Rule #1

Chances are, if and when I decide to leave my toothbrush at your house, our "relationship" is about to end.

Maybe it's because I've begun to spend enough time with you / sleep at your house enough to say, "fuck it, I'm just going to pop this in the medicine cabinet... for tomorrow." Or maybe it's because when you see it, you're so freaked out by my (sometimes rapidly) increased comfort level you decide to stop answering my texts and calls. Or maybe I'm just making all of this up. Either way it happens, and it's happening. This occurrence has left me singing The Mighty Mighty Bosstones' "Where Did You Go?" for the last two days. Great.

I'm moving to Atwater Village soon, which is this quaint little neighborhood near Los Feliz and Glendale. It's half a block away from where I work, which will cut traveling expenses and increase sleeping time. It's going to be really nice to have my own space again, as I've been sharing since the glory days of Alumni Village. I can't wait to come home, close my door and play my music.

People have told me that it takes about 6 months to become acclimated to living in Los Angeles. It took one month for the excitement to wear off; two more months for the homesickness to bottom out; one month of counting down to a trip home and one week in NY to make me realize that memories are fantasies. I move into my new place, officially, on my six month anniversary- which, coincidentally, is my birthday.

i guess this is part of being an intern

It's not that I can't sleep. It's that I won't get into my bed. I'm anxious.
I'm going on some sort of "blind" date tomorrow. I use quotations because the internet has allowed me to see what this person looks like. My friend Alexi, over at IMBOYCRAZY set this up. She told him not to take me out for Indian food because that's not sexy; she suggested Italian instead. I'm always up for a risk (ie. possible stomach pangs and diarrhea) and told him that we should in fact get Indian, being how I like it so much and all. I've been thinking about all of those date questions and how I'm going to answer them. Which has lead to me thinking about myself (yet again), how I see myself, my goals and how I would like others to perceive me.

Lately when people ask what I do, I tell them that I am a Muse. It's the only truthful answer I can give these days. I hope to inspire the cycle of creativity with every outfit I wear, through the conversations I have, and for everyone I meet- because it is art and artists that inspire me the most. I can't think of what I love anymore. I don't know what I am passionate about. I hear that this is what most people go through in their early 20s, but I beg to differ, in addition to having a strong desire to not be apart of a group called "most people." I'm envious of my cohorts in pursuit of their dreams. Though there paths may change later in life, they are walking on one nonetheless and this is something I am not.

Or at least I don't view myself on a moving path. To the contrary: I feel so stagnant.


I'm excited about the date. I think it's always nice to go out in an outfit you've thought too much about, to ride in a car to a restaurant and sit down for a meal paired with good conversation. I have no expectations, which is the best part. Well I guess I expect for it to be enjoyable, or disastrously humorous. Or humorously disastrous. I feel like they have different connotations.

If I could be anywhere in the world right now, it would be a darkroom.

xx.

hair in my soup.

this is the view from my room windows. click on it and it will get bigger.




In addition to working diligently on this new pretty layout, I also went through way too many of my old live journal entries, which for your comical pleasures, are here and here. Serving up the results of low-self esteem and the woes on college on a savory platter of girly.

This dig into the depths of LJ also reminded me that I used to work at Hot Topic. and that I had a monroe. and that I used to go to underwear parties.

I'll leave you all with an excerpt from 11.15.2004. I was listening to Matchbox 20 "Unwell" at the time.

over partied and passing out.
i move to undress and as i inch
down my jeans my tender muscles
remind me of last night.
the scent of cigarettes stains
my clothing and i think of
my slow daily suicide.
i turn to look at my spine,
my finger tips surprise my skin
as the mirror exposes my
ruby red waistline.
someone had a strong hold on me
during a slow dance.
but i don't know his name
and he probably didn't bother
learning mine.
the shadows in the room fade
another sad song on a slow
saturday night and i am left
singled out on a crowded dance floor
alone in a crowded room..


i think i have a drinking problem.