Mais Oui.

Today I waded through a pool of garble. occasionally I caught a familiar looking twig but it would immediately snap between my tight grip. I am alone speaking quickly and more like them but it doesn’t really make too much sense still. The women are makeupless and beautiful and I look awkward and angry all the time. I am- but I am also happy now. This city charms even if their people cause me to sit in a wading pool of low self-esteem. The roofs are beautiful and I want to hug them but that wouldn’t accomplish much because they are big and pokey. Oh! I forgot to mention the “cool” kids in leather jackets and sunglasses and rolling stones shirts. AHAHA

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Well, I did it.

I’m at the airport. Charging stuff. Leg is asleep. I will be in Paris in like 14 hours or something. I’m nervous and sad and excited and all that jazz. I will upload pictures soooooon. Love you all!

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ALL MY LOVING.

Now, all I care about is DINOISY. I spend all my time working on that. Trust me, it’s worth it.

Dinoisy.wordpress.com

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NOTE TO SELF #001

Taped radio shows.

Not much commentary.

Music, random, themed.

Small commentaries?

THEMED BUT OH SO LOOSELY

i.e whistling, repetition…..

I need a mic but i want one i can rest down so that everyone is heard but the bg isnt too horrible does that exist??

tapes

editing system

more records

On casset tapes so you can’t skip through thus keeping the radio feeling.

Send to the few and random people that ask me for one.

The smell of my own skin makes me sick.

Maybe KickStarted will help me out?

Maybe a book full of the old photographs I find at the Antique mall.

Those pictures make it seem like back in the day they loved eachother more.

Little books, thin, floppy, paper back.

Themed by nature, love, anger, random? idk.

nature as in all the pictures of the people randomly sitting in trees.

What else? What Else?

Writings?

Maybe all these pictures on the left side and a story someone wrote on the right page. doesn’t have to have anything to do with pictures.

Yes, yes, I like this.

Or just a book of postcard pictures and what they say on the back with a theme based on what they say and have a transcript mixed in with ones without words?1?!?!?

Why do I keep tasting that horrible lemon cookie?

My tastebuds are having flashbacks as i type about things that have NOTHING to do with lemons.

Dont forget about IM ALWAYS EMBARASSED , however you spell that.

maybe a necklace – look in your sketch book thats where I put it.

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THE FUTURE JUST PULVERIZES ME, IT REALLY DOES.

At such a young age you’re meant to go to school, get a shitty job, deal deal deal. You are young, you take what you are given.

But why?

Why are we conditioned from the beginning to always compromise on the things that we really want? Why are we told that working for 65 years and then finally being able to tend to our stamp collection is life’s greatest gift?

Get a job.

Get married. (work)

Have kids. (work)

Work. (work)

Retire.

Die.

I’m sorry, but I refuse to compromise this lifetime.

I refuse to spend my entire life asking  mommy Bossman if I can go on vacation with my boyfriend or if I can finally have that 20 cent raise in my allowance. I refuse to spend 80 percent of my life somewhere I don’t want to be doing something I don’t want to do. I refuse to have kids. I don’t want them so why are people wagging their fingers at me when I tell them this? I’m no human cow. I’m no one’s slave. Why do I have to work work work work work when my body is young and (kind of) strong and finally be able to travel when all my bones are snapping under the weight of my guilt of having followed the social protocol?

Um…honestly, I rather just make suprise balls all day.

Why are we so ok with society’s check list for our OWN lives? With following the yarn wrapped around our torso with the other end wrapped around our predetermined endings? No matter how many times your counselor tells you, this life isn’t actually meant to be a Choose Your Own Adventure series. It’s more of a Accept That Your Success Is Mainly Determined By Factors Such As: Race, Gender, & Economic Placing coffee table book.

When I see the Ira Glass or Anthony Bourdains or Margaret Kilgallens of the world I well up with anger. Anger at the fact that even though I’m so young I am wasting these few years I’ve had to myself on shit I don’t want to be doing. That I could be doing something as wonderful as them but instead…I’m not. I’m hitting the pavement hard towards a career at a matte cubicle or library or mall, that I could take my dabbling skills and somehow make it so that my life is spent traveling and inspiring and creating and learning.  I’m angry because I have no idea how to get there and my meek disposition would never make one of the above said want to teach me.

My biggest fear is that I’ll end up like Little Edie. Having a hard time telling between the past and present, just wanting to leave and having wanted that for the past 2 years. Regretting my youth because I allowed something  to stop me from living it. But please, don’t misread this, I love Edie. She was free on many, many levels.

I’d give up security for freedom anytime, the way Edie did, but apparently that’s just not ok. They said she was crazy. Well, fuck you and your opinions. You’re crazy for walking such a tight rope willingly.

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WHAT IT IS?

I wish I could blog more. I was so happy when I would blog everyday. No one is reading this and I’m so ok with that because you can be more honest to a white wall than to your best friend. Honestly, I stopped because the computer was stealing me from someone else but something else has already stolen me so in the end the stealing was inevitable.  I don’t want it to be like that anymore but change has put skates on me and pushed me down a hill. Very soon the largest changes will come and even though I have been floating and completely stagnant they will happen. Then where do I stand?

I just want to make surprise balls all day and never worry about anything besides all my paper goods. Will change not stop till everything has completely changed and what I want is gone or mad or mute?

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My first French mother.

When I go to Paris I am going to spend some time with my adorable cousin’s exboyfriend and mother. Will it be a small apartment covered in vines with chipped blue paint and pictures of her as a young woman standing next to a new bike that she was too scared to ride anywhere other than the country side? Will she have curly black hair and no makeup with large dark eyes that crinkle into a the warmest mental hug I have ever felt? Will she be able to understand me and my nervous studder? Will she serve us pan au chocolat and raspberry tea she got from the sweet gruff man who has a stand at the market? Will my feet hurt from the beautiful cobble stones that I spent the previous day floating over? Will the chair I slump into be soft from all the years her husband sat there next to the record player as she watered her tulips that live outside her livingroom window? Will she shake my hand or wrap her soft tan arms around me and kiss me two times on the cheek while bumping her glasses against mine? Will she smell like something so beautiful that I have never had the chance to smell before? Will she be small and thin?  Will she have spent the entire day cooking for our arrival? Will she be large and loving and anything like Julia Child?  Will I leave there that day finally having had learned how to be genuine and sweet and warm and no longer awkward and finally stop thinking “what next?” and learn to look people in the eye and ooze amorous enthusiasm without being loud and touchy like all the little girls I have schooled with for so long? Will she tell me stories about raising her children and “the old Paris”? Will she teach me how to pronounce my words deeply? Will she teach me new words to coo to the ones I miss?

I will take the metro to see her, and during holiday season I will send her and her son presents that are genuine and warm like the new me.

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TOUS LES GARÇONS ET LES FILLES DE MON AGE.

I don’t like how you yell and your histrionics and your unadulterated love for driving like a tremors sufferer (if the movements of the wheels were in soul-like sync with your trembling fingers)  and how you speak worse than the worst speaker and your love for quick silver and how you lust over large boobs which topple out of shirts made by a small child with cracked lips and asbestos lazily floating around inside them and how you carry around books that you will never read just so that you can be a living representation of an U.O. ideal citizen and how you drink from red cups and smoke menthol cigarettes and don’t realize how ugly you look and don’t realize how unattractive you are.

High school, you have been nothing to me.

I have been lazily floating around waiting to be done and finally 20 years from 28 or so days from now I wont remember any of your names.

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READING: MADAME BOVARY; SOUNDTRACK: THELONIOUS MONK

Well, I Did it.

Basically, yesterday I did a garage sale solely to be able to afford my 68 dollar haircut at The Electric Chair. I think I’m okay with that.

I cut my longish limp hair to a short fluffier and less orphanish hairdo. I made the mistake of having it cut to the right instead of the left because, I wont lie, I have a great right ear.  If I liked having my picture taken I would show you but, instead, I’ll just see you guys around.

Maybe at Zia where you will most likely see me getting 9 dollars for 10 records (ugh) or  even sneaking behind shopping center walls to watch a cop draw his gun as he approaches an unlicensed Yukon but then becoming super disappointed because nothing Shoot ‘Em Up-esque happens. Then returning to Brandon’s car where you will see him leaning in to kiss me but then, all of a sudden!, you see the confusion on our faces as we realize a fat man is in the car right next to us viciously gnawing at a Carl’s Jr. death patty.

It felt a lot like Donnie Darko but not. Ya digg?

This was highly rushed. Sorry, but I can’t pay attention when Flapjack is on. It…I…um…jesus…wtf?

Wtf. Wtf. Wtf. Wtf.

P.S.

I would say Happy Easter but I don’t care about this holiday- so I wont.

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HAVE I EVER MENTIONED?

I’m going to cut to the chase.

I look a lot like Woody Allen sometimes. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s as if he had a daughter with a very attractive woman and being that he isn’t very attractive he needed a highly attractive wife to have an average kid (me). I’d show you but I don’t have a scanner anymore or, to be honest, the true desire to look like a brilliant but toadish Jewish man in front of all my (one) readers. Maybe  it’s the nose and the glasses?

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