that one is outta here!

I’ve been a fan of sports since I was little, wearing my backwards Beauty & the Beast baseball cap while I played baseball and football with the boys at recess. I’m a baseball, college football and hockey kind of girl (in that order), so imagine my absolute joy at the Phillies entering the World Series last night while I live right here, in Philadelphia.

I am NOT a Phils fan by any means – Lord no. I bleed the blue of a Yankee, through and through. The only reason I have an Utley jersey hanging in my closet is because a friend of mine bought it for me for my birthday as a joke – and you bet your ass that it’s hanging right over a Yankees t-shirt.

Living in this city allows me to feel the absolute hype and hysteria over the situation and it’s a really cool thing to experience.

Tonight the Yankees will win and clinch their spot next to the Phils in the World Series (confidence is key, baby). And then…well…things are gonna get interesting for me.

My Yankees apparel is all ready here – I just have to make sure I don’t get the shit beat out of me for donning it.

At the end of all this, there will be two possible outcomes – the Phils will repeat and I’ll be forced be at the shit-end of all my friends ridicule down here OR…

The Yanks will take it and I’ll have my day – all those months of heckling will be forced into a friend-wide silence that I will bask in as I stand there and say “I TOLD YOU SO!”

gory glory.

Let’s take a second to talk about my balls.

My metaphorical ones, that is. You know – my cajones, my stones, my rocks. I’m not afraid of a lot of things. I have no problem doing most things, experiencing most things (except your occasional flock of birds - PLEASE get them OUT OF HERE).

One thing I DO have a problem with is scary movies. Since dating Tony, I’ve been seeing more and more scary movies and I’m now figuring out what really gets under my skin. It’s not so much the blood and gore at this point – it’s the paranormal things. It’s demons and ghouls and crawling, jerking figures. But I sit through all of it, and I do it well.

My scary movie balls are pretty big, but I didn’t get there without a fight. Oh no. Don’t like scary movies but find yourself being dragged to one? Listen to me – I know just what to do.

Got contacts? Take those bitches out and throw your glasses on. There’s a sense of security in knowing that if you look a little too far in one direction, your world will become a blur, thus softening what’s on screen. Or, just take them off completely. The people you’re with don’t need to know you’re blind as a bat without your glasses on. What you see on screen will just be a lot of blotchy figures – Saw V went by in big red blurs for me.

Put your knees up. This will only be a problem if the theater is full, thus making the seat in front of you occupied. Otherwise, putting your knees up gives you something to stare at when things start to get crazy. It serves as a barrier to the screen – you can pick and chose which corner of the screen you’d like to stare at instead of the whole thing by shifting your knees about. This method also works well if you wear a hat. Hats are way more effective, but you might get called out if you pull the brim down too far.

And last, but not least, and most important - RESEARCH. Yea, it’s not just for school – it’s for your nerves and sanity. It’s going to ruin the movie, sure. But who cares?! Did you really want to see this in the first place? Probably not. If you aren’t attending the opening night of the film, go online and look at reviews. Got a twist ending to it? Google it. YouTube it and you might get lucky. A lot of reviews talk about specific scenes, so you know what’s coming. Prepare yourself for what’s to come and it all won’t be such a shock.

So get out there, go see some crazy films that you didn’t want to be a part of in the first place. You can at least discuss it with your friends (to a certain extent) and maybe after a while you’ll remove the cap and drop your knees and take it in in all its gory glory.

i want your love, i want your revenge.

Today I decided to go out and do something old fashioned – a lil ole thing I like to call human interaction.

I pulled on my favorite boots, grabbed the gorgeous Marc Jacobs Tony bought for me and crammed it full of resumes and writing clips. I traipsed the city from 2nd to 19th Street, Market to League, and handed packets in to any publication I could find.

It went as well as one would expect. But there was one place that stuck out in my mind.

When I got to Philadelphia Style, I nearly threw up from the sheer overwhelming feeling that hit me when I walked in. It came from the fact that everything clicked and I knew this was the place I had to work.

It was in a remote part of town, the door outside was big and black, as well as the name plate that indicated the company inside. I walked in to blood red walls adorned with blown-up pictures of select covers of the magazine. It was quiet and the secretary desk was unmanned – until a huge fluff of white came bounding out of the back to jump up on my legs and lick my hands. The dog was adorable and soon followed by a woman, who I gave my packet to. She said she would pass it on to the editor.

I hope so. And I hope I get a call.

I walked in that office and saw myself. I saw myself traveling there day in and out, working there and enjoying every minute of it. I saw comfort and guidance. I saw the era of a new me.

I’ve been seriously considering going back to school for fashion lately. I’ve got journalism and marketing under my belt. Why not add the passion that comes second to writing to it?

i dream of to-do lists.

I realized last night, as I lay in bed, that I never relax.

Ok, for example – I have a really hard time going to sleep because my head is constantly swimming with thoughts. Last night as I lay in bed I thought about this:
- What to wear for my Lady Gaga Halloween outfit – all the make-up and accessories possibilities
- Calculated the hours I had put in for my job this week and how much I had left
- Contemplated what outfits to buy/wear for the Wicked Faire we’re going to in February
- Thought about going home next week & who I was going to see
- Where I'm going to get the OPI Russian Navy matte nail polish I've been lusting after

None of this is pressing. I cannot accomplish any of the above things while it’s that hour of the night. Yet I lay there and I think them and I can’t sleep.

A typical relaxation for others is not so for me. I can’t just SIT. The above happens. I plan and plot and organize and rearrange things mentally.

A lot of it has to do with this job thing. I need to just go downtown next week and go door to door, handing out packets of my work.

I saw The September Issue last night. It not only made me want to shop, but also to get back into the major publication mode. I miss the days of being editor-in-chief and of writing for the Weekender. I miss interviewing people and bringing out the best in the stories they had to tell. I miss deadlines.

I miss deadlines. What the eff is wrong with me?

I just miss it all.

my cay.

I had dogs from the age of five until the age of eighteen. One after the other after the other. The first one was too big for a small kid like me. The second one was too mean. The third one was absolutely perfect and my favorite (Digger, a hot dog dachshund that got to be entirely too huge and broke his back jumping off our back porch). When he died it sent me into my first little bout of depression and sense of true loss ever. My parents saw this and the very next day I had a Dalmatian in my hands – a dog that became too mean after months of living with us and bit the neighbor’s daughter. Doggie number four was gone and replaced with doggie number five, a Jack Russell that promptly tore the house to bits. That dog was gone back to the farm we purchased her from in a flash.

Throughout all that, I had also acquired two turtles (one died, one set free to the river), two mice (who mated, had many babies, and all were sold), a guinea pig, and a bird, the only one in my life I ever loved and was not afraid of, that lived for thirteen years.

Then it all came to an abrupt halt. After the guinea pig ceased to live I was petless. It went on for four years until, at this time last year, I became hell-bent on acquiring two black mice and naming them Frank and Dean.

After finding out that black mice are scarce, two male mice in a cage are not the best idea in the world and most Petcos don’t carry two black females at a time, I settled on one little black mouse that I adopted, purely for the fact that he was a little runt that had scratches all over his body, no tail, and hairless spots due to a fight he got into with a much bigger mouse.

I named him Calix, the Greek name for “handsome” and he took a two hour trek home with me from Philadelphia, only to be nestled safely into my home back in NEPA. As the months went by he fattened up, his scratches never disappearing but only becoming more prominent as he grew a little wider. He had a wheel that squeaked that he came to love and run on at 3 AM every morning, without fail. He liked tiny colored pretzels as snacks. He never lost his skittish side, allowing Tony to pick him up only when he had nowhere else to go and he still always pooped in his hand out of fear.

When I moved to Philly I left him home and my mom and dad took care of him. It was always fun to come back and see my little guy growing, burrowing tunnels in his bedding and running in and out of the PVC pipe my dad cut him for a play thing.

I grew to love him. Everyone did, even though in the beginning they all joked about what an ugly mouse he was. He was the underdog that came shining through and stole my family and friend’s hearts. He was always in the corner of the living room and everyone continuously stopped to say hi before even talking to any of us.

Yesterday, Calix died.

He’d been scratching at himself for week, not sleeping in his purple igloo, not burrowing any more. He lay and he scratched and he shook. And finally, yesterday, he succumbed to whatever was ailing him.

I didn’t know how sad I’d be when this day came, as I haven’t been home the past five months to take constant care of him. But I cried when my mom told me, and quite a good deal.

A pet is a pet, no matter what, and to lose one is an awful thing. I will never forget Calix, my little mouse that could, and it makes me sad to think there will never be another quite like him.

I love you and miss you buddy.

i could punch a small child at this point.

The great thing about this little ditty called “the Internets” (thanks, Gramp) is that you can promote the shit out of anything you want. You can bestow greatness upon this organization or that company, or maybe that particular blog.

The flipside to this (which is one I’m not partial to) is bashing the hell out of something that displeases you. I’m not usually one to gripe; I generally enjoy everything in life (except maybe onions and your occasional pair of skinny jeans), but this must be said:

Hey, American Education Services? GO FUCK YOURSELF.

For some reason, they nixed my incentive program on my subsidized loan – which doesn’t allow EARLY PAYMENT – because there’s a rule that I have to pay a certain amount every month, even if the bill they send me calls for LESS than that amount. It states this nowhere. And the one bill I paid that WAS less than the required amount? Was eight dollars short.

Here’s the thing that really pisses me off – I pay my bill (at most) five days early, if not right on the dot (even though there’s a fifteen day grace period afterwards) and they’re going to fault me for this.

I had TWO reports sent to me that my payment was delinquent. Know why? Well their explanation is that since I send my bill in that early, the computer reprints another bill because it doesn’t recognize my first payment, thus making it SEEM delinquent. This has happened twice.

Who ever heard of not being able to pay their bill early?

OH and – let’s look at it this way: I’m a college student in a shitty ass economy who is actually paying her bills ON TIME and OVER what each payment asks for EVERY TIME so I can just get them out of my way!

Thanks for putting me through the ringer, AES. I’m probably one of the only people right now who can not only pay their bills, but pay EXTRA on them and ON TIME and you’re dicking me over.

Your employees are incompetent and your system is asinine.

then buffy staked edward, the end.

I was planning on starting this entry in a calm, story-like manner – but I can’t. Right now, I can barely breathe. I can’t think straight.

I am going to be meeting this man come August and I think I’m going to die shortly after.




Ok, phew. Now on to what I was going to say, which has a lot to do with James anyway.


A couple years ago, no more than ten and no less than five, a young girl was flu-ridden on her couch, desperately trying to fill the void that was three days off from school and nothing but warm Coke and crackers.

Having just come off an Idle Hands kick, it was no surprise that she stopped flipping channels on a red-haired Seth Green, apparently part of a band that was traveling to LA and dealing with…vampires. Actually, one vampire in particular that went by the name of Spike and who the girl had yet to see. But, Seth Green was enough and so she stayed on that channel, watching as the hour of nine turned into the hour of ten and Buffy the Vampire Slayer gave way to Angel.

Thus started my foray into the world of Buffy. I was three and a half seasons in, but I’d be damned if that stopped me. I read up on episodes I missed, watched the reruns and caught myself up quickly, following it all the way to its demise in Season 7 and even hanging on for some Angel.

Buffy was a huge part of my life. I loved the characters, I loved the plots. I adored being a part of that pop culture cult.

This Saturday, I met my first celebrity ever and I was fortunate enough to have it be someone who is part of Buffy.


Yup, that’s Anya! Emma Caulfield is a doll. I was so star-struck I did nothing more than say, “Hi!” and “Thank you!” haha, but that’s ok! I got a picture with her and she signed my Once More With Feeling soundtrack.

And now…..whew, well now I’m going to meet the man I immediately dumped Seth for – James Marsters. James played Spike on Buffy and that man…yikes. I don’t even know what to say right now. He’s amazing. And I’m going to meet him.

He can bite me any time. Mmm, mm, mmmm.

ink tears.

One more depressing one, then later today I shall tell you about my weekend in Jim Thorpe.


The tears of the sky pelt the pavement,
Falling into puddles and a soothing rhythm.
The birds are gone now, like the sun,
As bright lightning cuts the clouds.

The rain soaks the carpet beneath my feet,
The chair creaks as I shift my weight,
Shrinking away from the slanted downpour.

The pen on the page runs in black rivulets,
Mimicking the cascade of mascara on my face.
My sobs are lost in the steady rumble,
As are the words I say that fall on your ears.

freshmen year again.

it was a rough year for me. expect the next couple to be depressing. i had to write a poem that didn't rhyme.


the chains are gone,
there is a hole where you were,
gaping and mocking,
mocking the girl i am today.
if only i had seen the error of my ways before,
the tangled mess i call my morals,
your heart would be free from pain by my words.
but i blindly led my way through the path
of thorns and poison.
no amount of scratches or blood stopped me –
until they began to reach your skin.

more than bridges.

another freshmen year writing. i took a creative writing class with an AMAZING professor who really helped me bring out some of my best pieces. the bottom of this poem is a haiku that i wrote before, then turned into this lil poem. again, the assignment was to write something descriptive.


More Than Bridges
The flames shoot outward,
Only to be beaten back by the water.
The screech of the sirens pierce my ears,
Yet touch nothing inside me.
I stand staring at the harsh light of the yellow blaze,
Following tendrils of smoke up to the sky.
A charred house remains,
The shell of what was once the source of my troubles.
Bad mood swings are typical
For a girl of brown eyes and hair.

They Really Do Mean Every

been going through some old writings. wrote this freshmen year of college. the assignment was to write something very descriptive.


I sat across the kitchen table from him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked. He hesitated, then let out a long breath.

“Uh huh.” We’ve been together for nearly four years, through some of the most awkward stages of our lives. This wasn’t a big deal; at least, not for me. I pushed the bag towards him.

“Go on. Open it.”

“Listen,” he laughed, “I’m barely agreeing to do this! Why don’t you open it?” I smiled at him and took the green sack of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

They’re a candy concocted in the mind of J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series. The children of the Potter world eat the jellybeans that are supposed to be flavored like various things, both good and bad. Their tastes range from Cherry to Earthworm.

Yes, earthworm. This is why I’m attempting to try these brought-to-life jellybeans. Can they actually produce something that tastes like a dirt-dwelling maggot?

I opened the pouch, which reminded me of something Tinker Bell would carry fairy dust in. There was nothing magical about the surprises in this bag.

After untying the yellow string, I spilled the contents of the bag out onto the table. Green ones, yellow ones, dotted ones. I took the tag that was attached to the string off and found that it contained colored pictures of each jellybean and the name of it underneath. Basically, if you didn’t want to eat a jellybean that tasted like earwax, you could avoid it by matching up the candy with the picture.

How convenient.

I looked over the various flavors. There were the classics – Grape, Tutti Frutti, Cherry. But then there was the unconventional – Booger, Spaghetti and Grass. Right next to the beans labeled Earthworm and Soap was the word LATEST. Couldn’t they have added something like Lemon Drop or Strawberry to the list?

We sat in silence for a while and he finally picked up a blue one. I checked it against the pictures.

“Oh, that’s no fun! It’s blueberry!”

“Works for me.” He popped it into his mouth. I got daring and grabbed a gray one. “Sardine,” I said, as I tipped it toward him before putting it in my mouth.

I can’t quite explain what happened next. I wish I had better prepared and kept a napkin and a glass of water next to me.

At first I tasted nothing and feared this whole Bertie Bott’s thing was a bust. Suddenly, my mouth was overcome with a slimy, oily sensation. I’ve never eaten fish before and it’s a guarantee I will never attempt to after this. It tasted like the smell of the ocean on a humid day. I recalled a family vacation in which hundreds of dead fish washed ashore because of hurricanes churning out at sea. Images of white carcasses with hollow eyes flooded my mind, their bodies baking under the glare of the midday sun.

The jellybean stuck to my teeth, only half chewed. My mouth hung open, tongue probing in and out of my lips, trying to rid itself of the slime that seemed to envelope it. I froze, wishing I hadn’t chewed up the jellybean so well. I was hoping that I could tilt my head forward far enough to make the candy fall out, leaving me free to spit the rest of the taste out. My taste buds were tainted. The jellybean was wedged on my back teeth and I had to free it with my tongue.

I quickly did this and ran for the refrigerator, grabbing a carton of orange juice. I took two swigs and slammed it down on the table. “That’s incredible. What’s next?”

He looked at me, confused. “But, you – “

“I know. It tastes so real. I want to know what they all taste like.” I skimmed the jellybean guide and found that the trick is in the green ones. Both kinds are virtually the same shade, except one was Green Apple and the other was Grass.

I took my chance and grabbed the first one I saw. With the first bite I felt like I had a mouth full of football field. I could taste the grittiness of dirt, smell the fresh cut grass. I laughed at the jellybean’s accuracy. Out of morbid curiosity I grabbed a Dirt one to see how it compared. It was essentially the same.

He sat and laughed at the amazement on my face. “Fine, I”ll try a weird one, but nothing too drastic.” He took the little booklet from me and selected a green speckled one. Spinach.

“Forceful childhood dinners,” he said with a grimace on his face. “it’s pretty damn close to the real thing.” He quit after Spinach. I kept going.

I blazed through a Toasted Marshmallow and a Buttered Popcorn, reminiscent of camping and movie theaters. I marveled at Spaghetti. I felt the warm tomato sauce running down my throat; Grandma’s home cooking couldn’t compare.

I frantically wiped my tongue off with my fingers once I hit Soap. I felt bubbles forming in my mouth, all packed with a flower scent. A child’s fear was to have a bar of soap shoved into their mouth; I was willingly living the nightmare.

I was disappointed with Booger and Earwax. They were bland and I spit them into the garbage after I got bored with them. Apparently, those showcasing flavors that come from your own body aren’t too impressive.

I finally found what I was looking for – Vomit. I’d heard that these were rare beans; you were lucky if you got one in a bag. There it was before me, in all its brown speckled glory. Dare I?

It didn’t so much taste like the bile that rises up in your throat after you’ve eaten the bad Mexican or the greasy pizza. It was more like a mix of flavors that made you want to puke. It was garlicky, sweet and sour at the same time. The taste was so strong that it traveled to my nose, where I smelled the most putrid of odors. It was rotten eggs and dirty gym socks; a baby’s diaper and heated garbage bags on the hottest day of summer.

I began to gag and immediately spit the jellybean on the floor. Before I had the chance to grab for the orange juice, I threw up in my mouth a little. I swallowed it down and closed my watering eyes. I let my mouth hang open, airing it out. I finally collected myself and blindly reached for the carton, which I finished off in a ridiculous amount of time.

I turned to him, his face red from biting back laughter. I surveyed the beans before me, colorfully littering the table. I glanced at the booklet one more time and said, “Next time we need to aim for a bag with Earthworm. I really want to know what those suckers taste like.”

dammit, man! i'm a fashionista, not a trekkie!

I boldly went where no woman has gone before: the midnight IMAX showing of Star Trek, a venue that sat over 500 Trekkies.

Admittedly, I went for Zachary Quinto and Chris Pine (eye candy never hurts). I know absolutely nothing of Star Trek and I’m not a big fan of anything space; I haven’t seen any of the Star Wars. (I know, I know – stop throwing things!)

I have to say, I was impressed. Hasn’t really changed my mind on the genre, but I really enjoyed it and actually want to see it again.

The one thing that held me was the humor. If it wasn’t so funny, I probably would have hated it. The delivery was dead on and the jokes weren’t too hokey.

Obviously, the special effects blew me away. I would love to see this thing in a full-on IMAX, much like the Franklin Institute’s.

Although the running time was a good two hours and ten minutes, it didn’t feel that way at all. I expected to sit there and feel the drag, but I didn’t. It was entertaining and well-paced throughout.

I think the casting was pretty spot on. I know of Star Trek only from pop culture references and the like, but I think I’m aware of it enough to know when things look off; they didn’t. I had a moment during the film when I did think I was going to get attacked by everyone in the theater, though.

When Dr. McCoy first shows up in all his frantic glory, the audience started clapping and yelling (which they were wont to do last night when the movie showcased a throwback to the series). I only really know of Spock, Kirk and Sulu, so I turned to Tony and asked, “Who IS that guy?”- right when the clapping ceased and the movie fell silent for a pace. People in front of me snickered and the guy next to us just stared – I was blending in so well until that very moment.

The only thing I kept noticing that was killing me is that it’s a lot of giving orders and dramatic shots of people swinging around in their chairs to say something to the captain. There was also a lot of time travel, which caused some confusion for me towards the middle of the movie. I sussed it all out later, but I had to think about it a bit. I also generally don’t like time travel because I feel like it can be a copout and the rules are just too loosey goosey (thank you, Heroes).

I recommend it, big time, to anyone. Being a Trekkie when you see it is a benefit, but not a necessity.

hey 1993? you can have your game back.

I realized last night that the reason I hate first-person shooter video games is Doom.

I can recall sitting in my best boy friend’s den at the age of ten, Nick helming the computer to play while I cowered behind him. It was a new level of violence that we hadn’t seen before and only played in his house with the sound down when his mom wasn’t around. Which sounds kind of dirty for two ten-year-olds.

The graphics are shit, each wall looks like the remnants of a motherboard from a computer and the armor that needs to be picked up is vaguely reminiscent of Spartan helmets with glowing green eyes.

What always got me were the creatures. Some were a poo brown color and others were hunchbacks in a shrimp shade. Either way, when they were shot, they ended up in a pile of pixilated blood and bones. They made horrific noises that sounded like a dog panting/barking.

In text, there is nothing scary about that, but when you’re ten it’s the thing nightmares are made of. It’s not like when I dream at night my demons are all pixilated, but my god – a million tiny dots never looked creepier.

I also got a case of vertigo every time I watched this, even last night as Tony was playing. There is just no sense of depth or direction as to where you’re going and it all moves by so fast – it’s confusing and sickening.

As I pondered these things last night, I also asked Tony some questions about the game during play - which is apparently a big no-no in gamer world. I also came to find that most questions I asked had answers shot back at me quickly. Eventually he just tapped into my non-gamer brain and started answering my questions before they even left my mouth.

not the best idea.

I want to add something to that last post that I thought about today.

The whole throat-ripping-vampire thing: You could also sub that with, "I've always wondered what it'd be like to drive up an exit ramp."

if you want my auto, want my autobiography.

SoulPancake on Twitter posted something that said to write five possible openings for your autobiography. I only came up with four, but I like them so much I'm going to count them as five


1.) There are two times in my life that I’ve thrown up from nerves: the day I got my inner bottom lip tattooed and the day of my grandmother’s wake. It’s a pretty good track record, considering all the other shit I’ve done in my 22 years on the Earth.


2.) In the three hours it takes for shoulder-length, curly hair to dry completely, a lot can happen: dignity can be lost, lives can be flipped upside down, hearts can be broken and my father can threaten to kill my boyfriend. With a shotgun. On the front lawn.


3.) Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to rip someone’s throat out, vampire style. It’s that way of thinking that has kept people intrigued, but unsure of me. Such is my life – so many friends, so few of them dare get close enough.


4.) I’m just going to take this opportunity to gloat.

caution to the wind.

Oh, I don’t know if I’m even supposed to be doing this, lest Fox swoops down and snatches me up to drag me away to jail, but I’ve seen Wolverine: Origins three times already. Yes, the cut that was leaked with the markings and not all the graphics there. Which, by the way, is really interesting to see.

Anyway, I suggest you go out and see it when it hits theaters. I’m going to go see it again. Hugh Jackman’s nakedness attributes to the fact that I love the movie, as does Ryan Reynold’s wit as Wade, but overall it is a great flick.

duck, duck.....shit.

For some reason, as I was drifting to sleep last night, I started to think about Duck, Duck, Goose. You know, the kids game where everyone sits in a circle and someone (It) walks around, patting people on the head saying, “duck, duck, duck….” until they finally decide to yell “goose!” on a particular cranium, thus prompting a foot race around the circle. If It sits down in the Goose’s spot before the Goose can tag them, the Goose must then go on to be It. But if It gets tagged, they have to sit in the middle of the circle until they are replaced by another It that was tagged. The Goose goes on to be It.

Wow. Typing that out just made me lose brain cells. And now Goose is starting to look funny to me. How can that even be a real word?

Anyway, this is not a productive game. Think about all the games of Duck, Duck, Goose you played. Did you ever finish any of them? Is there EVER an end to that game?

There was one part of it that made it so insufferable – the chase. You would think that the person being chased would just make one voyage around the circle in order to find the Goose’s spot as fast as they could and sit down to relinquish their It crown. But no. Oh, no.

There was always that asshole kid who panicked when the Goose got too close and veered off the orbit. For some reason, his logic was that breaking free from that path would give him the ability to outrun the Goose, even though it carried him all the way to the other side of the gym or through the Big Toy on the playground. It didn’t even matter that the path he was making was of Family Circus proportions – that extra five minutes of avoiding the tag was totally worth it once he finally hit the Goose’s spot. Most of the time he would be two feet from sitting down and end up getting whacked anyway. Thanks for the effort, Jimmy.

And at that point, everyone is putting their money on the Goose. That way, Asshole can be exiled to the center of the circle and the rest of the kids can throw every race so that It gets the Goose’s spot and Asshole has to sit there, chewing on the fact that no one really likes him anymore.

Give me Heads Up, Seven Up any day. At least there was some skill involved.

i'm addicted to a life of material.

“I’m obsessively opposed to the typical.”
-Lady Gaga

There once was a man, London born, who won British Designer of the Year four times in a span of eight years. As head designer and successor of John Galliano at LVMH, he called the company’s founder “irrelevant.” His runway shows have included a human chess game, a shipwreck and a double-amputee model that strut her stuff on intricately carved wooden legs.

He’s been called “the hooligan of English fashion.” He is shock jock Howard Stern, Sharon Stone’s cooter in “Basic Instinct.” He shocks – and he pleases.

Alexander McQueen is an incredible designer that is my absolute favorite in the fashion realm. I’m always pleased with every collection, but his Fall 2009 one just blew me out of the water.

It probably doesn’t help that I’m a red/black combination kind of girl and I have a tinge of goth to my personal style. Barring all that, the structured head pieces are enough to carry this collection alone. And this gown is stunning. I hate birds, but I’ll take them on a dress like this any day.

I have no idea what this poor woman is covered in, but it looks incredible.

Check the whole thing out. It’s worth a look.

birds sing: a-ding...a-ding, a-ding.

I was lying in bed this morning, feeling my Monday morning blues (but on a Tuesday – I stayed an extra day due to Tony’s root canal). From my bed and my contemplations about the coming weeks, I heard geese outside. Early Sunday morning, as Tony and I lay in bed, we heard birds chirping as the sun filtered through the blinds. I smelled sunshine and warmed concrete as I took his dog for a walk on Monday.

The clouds may have been grey and dimming on the past three spring-like days, but it did nothing to hamper my mood and my hope and the start of a frenzy – spring madness is setting in.

It seems that year after year when warm weather rolls around, I’m embarking on a new part of my life. First it was college, then a break-up, then a big role in The Crown and then senior year. Every warm breeze and every green leaf brought with it a promise of a fresh start and perspective.

This year is no different and may, in fact, be the biggest change of all. I’m moving to a new city, quitting a full-time job with benefits to move to a freelance one without. I’m leaving my family and friends behind and starting with a new group of friends and family. I’m living on my own for the first time ever.

There are a lot of changes going on, none of them small, and I’m just glad it’s not happening in the middle of winter when I usually feel really crappy. There’ll be sunshine and warmth to punctuate my every move during my new life – inspiration at its finest.

who watches the watchmen? THIS GUY.

I’m not really a movie reviewer, but here goes. (SPOILERS!)

Watchmen. The epic movie that’s been in the making for years now has finally hit the theaters – and when I say hit, I mean smash through and disintegrate everything in its path.

The movie was epic. From start to finish I was entranced – it never seemed a two and three quarter hours long movie.

First and foremost, I need to draw attention to the opening sequence. The Comedian’s death/brief overview of the Minute Men and how we got where we are today = BRILLZ. I was smiling at points in it, thinking about how clever it was. For example – the Comedian was JFK’s assassin. Or Silhoutte inadvertently replicating the moment we glimpse in the photograph of the sailor kissing the young woman after World War II. All of it excellent and well done, from their formation to their demise.

I only read about half of the graphic novel but I must say, comparing the parts I read to the movie – it was almost panel for panel. I sat there, quoting the lines, as they were pulled directly from the novel. The imagery was stunning and, again, pulled right from the book.

The casting was superb. Billy Crudup did a genius job as Dr. Manhattan. Every sentence that left his mouth dripped with apathy. (Oh, and the Ken doll-like peen that he sports in the trailers? Totally gone and anatomically correct!) Rorshach was a tiny guy that looked harmless, but deadly lethal once you got down to it. (“The thing is, I’m not locked in here with you – you’re locked in here with ME!” – and the audience went ape shit). The Comedian was fucked up in all the right places, in the ways Night Owl was nice and Silk Spectre was sexy.

There was the right amount of blood, the right amount of sex, the right amount of fighting and the right amount of talking. Snyder blended everything together perfectly to pull off what most deemed impossible. Sure, some things were left out (don’t even look for the squid), but it did little to damage the storyline on the whole.

The only thing I would say is that if you haven't read the novel, you may get lost. Much like its paper version, the movie contains many flashbacks in order to flesh out the histories of the characters (and don't even get started on Doc Manhattan's ability to exist in numerous times at once - that can really go off the charts.)

It also stuns me that these "real people" that are superheroes can take such incredible beatings (as well as dish them out) and barely bat an eyelash. If anyone can do that, it's Dr. Manhattan, but I don't believe for a second that stick-thin Laurie Jupiter could pummel the shit out of a guy three times her size. If that's the case, there's hope for me yet.

sexy time.

I decided to google myself today.

Mmm - sounds dirty, no? ; )

You know what IS dirty? The search results.

I found the typical stuff – me dean’s-listing at King’s, me interning through King’s, my Weekender stories, listing as editor-in-chief of The Crown. But then I found something that made me blush, from the round of my cheeks right down to my pinky toes shoved in my heels. I can’t believe I’m going to admit this.

As many people know, I love Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Well, there’s this little thing called fanfic (if you’re a nerd like me I can hear you snickering already) and then there’s another little thing called smutfic (and now you’re full-blown laughing).

Fanfic is when fans of a certain…fandom, if you will, write stories based upon the characters or even characters of their own creation. Well, once upon a time, I wrote fanfic. A lot. I even had an author name I wrote under and other authors I canoodled with via internet and message boards.

I enjoyed it. It was solid writing that kept me creating and editing. Each piece was a work of art for me. I wish I could get back to those days (and plan to soon – hello, Heroes!).

But I wrote a piece of smut. And that’s all I’m going to tell you because I don’t want anyone searching it. It was hot and heavy and it made me blush while I was reading it.

It also made me say, “DAMN, girl – you were good.”

I kind of want to write some more. :x

holy crap.

anyone want to go to louisiana?

it's always sunny in philadelphia.

My disposition is generally sunny. I’m rarely negative or angry; I always look at things from all angles and try to focus on the most positive side. I believe everything happens for a reason, be it good or bad, and something can be learned from everything.

I am always smiling and cracking jokes. I always try to make others feel happy.

Lately, I have been tired. My soul and my heart have been so tired. I hate sleeping because I loathe the waking. Waking up means another day of doing something I don’t want to do, or doing something that squashes my creativity and makes me apathetic.

I had a friend who once told me that the opposite of love is not hate - it’s apathy. He’s right. At least hate is an emotion; apathy is emptiness.

That’s how I have been feeling. Apathetic. A shell of myself. I don’t even want to read or write, which is incredibly unlike me.

I’ve been this way for four months. Not any more.

I resigned from my job. I’m moving to Philadelphia by March’s end and freelancing full time while I continue to look for jobs down there (be it writing and editing or just plain office work).

I’m placing myself in a new area, with a new situation and new people. I’m going to use this time to visit numerous places in Philadelphia, take in things I’ve never experienced before. I want to read and write more. I want to watch more movies that I should have watched years ago. I will re-teach myself French, once and for all. I will work out daily.

I’ll finally bring myself to who I want to be. I won’t be a shell any more.

This prospect is exciting, but (as you can imagine) incredibly scary.

I’ll miss my family. I’ll miss my friends. Hell, I’ll even miss the people I work with.

I’ll be on my own for the first time in twenty-three years. An only child, flying the coop, trying her hand at independent life.

Sure, I’ll have Tony’s family. But I don’t want to rely on them too much. It’s all a part of growing and changing myself.

Today is day one of my new self. I have fourteen days left of work and about thirty in this valley.

Apathy is so yesterday.

blues.

In high school, I used to get the Sunday night blues. They have since evolved into the Monday morning blues.

Those of the Sunday variety seem stupid and insignificant in comparison to the ones I feel now and the situation that makes me feel them.

It’s odd because I’m at a comfortable spot where I have a plan that’s been set in motion (somewhat; nothing solid to tell you until a week from today). Things will be infinitely better in a month’s time and I should be using that simple fact to pull me through, but it’s very hard to.

It’s weird because I’m a mixture of living in the moment and thinking way too far ahead into the future. Each facet of me gets me into trouble. When I live in the moment right now I get upset and depressed, whereas thinking into the future would remedy that – but I can’t. Sometimes when I think into the future I think too far ahead and get worrisome, so living in the moment would remedy that – but I can’t.

For each situation I know what I have to do but I don’t do it. This is probably why I don’t sleep much anymore and am up at all hours of the night with a stomach ache and/or headache.

It’s completely not like me and completely needs to be changed and it will – give me a month or so.

the guts.

I’ve read the Twilight series. Yes, I got sucked into it. Yes, I got a little obsessed with it. I will admit to that, but what I cannot admit to is that the writing was superb. The situations were intriguing, the thought of Edward Cullen propelled me through most of the books, but as a fan of the horror/goth/vampire genre…well, these books simply weren’t it. These books were aimed at teen girls with crushes and smothered sexual desires.

Thank you Stephen King, my FAVORITE author, for this (as per Pink is the New Blog):

In an interview with USA Weekend, the bestselling author compared Meyer with J.K. Rowling, the author of the Harry Potter series. According to Stephen, “Both Rowling and Meyer, they’re speaking directly to young people… The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can’t write worth a darn. She’s not very good.”

This coming from the man who also dissed Dean Koontz and James Patterson. LOVE IT.

Tony said last night that Stephen King wasn’t horror. I think he is. Tony thinks he’s more sci-fi and suspense.

Stephen King is horror because he finds a way, simply through words, to tap into a person’s innate fears (in either a general or particular way) and make her stare at them straight on. He does this through the use of sci-fi and suspense tactics, sure. Sometimes I do think he’s a little more sci-fi than not.

But the bottom line is – he makes people lose sleep at night. Or, at the very least, find themselves in an everyday situation, thinking of his words because he has the tendency to pull the guts out of a normal situation and make it horrifying.

move along.

Michelle Obama Under Fire


I cannot tell you how angry this makes me.

And you know what line really set me off? Amnau Eele’s assertion, “This was our moment.”

THIS WHOLE ELECTION WAS YOUR MOMENT. This whole election was AMERICA’S moment. For every race and every creed.

And I suppose if she chose black designers she would then be criticized for not being diverse?

Stop putting this poor woman under fire for her clothes. Why does no one mention the fact that she’s an Ivy League graduate? Her actual attributes - her intelligence, her poise, her capabilities - are all glazed over because of a designer choice.

I’m so aggravated right now that I can’t even type an intelligible sentence.

This isn’t the Oscars. It’s the fucking inauguration. The United States just nominated their first African American president and you’re asking why the designer of the first lady’s duds wasn’t black.

Someone please give these people something sturdy so they can get a grip.

brillz.

And to revert back to my fashion ways (but also keeping with current events!):

A nifty billboard

political me.

Ok, so I know that I'm pretty uninformed when it comes to politics. To me, this makes me ignorant. I live in this country, after all, don't I?

I never cared about politics at all. My whole reasoning is that they're all crooked bastards and if there's one thing on this planet that I cannot stand it's an indecent human being. Why should I pay attention to the mud-slinging and promise breaking, just to aggravate myself?

Because I'm alive. Because I'm growing up and I'm seeing that I do have to deal with these issues that have been doted upon for years, but that I simply never saw fit to give a shit about until I was off my parents health care plan and was part of the actual work force.

I floated along in my own world, telling myself that I could get by without really knowing politics.

Now I see, as an aspiring journalist and American in general, I can't.

I had a talk with my friend Ted recently, who is really into politics. He helped me figure out an issue that I think I'm going to be most passionate about: civil rights.

I'm the kind of person who cries equality all the time. I didn't realize that I could actually be applying my staunchness and characterisitc trait of fighting for other people in a political realm.

So here I am. I'm going to take a stand.

I'm still not educated about things enough to sit here and dither on about some issue or another. I'm going to take the time, every day, to browse the blogs and read the papers and focus on the political things, not just the fashion and the crosswords.

So, to start my political foray, here is a link to a blog that was linked to on instapundit.com. I like it because it's pretty simple and it uses something I'm really familiar with (shitty boyfriends) to talk about President Obama.

I get a little lost at the bilateral and such part, but hey - this is a learning process. Steady as we go.


Bad Boyfriends