almost famous

I constructed events in my life so that I would have an excuse to repeat what had already worked for Molly Ringwald. What would Molly do? She'd say 'Screw it all' and go to Paris to make a film with Godard.


Hey, hey, hey!

That's just the easiest way to say this, without invoking references to songs I've listened to heretoforth. Now my iPod––almost full––is chock full of Xiu Xiu and Nina Nastasia and all these other artists who people got into a year ago and which I am now drawing fully into the library via my brother's CDs. I didn't even have time to make mixes for the car, so I'll just have to listen to "All The Pretty Girls Go To The City" on my headphones. But mostly? Graceland over the car stereo, just like we did ten years ago when we did our yearly treks out east.

So: I'm going to college. The worldly possessions are packed, the goodbyes have been made (and they were much easier than expected, which was in large part due to my family's careful planning of these last few days), I have a credit card (!), insurance card, and iTunes gift cards in my wallet and I'm off. Not gone, but off. Or just maybe... on!

Leaving for college is an incredible reminder of how loved you are, especially from the people you don't expect to say it. I'm incredibly fortunate in that the people I DO know love me much––my mom, mainly––are not overwhelming me with their feelings. I can't describe the ease this imparts but god, my mom is just chock full of logic. I'll relay the incredibly personal presents I've gotten, little talismans really, at another time. Or maybe not. But you should know, in case I've not reiterated it enough, that I have the best fucking family and friends in the whole world.

16 hours of hell ride 2K5 coming up! I'm not really anticipating the horrors of hell ride 2K4 which consisted of seven people in a seven seater and me running on no sleep. This time, as the 16 years prior: the idea is NO SLEEP TILL BROOKLYN.

Peace! And of course,

love & happiness, Al Green style,


The leaves are falling back east and
That's where I'm gonna be...

I could do a lot of waxing on that song and their significance in my life over the last year, blah blah blah, but I think we understand the blatancy of those particular words right now.

Because I am packing! It's good I've started now because it will provide some relief when I decide, the night before I leave, which is maybe eight days from now (not entirely sure about that, should check), that I should really get on with this assembling of the essentials for establishing a life a thousand miles from the one I have known for seventeen years! Excellent.

Currently, most of the clothes shopping has been done... I spent about $300 at Vicky's (that's what my friends call Victoria's Secret, and I kind of like it as it makes a racy sounding store sound like a budget craft shop. I'm all about that. Remind me to relate the story of the woman who appeared to be buying lingerie for her "soon-to-be ex husband"'s girlfriend. Okay, so now I have more well-fitting bras than I have ever had in my entire life, that is, five, and a whole lotta stripey undies that will ensure two weeks of a laundry-free lifestyle. I have two pairs of jeans that fit almost perfectly––again, more than I have had in, at least several years, since I got all these hand me downs from someone that for some reason worked very well for one winter. I also have a cute little maroon sweater thingy that will work in either a scholarly or a sexy fashion. This is an essential. As are my new pink hi-tops––identical to my old, very worn ones but less gray and peeling around the edges––purchased for $20 thanks to some excellent spotting by the BFE. I'd like to take a minute to reccommend the new Gap fits of jeans... I thought I was curvy but I am straight; this is something of a miracle given the gayness I have recently immersed myself in. Ba-zing! Cheap joke. I also like the new IPEX bra, which has lent me many a moment to puzzle over the name. Is it related to, like, pecs? Is this commonly known and I am in the dark about the new technology in lingerie?

I am very glad that the clothes part of this is over––I actually have lost my enjoyment of shopping, now that I actually have a list of things I need and no desire to spend money on anything else. I clean basements and tend to sick children as a living! Do I want that to go to waste on a pink blazer that might not fix me next week? Even if it's $10? Surprisingly, no, not this time.

Anyway, I've assembled the preliminary round of books...I am told not to bring books, but obviously all of my Russian texts, workbooks, dictionaries (I've narrowed those down to a selection of two), grammar books, and a year's worth of notes are totally necessary (SLC actually uses the same curriculum as UWM, which will save me at least $300). I also have 3/4 of my vast library of Russian literature coming with me. I've very responsibly decided to bring only one edition––the most modern and respected one––of each book, even though I want to do some work on diverging translations, but I can have my mums send me the 1975 edition of Lermontov's "A Hero of Our Time" if absolutely necessary. I've got Turgenev, Nabokov (his lectures and stories, not "Lolita," cause in retrospect I don't love it and will have much access to copies of this anyway), Lermontov, Proffer's amazing collection, some side-by-side Russian/English stories, Pushkin and, begrudgingly, Dostoevsky. And, naturally, my two huge collections of what I read in my 19th century Russian lit class this spring. Remind me to bring Tolstoy!

Other than that, I've got my J. Safr-o, "The Stranger," "The Unbearable Lightness of Being," the obscure memoir/history book that did Russian things for me that nothing else has, "Nights in the Gardens of Brooklyn," the Truman Capote collection I just finished (though that might be staying here for a while on loan to my FPE), and some Thisbe and maybe some Emma Forrest. And, naturally, one Betsy-Tacy-Tib book, probably "Betsy Was a Junior," cause I try to read that every year as school begins. Love it.

Next up: winter gear. How weird is it that next time I come home I'll not be wearing these shorts and Chino (this is what we are now calling wifebeaters, a little nod to the O.C., but you gotta capitalize it as not to confuse with khakis, but seriously, would I wear khakis, absolutely not) but instead a pea coat and scarf. Oh shit, I have so many scarve/hat/glove sets.

Before I went to California the prospect of this part was terrifying. But it's getting kind of thrilling. I got a letter from my RA today and I live in house with 8 other people, boys on the bottom floor and girls on top (insert stupid joke here) with same gender bathrooms. Contrary to the sound of that last sentence, girls and boys CAN mix without chaperones present and the ladies don't even need to wear gloves! But maybe I will. We also have a sweet common area and a kitchen. I was really prepared to have a shitty triple dorm room, but I somehow lucked out and maybe this was extra fortunate in that I really feel that I'm just transitioning into a new home. It's sort of absolutely exciting.

Back to work... there may be more later when I finish winter packing and am hesitant to start with, um, the next thing. Whatever that is.


Life is a mystery
Everyone must stand alone
I hear you call my name
And it feels like...home!
[breakdown here, but not like an emotional breakdown (unusual of late!) a sweet percussion one where you must do the sort of windmill/robot dance with your eyes shut, as you become one with Madonna...]

So I went to California for a long time, almost two weeks, with my friend R. and so much happened––kayaking to dinner, burning to the point of peeling in spite of three types of sunscreen applied simeltaneously, an expensive Fred Segal facial mask which delivered to me no refreshing pore cleansing but instead a mildly traumatic forehead rash, fondue for two, desert twice a day, horseback riding (true story!), dinner with the crazy uncle (twice) during which I got into a fight when I rashly stated that Russians are the best people in the world (maybe not a true story in some respects, but they are my favorite), tearfully explaining to R. that Russian meant so much more to me than she could fathom and reasserting that studying it was a poor choice for an academic focus was offensive, fighting with and loving her like nobody else, the pleasant in-limbo of airports (three flights, many hours of joy, as I have grown to love that particular part of traveling a great deal), driving between Sans and Santas with just R., blaring Madonna whenever we got bitchy with each other and even when we didn't, beach houses and as-yet unfurnished hippie homes, Nobel Prize winners and liberal rabbis, family scandals (not my own!) and the ocean, meeting some great (ACTUAL 1, 4, and 8 year old) kids and being desperately homesick when I saw mothers and kids together, seeing Willy Wonka my first night in LA and having weepy crisis about childhood and college, writing four and eight page letters to my FPE who emailed me lists of everything he ate daily for the first half of my trip, loving the Northern California hospitality, defending the midwest, spending too much money on cabs and food, watching Laguna Beach and appreciating friendship, watching America's Next Top Model and hating people, getting really bored with "now THAT's a perfect body," comments and expressing this, reading so much and falling in love with that activity and so many words all over again, sitting on the plane home next to these ladies who brought their own sushi aboard and writing about a million pages in the designated beginning-of-college notebook which I have been avoiding for a while, finding out I have a great rooming assignment, MEETING MY ROOMMATE who is fanastic and better not desert me for a dancing job in MA before school cause I want to live with her and watch her dance (a lot), coming home. Even though this should have been arranged better grammatically and with semicolons and commas instead of parentheses, this is all very true.

I landed at 8:30 in Chicago, drove home with my mom and raided the big box of Ghirardellis I had bought for her, ate a fantastic salad she made in about two seconds flat, read a bunch of college mail that has arrived and was not scared at all, threw on a silk skirt and my homemade "I WALK THE LINE" shirt and headed to a dance party. It was, actually, my last one. I thought July's was but that turned out to be a disaster involving tears and much time spent held to the bosom of my brother's fantastic girlfriend and my brother saying some great things and so I guess it turned out well, especially after I wrote a lengthy email to my FPE and went on the porch with some wine to get sleepy... so I guess that one turned out okay, but this one was great, the note on which I wanted to go out. The gang was all there, if I may say––the brothers, the current and former girlfriends who I love (at one point one of my brothers had three past/current girlfriends in the very tiny room and I was really ready to punch this one broad who showed up unnecessarily, I find physical violence to be completely acceptable in these circumstances, but in the end it wasn't called for), D, F, M, some crazy kid named Dominic (I think) who I didn't introduce myself to until the end of the night but admired his constant moves. And just so many people I know and like. So many people I don't know and like. There are upsides to this incestuous town––you see a lot of faces you don't want to see but at least an equal number you DO want to. A sorta friend, a close acquaintance I suppose, was having a crisis and because I was fresh from the embraces of loving Californians and the memory of last month was fresh in my mind, I spent a lot of time chilling with her. At one point some neighborhood crazy walked up and asked us each individually "How would you feel if I said I was having a stroke?" Classic. Also, dancing to "When Dove's Cry," with a room full of fantastic people, really DANCING and miming and singing; it was really one of the best moments of my life. It summed up the things I love about my life.

And miraculously, or maybe not cause it makes a lot of sense actually, I returned not just tan and in love with Truman Capote (true and good story) but completely equipped for college, or as much as one can be. The excitement is of a chill sort, one I don't express outright but instead through my readiness to start gathering things, my making lists and calling my best friend (who I was too scared of life to deal with before I left) to plan a shopping trip for tomorrow. Meeting my roommate helped, just being away helped––it was kinda miserable at moments (it was a pretty long time, especially to be with one person and just constantly on the move––we were not in the same place for more than three nights at a time) but I realized just how different college would be from that, and how it might actually be a lot more like how I think it is going to be. And the cool front in San Francisco and the rediscovery of this fantastic deep purple sweater from last fall gave me that exciting fall feeling, the desire to wear pleated skirts and sweaters and Mary Janes and carry my books in my arms and put a pencil behind my ear and study Russian in a library or a cafe with hot chocolate and borrow pens from people so I can smile and thank them and just be in SCHOOL, really be IN school, not just at one. It was so refreshing. And being back in my hot Milwaukee nest is pretty nice, actually, my family has accepted my drastic change in attitude so perfectly and gracefully that it is hard to doubt myself. This morning my mom came into my room while I was still in bed and said, "We should put a box in here so you can start deciding which books you are bringing with you." Even in my sleep I knew the advice! "I have heard that you shouldn't bring books cause you'll have so many and not a lot of timeto read." To which my mother replied with all but a balderdash, saying, "But you know you're going to want some of your books. If you start now you can weed through and have a good set." Which is true! And I simply love love love having a mother who has a lot of smarts and common sense to impart, but not when it comes to books. This is what it's important to us.

I need to eat and finish cleaning my room and myself and catch up on all my New York Times sections and read my book and generally...I just gotta gotta gotta move on. (Cause where do you move where you're moving from....?)



He was tied to the bed with a miracle drug in one hand,
In the other, a great lost novel that,
I understand, was returned with a stamp
That said "Thank you for your interest, young man."

Some things I enjoy, in no particular order but long overdue:
•A.C. Newman

• The way the line of postcards pinned to the top of my little computer enclave dance when I type. They are these: "Greetings from Texas" (how Sufjan Stevens!), Sydney Harbor, "GET HED" and the Talking Heads "Once in a Lifetime."

• The LIVE Mountain Goats and Bright Eyes high quality recordings of full shows in my possession. It's interesting to hear Bright Eyes live, I forewent my chance to see them in January and I don't really regret it, for the same reason that incidentally catching part of a Death Cab For Cutie set recently felt awkward––that's shit you listen to in your room alone, not with like a thousand people sharing your angst, tearily holding their phones up to their friends. That's the kind of thing I want to believe has a unique effect on me. Speaking of things that make me happy, the night I saw Death Cab I saw the Pixies for the second time (still amazing) and Weezer (awful show and seeing Rivers Cuomo in person inexplicably made me want to cry, the whole thing was rather sad, I guess, in some way).

• I'll reiterate part of that last item, the best evs part of it: THE MOUNTAIN GOATS. Because I probably won't get to see them live until the next tour, when they return to New York where I will then be optimally located for maximum show attendance, it's fantastic to Dance to the Music almost real-style.

• The company of my FPE.

• The exciting project I'm working on that is top secret but fantastically portable, for production of which I bought the most adorable set of miniature pink offie supplies. I am not kidding when I say that there have been many times in recent days when I wished I had a mini stapler. And now I have that, plus a mini stapler removal! In the words of the incredible Michael Showalter: "I KNOW, right?"

• Superlatives, not used enough by me right now.

• My iTunes shuffle feature. It really cracks me up, like when it plays a bunch of drug songs in succession or whatever. It also favors Nirvana Unplugged when I go running, which is a surprisingly satisfying soundtrack, and really harkens me back to my younger days. Ha!

• DJ Fabulous, my new 12" Powerbook. I have only just become emotionally equipped to handle its presence in my life, it's all SHIT, college is happening in 39 days and this is coming with me, but I'm quickly adjusting (though I'm not using it now). I love my WiFi which allows me to access upstairs K's music library when we're both in the house. And the DVD player which actually works, unlike my other two computer-based DVD setups. None of my 2,203 favorite songs are on there yet and it won't really feel like mine until then. I've just started setting up bookmarks but it's so weird how automatic your keyboard and mouse motions become, you know just how far down the list this or that blog is, just where your iTunes icon is located on your dock and that your mail will check itself every ten minutes but cause you never fixed this weird thing about it, you'll have to click through an error message every time. You just get used to all of it. I also should back up or otherwise deal with all the data on this computer. Like...all of my writing from the last four or five years? All my important conversations with people, especially my friends from Europe who, god, I can't believe I've known only and already a year. So this is just some of what comes to the forefront when transferring over. The least of it.

• That my brother just came over to retrieve some of his old CDs, of which there have to be at least a thousand. This was fun for a lot of reasons, but I especially liked the number and selection of CDs I have inherited. I'm the digital music world's biggest fan right now, for a variety of reasons, including that once my brother rips his music to his computer/iPod, I can then listen to it and maybe do that myself. Sibling sharing now actually results in harmony! Who knew? Anyway, even though I went CD shopping on Friday and then announced that I'd totally need to go again soon, I think I can put off for a while. Handy and also lovely, because it's also a pleasure to associate certain music with my brother although, since my taste was built around his to begin with, most music does.

I'm going to California in a week. That should be fun. Did I mention my awesome new swimsuit? Or the ridiculous tan/burns I've gotten in the most awkward places that will no doubt garner more attention than all the rufles and polka dots put together? Yeah, there's that


A thirteen year old Conor Oberst (who K singularly refers to as "Bright Eyes") screaming "And everyone just wants to get fucked!" into some shitty eight track."

Let's forego the summary of life as I know it, because it's irrelevant and no one cares except me and I am already aware of how and what I am, and there is also the fact that it can't be put into any words that have not already been assembled in ten-times-daily to the one person I'm totally okay with now, and the body of acquaintances from which that person comes includes family and the BFE and all that.

And let's ignore the part that has just made itself clear to me in the last two days, with no urging forward on anyone's part, the part about how yeah, I have this one person, who is great and gives me Chinese movies loved by Quentin Tarantino to watch when I don't know what or rather don't want to think. Yeah, we usually have a few hours every day, hours I don't really deserve to have, hours I shouldn't need, that should be taken up by something or maybe someone else, and not entirely in accordance with my will but that make me get out of bed in the morning and stay aware of what's happening around and beyond me, so I can be the interesting and interested person I like to be, but who I have no real reason to be right now. (Except for the me liking how I am when I am like that reason, not that good really comes of it, ever.) But since we're in the business of ignoring, which is just kind of an active way to isolate, and kind of like when a few kids and myself took a celibacy pledge for the last month of high school cause we knew we wouldn't be having sex so we might as well put a good name to it. (Two of the kids broke this pledge. With each other.) Since we're ignoring, let's look around the fact that well within forty four days, I'll never have this with this person again, we'll never really have anything again because it wouldn't make any sense, there'd be less, no more, of a context for it and the reason this works is because I am contextless right now.

So there's that, for a few hours, maybe a whole day if you include the waiting around and an interlude to get skin cancer lying on the lawn asleep in the sun for forty-five minutes or say. (I have colored stripes on my stomach from the different sections of midriff exposed with different outfits.) And then, at night, when I freak out––freak outs: not just for Fridays anymore!–– I can email and if I'm lucky I can get a response, or if I don't think I will I can spend a lot of time writing and editing my emails. That is what I do instead of writing here. I don't send a lot of them because they're not really meant for the recipient, but because they are the only person I can earnestly talk with right now so to me this means everything I have to say should be said to them, and then there are a lot of "I am so sorry, I can't believe I just said all that," messages which is a half lie, because though in some sense I am sorry to heap this all on one person's plate, I can believe I said it quite easily because I wrote and rewrote and edited those words a number of times, and I am sort of not sorry because it felt good to say them. I am just sorry, as in a pitying sorrow, that they have to hear or read them.

It's no one's fault that I derive little pleasure or even an occasional wave of hostility or anxiety from their company. It's just that this is not the right place for me now, in absolutely any sense, geographically or time wise or anything. I want to belong with people as usual, I just can't right now for what I can only guess are circumstancial reasons.

I also feel like everyone is just wanting to get fucked, in about every way possible, and the only reason this might bother me is because I have no clue as to what I want, except maybe to cry and just get this shit out of me,  only when I tried that today Elton John came on my iPod and I remembered something my one person had told me earlier and I half-laughed.

I  am so incredibly agitated right now that I can't even move. Plans with both brothers stand in some sort of hypothetical state and I am probably supposed to be calling something about arrangements, but I'm not even sure that I want to go out. Being around people I am not close with would be good right now, as one set of plans involves, but I can't deal with arrangements and prospects and all. It's almost so simple as that I can't be bothered.

I just finished watching "Manhattan" which was supposed to alleviate most of this but I was annoyed by the light and the lack of lines that could still echo in my thoughts for a while, and I felt like kicking the screen at the end.

And tonight is the one night when I am completely out of movies. Awesome.


Girl, you're so groovy, I want you to know!

Ohemgeez, best spontaneous ladies night ever!
After the world's quickest trip to a store I had denounced and vowed to boycott 24 hours earlier (I'm referring to Old Navy, for poor service and a refusal to let me use my mother's store credit card which I have been using for three years with no problem, but apparently a lot of kids must jack their parents' GAP CARDS all the time to go fucking crazy with, like, tank tops, and then we go use it to buy heroin and the services of Cambodian gigolos). My desire for the kind of stretchy camisoles that stick to you was overwhelming because I was sick of ill fitting things that made me tug and pull and wear sweatshirts in the summer. Also purchased, for the M/PCali Tour 2005, a fantastic fifties-style bikini, a sort of deep fuschia with hot pink polka dots and fucking ruffles. AND, matching shirts for myself and my brother with his DJ name in sequin letters emblazoned across the front (best coincidence ever!). Did not buy the Williamsburg shirt, though I love how much it would horrify all the Brooklyn hipsters.
Anyway, picked up free tix from the radio station where the heart of my rock 'n' roll alter ego tends to reside, dashed home to change and went with my favorite lady, K, to Summerfest to see her boyfriend/my downstair's neighbor's band. We did merch, sort of, and it was all kind of awesome. I love that my downstairs neighbor, who I most usually see in a bathrobe with coffee and a cigarette, or hear blasting Britpop, becomes this total dude onstage. It made that bizarre four-in-the-morning riff marathon eariler this year totally worth it. (And I hadn't even been asleep when it occurred.)

So we rocked that, K and I hit the grounds with Milwaukee's best, beer & people alike, and I cherised my hometown flavor all I could. I love how leaving something behind makes you a huge fan of it, like high school or your father or Wisconsin. We had the requisite butter-drenched roasted corn, fresh lemonade (made by Milwaukee's teenagers, many of whom I know, in these cramped stalls where they actually fill a cup with ice and a lemon slice and shake until juiced––what a job!), and someone else's potato wedges from the very crowded BBQ stand. I can't believe they're trying to class Summerfest up, appeal to old people with fuckin' Hall & Oates. (Though they canceled. Where is the Nuge!? Tom Petty, however, is here for the fourth year in a row, and there were a bizarre number of people walking around with "Will do anything for Petty tickets" signs. It's PETTY! Also: my brother saw Deep Purple last night, cause he's double R like that). And you can now buy your beer with a credit card! And martinis! Luckily, no one's fashion sense has improved. I saw a kid whose voice didn't seem to be done changing ride around on a unicycle holding clubs on fire, or something. I believe my words were, "We're all gonna die," but we didn't. I FINALLY got my "I'm From Milwaukee And That's Not Funny" shirt, which I have been in pursuit of for like ten years. There was actually some amazing Milwaukee merchandise, clever sayings all having to do with beer, and kind of great. As I said, though, style: K & I actually had a mullet alert system.

We hadn't really planned our transportation, aside from the decision not to drive, so we took the bus home, from where K suddenly exclaimed that she'd take me out to dinner. So we went and it was fabulous, fantastically chatt. Her friend (who I have met and really like!) was working and gave us free tirimisu and Pellegrino to go. Which I am about to go consume, in the company of the Gilmores.

But god, what a nice day, this is what summer's supposed to be.
It bears mentioning, too, that I found out I'm truly anemic (we hadn't known if my previous test was a fluke, but it appears so) and that, combined with my infrequent diet, is probably part of the reason I've been so batshit. Well, that and the whole, life-as-we-know-it-is-changing college thing. Life's good, though!

Dance party tomorrow night––possibly my last, cause I might be clubbing in San Francisco when the next one takes place, and then I'm off to dance in New York.
Life, when viewed as an extended dance party, is pretty fucking great.

And clearly, I'm so rock that I can't stop myself from using the word fuck, or derivatives of it, in every sentence. Even when I type.

It's obviously all happening. Now, who wants to come watch Almost Famous with me? Except I'd probably be overwhelmed and cry... so, Gilmore it is.

K is my favorite, by the way. We talked like it was ladies night, which of course it was. And it helped that we're just about the best ladies ever.



You're a tolerant woman and the world is at war.

I think there's a helicopter still overhead. On my way to the park to swing today I saw a cop car speed across the grass down in the direction of the river. As I got to the swing, another police car and van, both with sirens on, raced down the street. I thought maybe there was something with drugs going down––that park is actually pretty drug free, but maybe they caught some dumb kids and if they're not white they probably sent over the precinct to beat them up. (MPD: big on racially motivated brutality.) I was mainly paying attention to these kids hanging up signs on the pole about two inches away. Who knew there was a teenage boy who wore plaid shorts and a Clash tee shirt in the neighborhood? I thought it was all sweater vests and vegan tight pants. Anyway, as soon as they walked away a helicopter approached overhead. Like, right overhead. For a minute I thought they were going to land on the basketball court and hoped they would tell the kids to scoot. At this point I began to think someone had fallen in the river and kind of lost interest. My brother fell in the Milwaukee River when he was three, sort of rolled off the bank and on in, and my parents laughed and probably left him in to do his own thing for a bit before removing him. It's mildly toxic, no biggie. It's not very deep at that point, though, so I'm not sure why I thought a helicopter would be necessary.

My old downstairs neighbor is in town with her kid and her parents and they had followed me to the park which was nice cause I really liked talking to her (my old neighbor), seeing as she had a definitive role in my life during earlier formative years. So we're kicking it when her brother, my current downstairs neighbor drives up and says all casual, with an unlit cigarette in position between his fingers, "There's a fugitive on the loose." We kind of dawdle home and upon arriving I race upstairs to telephone everyone I know. Which is to say, just my mom and brother, before I got distracted reading about a serial killer, something you should really do in that situation. I couldn't find anything online because local news is all mega-corp'd and we do not have a Milwaukeeist , unfortunately. My neighbor did tell me the vague description of the suspect. I kept reading.

Over dinner, my brother is present and he shows us a bite-bruise he got last night when breaking up a fight. It was shitty, it was a lot of people too old to be doing what they were doing, too drunk or drugged or just crazy. People came by and saw a fight taking place and leaped in, because when you're bored and it's hot, that's what you do I guess.

Fast forward a bit, my mom has more news. Four shooting within a forty minute period last night. The fugitive not heard to be located. The awesome owner of a bar nearby was shot point black outside his place last night (I went to MoveOn meetings there, plus we had film fest events there for which he arranged great spreads). I read that this was not considered a hate crime and I was surprised because I didn't know that crimes against white people could be considered hate crimes (in the common context of the phrase) and then my mom reminded me that he was gay and the clientele is also very gay. I guess this didn't occur to me as a distinctive factor because my whole world is pretty gay, but that's irrelevant because it was not hate-motivated (in that same stupid sense of the phrase). The shooter was 14. Also, 85 registered sex offenders live in my zip code.

The world seems so vicious right now. Not even the world, cause I'm weirdly out of tune with that right now, but my world. I'm taking the fact that the invincibility of my swings isn't quite real pretty well. This kind of thing always makes me feel fearless at first, all adrenalined out. And then it's night time.

I have to say, though, if anyone ever asks me again how I can move to New York, what with all the rampant crime there, I think I have a pretty good answer.

I just remembered that on the way to the park, Ben Gibbard was singing to me, "And the casualty rate nears one hundred percent." I love the sense of wizened-ness instiled in me by Death Cab For Cutie!

This is all just weird cause today was supposed to be my day to cry, to lie on the floor and weepily declare that I've lost some will. (In a mild sense of the following, I have: my will to starve and my will to eat, my will to sleep and my will to be awake, my will to keep moving and my will to stay still.) Then tomorrow I could get up and get fixed. The world succeeded in hijacking my day of angst which isn't good or bad, it just is what it is.

Today wasn't entirely a loss, however: I did almost kick my pediatrician in the balls, on accident though I don't think he thought so after I had questioned his medical expertise, particularly in the area of psychiatry. The man and I have been at odds for seventeen years, you'd almost think his sense of what gets to me would be finely tuned enough to realize that today was most definitely not a day to question the necessity of my medication. He's a Buddhist but he might as well have been a Scientologist for the verbal ass kicking I began to administer. My mom tried to subdue me but you could tell she was secretly way proud.

I want to to be better. I can't write or talk more about that cause I believe there is a point at which I believe you do need to keep things inside, at least from a segment of your audience. The worst thing is to finally be all chemically alligned and have to sort of explain to everyone why you'd spent the week prior writing crazy notes about Woody Allen's penthouse and anticipating the appocalypse of your world as you know it by declaring that you could no longer be believably cute or whatever shit I've been spouting. I might quarantine myself tomorrow for this reason. But if it's frightening as it seems today, I don't know if I wan't to go down alone. (insert John Darinielle's awesome desperate dignity here.)

please don't not be okay.