Tuesday, March 16, 2010


So remember back when I posted about holding onto my anger?

Of course you don't, read it here (If you'd like).

So in the midst, of finals, I have to say: I AM PISSED OFF.

Now, in my past post I mentioned how I glorious it was to be fueled on a sort of anger that I had harnessed into a mechanism of productivity. THIS time, this anger is a machine of pure and utter madness. Obviously, I thought I should hop on the Internet and explain why I find this current state of haphazard emotion particularly luxurious.

When a woman like myself reacts, as I shall term the euphemism, it is (unless you are the male counterpart) quite a magnificent thing to witness. For instance, as I boiled and steamed pacing my room, a Lady Gaga song came on my Pandora radio. Nobody could have (or would want to) seen those moves coming. Also, when I went to brush my teeth I squeezed the toothpaste very tightly. As in I now have Crest Nighttime White all over my sink. My hand is minty fresh.

I also re-Raided my entire room. I was furious! And now the queen of the ant colony is too, because all her knights in shining armor are KAPUT. Now, nearing death by pesticide asphyxiation, my rage has subdued to the point of reflection.

It just gets me all twisty in the knickers when the first reaction is the wrong one. I understand that it is usually the "irrational"and "dramatic", but then it seems like everyday is a constant battle to essentially subdue yourself. Sometimes I really feel kindred with the people go to communes or become hermits. But even then! Let's postulate that its just a normal day at the commune and you're weeding the carrot garden and fellow inhabitor Bluelight Skyhawk tells you that row 5 isn't properly weeded. You've just spent the morning doing meditation and are really exhausted from accessing your 4th chakra; as you yank row 5's leafy green weeds up from the ground tell me you wouldn't be horribly tempted to mutter, "What the fuck kind of name is Blue Light Skyhawk anyway."

It is unfortunate that I feel this way also because I often employ the term "please code your language" or the exxxxtrememly annoying "consider your audience" whenever I have a disagreement with a person (cough boyfriend cough). I often discuss with my mother about how important it is to pick your words if you are truly serious about getting your point across. That is, reiterating what you really want to say in careful and sophisticated language as to not incite reaction but rather understanding.

So nowwww, when what I really want to do is throw a a small coffee table off the beach cliff across my street and lip sync "You're so Vain" in a black catsuit while pie-ing somebody in the face, I am eating my words!

Uch, they taste like Raid.

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Amuse your Bush

It's sort of late and I should be getting to bed. Instead I want to talk on my Internet soapbox about a problem that has been plaguing me recently: The 4 p.m. STARVATION MODE.

I am less than awesome at following the meal time regimen of thin girls. It will be three thirty p.m. and I'm like Whut up dinner?! When I am trying to eat like a normal American I will tell myself, just hold on. You can make it to 5:30. Then you can start making dinner. (When I have made dinner in those situations its like Gollum with the Precious. I'm trying to open a can of dinner but the urge to rip open the thin metal with my teeth and paint my body with stripes of jalapeno refried beans overwhelms my hand-eye coordination). Today was one of those days. After coming home from class at 5:25 and not having dinner till 7 (my sister and I made plans) I was Golluming the eff out. I then ate ice cream out of the carton like a heathen, watching the Bachelor, hiding. HELLO SAD LIFE.

Therefore, I think I need to start implementing a 4 p.m "snack." And by snack I mean SMALL portion of something HEALTHY not like what I would normally gravitate toward aka in-an-out burger/spicy yellowtail roll/fish taco/and entire bag of Sunchips. That is not a snack, that is dinner.

So today in my Southern Literature class whilst my teacher passionately explained Richard Wright's childhood, I sat doodling a list of delicious and light 4 p.m. mini meals. I like the idea of the term amuse-bouche but I always, always want to make the amuse your bush joke, which is just gross. So IMA (in homage to the way my roommate texts) make my own term. Since its sort of a single person appetizer my 4 p.m. food shall be christened: PETIBOUCHE

Here are some Petis I wrote down:

-Heirloom tomato slices spread with spicy hummus with fresh cracked pepper

-mini smoothie (I like banana, greek yogurt, honey, and ice. my awesome friend alex b's concoction)

-1/2 avocado with feta chunks good olive oil and balsamic

-Tea Sandwich! 1 slice toasted bread, cream cheese, cucumbers, salt

Okay so they are sort of healthy. But I like the idea of not having to heat anything up/it being one thing to consume, not like a bag of pita chips that "oh I'm just going to have a couple." PSH. Show me a person who eats 2 Parmesan Garlic Pita Chips and I will show you a MARTYR. Anybody have any other ideas for a petibouche (the term is growing on me)?

Goodnight. I feel like tonight I will dream in avocados.

Monday, March 1, 2010

Stradlater can go to hell for all I care!

I am reading Catcher in the Rye. For the first time! I can't believe I've never read it. Salinger's creation/narrative voice is astounding. Nobody says things like Holden Caufield, he's almost painfully unique. It got me thinking about who I think are currently distinctive narrative voices in a pop culture-y/my generation kind of way. I mean the authors behind the websites and blogs that make my essay due tomorrow on southern literature suck 10x more than it should.

DListed: My friend told me about this harbinger of harrowing hilariousness (had to go for it.) He is unreal. I don't think my eyes have ever peeled back into my skull from simply reading his no-holds-bar potty porny humor posts that go through the sordid details of the celebrity world. My fav are what he dubs his topics/victims/stars. Lindsey Lohan's mom is White Oprah, Lady Gaga is Lady Caca, Anderson Cooper is Mah Boo, and Rachel Zoe as the Chupacabre. Seriously I am snorting just remembering the names (and I am not even referencing, its all from memory! shows how powerful his catchphrases are). Plus Ru Paul mentioned DListed as one of his his most beloved blogs during Ru Paul's Drag Race and that bitch is fabulous.

Very Mary Kate: The web series by Elaine Carroll is like my cat nip, especially when there is a paper to be written. I wonder if that is going to be a problem in the future: virtual catnip. Like there will be 19 year olds in Balmain's Fall 2021 silicone body suits erupting in joyous spasms because of some strange 3D image projected in their father's study? Hm that was an oddly specific scenario. ANYWAYYY it's not just funny (I think, at least) because she is making fun of how thin/strange/rich/ridiculous Mary Kate is (which is an old joke, sort of. and tired), she has her own voice. Her cadence, phrasings, and rhythms are original and subtle. I love Bodyguard (the character and the episode). In the beginning of that episode, when she creepily scratches on the door instead of knocking?!?! I had to pause it to laugh.

Tavi: Okay okay so this might be a cliche choice, but this mini girl is tight. Even those who are not into fashion and find such blogs as annoying as when your frosted flakes lose their crunch; she is thirteen and hilarious! There is no way in hell I was that funny when I was thirteen. I'm pretty sure this was my phase where my bff and I used to write full length Acapella musicals. And force our younger sisters to be the supporting roles while we performed them on makeshift living room sets for yes, our parents. There is a recent post where she keeps referencing her TEEN PRETENSION as she dubs it. C'mon. Were you so self-referential when you were little? Did you wear Prada? She is really descriptive, I honestly enjoy reading how she verbalizes detail.

These people could not really be compared to some masterful storytellers like Joseph Conrad, Harper Lee, Phillip Gourevitch, or (last one I promise) Artie Spiegleman. People whom I still cannot really comprehend the magnitude of their abilities. But they reflect something about the way I am thinking and existing in my current space. And I think remembering what made you laugh can be very telling about what kind of place you were in. THANK GOD FOR BLOGZ.

Image via verymarykate.com.