewalk directly across from him and said, "That's my brother Pat, and I'm Pat." The man across the street waved. I gave him a dollar for letting me take his photo and he appreciated it. He asked where we were from, but we never answered and I don't know why. Later that night I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking how fucked up it was that I didn't stop to give the man change, but I stopped when he said, "take my picture." And how fucked up it is that I ignore homeless people whenever I'm in the city not because I think they're sub-human, but because I'm scared (and I don't know if I'm taught to be afraid of homeless people, or if I'm taught to simply be afraid because I'm a girl). And I felt an overwhelming guilt at not being homeless and subsequently thought that is fucked up, and that no matter what you do to "be a part of the solution" you'll never really solve any problems.

I guess it wouldn't have moved me so much if I didn't kneel down on the ground to take this man's picture at eye-level and see him as a person and not something over-used and discarded. And if it didn't seem like he just wanted us to sit and talk with him all day whether or not we gave him spare change. He asked Plus-Ham if he knew how to play 'Stairway to Heaven' since Plus-Ham had a guitar strapped to his back and 'Stairway to Heaven' was Pat's favorite song. Plus-Ham didn't know it, but I think he should have improvised. He promised Pat he'd learn it and come back to play it for him, and I'd like to see that actually happen.

I started taking my camera with me almost everywhere I go, and I think that's been helping my writers block. I started writing prose-poems last night and continued today. I think I've made my decision about entering the poetry program instead of fiction, and I feel comfortable with it. It's the form I seem to know best. Been off-and-on reading the last issue of Court Green (#5, Dossier: Sylvia Plath). Brainstorming, trying to decide how to string my portfolio together (theme?).

Also, I need to find the balance between studying, reading (which is also studying), and writing. How to juggle.

Feels like it's time to put the summer away.

A post by Casey!

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It smells like this time last year

I never notice when it happens exactly--usually because it happens overnight--but I know it's a yearly inevitability when the summer heat shuts off and causes the trees to burst into something like flames and ash on the ground.

I'm excited for cider and flower picking, pumpkin patches and corn mazes. But I hate winter and I know of course that has to follow. There's really no choice but to take the good with the bad, I suppose.

I rode my bike to the library to study. It was well packed with old men and women with small children. I watched a little boy jump around and shake while (perhaps) compulsively lifting his t-shirt to expose his tiny chest. His sister, just a few feet away, pressed her body against a brick column as if trying to hug it; she stared toward the ceiling while sliding around, embracing it. Another little girl talked to what I assumed was her imaginary friend before handing her bear to her mom and shouting, "feel hims nose!" And I realized that children act like adults on brain altering drugs.

My dad said it's because the innocence of childhood hasn't been beaten out of them yet. Later in life, when you try to recapture this innocence--say, with multiple hits of acid--it will again be beaten out of you as innocence is largely frowned upon. I suppose acid is frowned upon, too, but I haven't yet substantiated this claim.

I left because it looked like rain and I had roughly 2 miles to bike home. I told myself I'd continue studying at home, but instead fell fast asleep and dreamt that I had tried to sneak back into work.

I tried to work on one of my stories, but felt I was hitting another wall, so I moved on to a different story that I had previously put on hold. Subsequently hit another wall. I'm starting to put so much pressure on myself now that I quit my job. I don't have any more excuses now; it's just me. There's so much riding on this portfolio, and I'm finding myself putting so much thought into each word I write that I'm becoming almost paralyzed. Not exactly putting the horse before the cart.

I really need to find some people to read my shit.

In other news, my brother has announced that he's moving out in a month. That means things will stop smelling weird.

Note to self: when was the last time I talked to mom?

Tomorrow is my first day of (f)unemployment. Big day. I hope I don't blow it.

Then we talked about summer nights.

I was in Warminster for my cousin's b-day and finally dropped the news that I quit my job. It went over exactly how I thought it would. My aunts and uncles asked about what I plan on doing next, and my grandparents and great-aunt lectured me about how I should keep my job because you can always use the money, and now you won't have health insurance, and a lot of people are out of work right now, and what if something happens to your car and you have to get it fixed, and can't you just go to school part time?

How do you explain to the Depression Generation that it's not about the money; it's about your dreams. That you want something more than a paycheck and health insurance, and simply working isn't satisfying this internal itch that's making you want to get up/shake down/run. That you have 6-months worth of money saved, you're not being lazy, you have a plan. That it's difficult to study for graduate exams, look for scholarships/grants, and write a 50 page portfolio while working full-time at a job that crushes your spirits beyond recognition, for which you drive an hour both ways. That you can't get a Masters degree from a community college.

That you just need to be something more.

On the way home my dad told me, just focus on what you're doing and getting where you want to go. Don't worry about anything else; I got your back.

Hello world, this is me.

I learned some things new about myself tonight: I'm disappointed and marginally annoyed with 28-year-olds who still play beer pong.

I spent the night on a gazebo swing, shooting the shit with NR and watching the June bugs collect and meet their fate in the glowing pool.

Also, if your cat is stung several times by a yellow-jacket, there's a good chance she'll swell from the shoulders up.

When I woke up this morning, the first thing I thought was, "am I really going to do this?" Quickly I realized that sentimentality is the mother of all plateaus. You have to let go at some point. Of everything.

No turning back now.

Do you have any prospects?

(From toothpastefordinner.com)

Romantic comedies: The death of romance and rationale

I just watched Good Luck Chuck with my girl(space)friend AH. Relax, we didn't pay for it; it was HBO on demand. The reason we watched it was because the movie description listed the actors as Troy Gentile and Connor Price. Who? I thought this was Dane Cook and Jessica Alba.

It is. Troy and Connor are in the movie for 5 minutes playing the young versions of Dane Cook's character and his loser dip-shit best friend. Their significance is minuscule. Glad we got that cleared up. Oh, and to clear up something else, Dane Cook's BFF in the movie (Dan Fogler) is not a grown-up Donkey Lips from Salute Your Shorts. Although, maybe you can see why I would have thought that.



















Anyway, if there was an award for the most cliche, formulaic, and embarrassingly unfunny romantic comedy, this movie would win three in the same awards year. However, the real issue at hand seems to be the perpetuation of romantic ideals, as studied by the University of Edinburgh. I read an article on bbcnews.com several months ago that essentially blamed romantic comedies for our ill-conceived and poorly maintained relationships, explaining that "[m]arriage counsellors often see couples who believe that sex should always be perfect, and if someone is meant to be with you then they will know what you want without you needing to communicate it. We now have some emerging evidence that suggests popular media play a role in perpetuating these ideas in people's minds."

What's worse? Not only does a movie like Good Luck Chuck brainwash young girls into believing that their true love will buy 2 first class plane tickets to Antarctica because he doesn't know which of the two flights she's on in order to catch her at the last minute and pour his heart out in a last ditch effort to keep her from running away with her new "love interest"--who isn't a love interest at all, and the audience knows it, so there's no romantic suspense--but this movie will also lead many young fools into thinking that physical comedy and the repetitive shtick of sex-with-food is actually funny. (Spoiler alert: Fogler masturbates with grapefruit!)

America's future, nay--the world's future will be misled in thinking that someone as hot as Jessica Alba can have a nerdy, borderline annoying obsession with penguins, which makes it difficult for her to get dates and be sexy. And that it's normal to project your problems onto the penguins because their relationships to each other are so much like ours to each other. When a penguin loses its mate, they stop grooming and get depressed. Hey, Dane Cook stopped showering when Jessica Alba dumped him in the movie...that's called a parallel. And yes, it does mean that he really does love her.

People will think that the first time they have sex with someone will be fun and satisfying just because they're in love. (Another spoiler alert: romantic sex is not fun! It's high maintenance and more bells-and-whistles than moans-and-screams.)

Hell, they might even be misled into thinking that Dane Cook and Jessica Alba are good actors!

Call me a realist/pessimist/Janine Garofalo, but I'm noticing a trend between the rising divorce rate and the rate at which garbage like this movie is produced. The most realistic film portrayal of a married couple that I can think of at the moment is that of Marge and Norm Gunderson in Fargo. A lot of people died horrible bloody deaths in that movie, which leads me to believe that watching people get cut up and tossed into a wood chipper breeds happy, balanced marriages.

So in conclusion, please stop thinking Dane Cook is funny. It only encourages him.

On Quitting

There's no need/point to reason with me. I've reasoned all the points there are, and it didn't make a bit of difference. I'm aware of the economy. I'm also aware that I'm 24 with no one to support but myself, and if I'm going to be drastic now is the time.

I have no investments.

No car payments.

No rent.

If anything, my window of opportunity for "making things happen" is closing with every year I age, and at my age I'm more likely to be resilient if I fail. And there's a good chance I'll fail.

But we won't talk about that. Because even if I do fail at chasing my dreams, there are still the things that I take for granted as being certain: someday I'll be a mother (a good one) and life will go on. I'll be something domestic and real, and to someone small I'll still matter. But until then, it's just me and I can take these chances that my gut tells me to take.

A guy on PBS said that, in order to be successful at something you have to spend 10,000 hours doing it, practicing it before you reach success. I'm curious as to how he came up with that number. My dad thinks I could be a writer some day. A notable writer that you'll actually want to read, or at least heard of. But I have my doubts. Honestly, I don't think you can have dreams without doubts; doubts are half of the dream. I'm pretty sure my success as a writer is a long shot, and entirely up to me, which makes my dream more desperate and irrational than anything else.

Things I've spent 10,000 hours doing:

-The obvious
-I love you/will you marry me?
-Existing/not existing
-Making lists
-"Hi, I'm calling with a question on a misdemeanor case?"
-Driving
-Changing my mind
-Moods
-Fuck/shit/hell
-I am I am I am


Anyway, sometimes you just have to throw your arms up and fuck it all, and life will throw its arms up, too.