"When someone loves you, the way they say your name is different. You just know that your name is safe in their mouth." - Billy, age 4

This is the best description of love I have ever heard. I have too much homework to blog properly. But I wanted to share that. (I found it on the great Sarah Knapp's Facebook) In case you were bored, here are some other things I have hijacked from Facebook over time. Enjoy.

Above left (to right): Hannah Steinberg, photographer Ben Kraus, (my second favorite James) James Franco, my favorite hula dancer Sydney McCleish and boyfriend, Nikki Sully.

Weekend Update

I have received some complaints that I haven't blogged all weekend. Before I make any excuses (*cough cough* I'm sick.) I figured I might as well upload the (really poor quality) pictures of my weekend.

1. Lets start Friday afternoon as I was leaving school...This was the license plate of the green minivan paralleled in front of me on La Jolla blvd. To be clear, personalized license plates are my #2 pet peeve. (#1 being eyebrows - both under and over-groomed.) This one makes a perfect case for my hatred, as it is stupid. I don't think people should be able to get personalized license plates until a committee of citizens who serve (not unlike jury duty) to review the license plate in question. If they can all tell what it means without a doubt, it is fit for the road. Because, if it is not, people like me, are not only at risk of road rage, but also of getting into an accident while tailgating said stupid driver and attempting to figure out what they tried to be witty about in the first place.

Take this one: I looked at it and asked, "Post Traumatic Stress Cat?". I'm not impressed.

2. Saturday morning, after a big night (watching The Ghost Writer On Demand with Brynn), I was exhausted at 9:30 AM when it was time to resign my Saturday to an 8x10, windowless, flourescently-lit, editors office. To my pleasant surprise, my friend who does the paper's graphics brought her pet hedgehog to hibernate. His name is something in Russian I cannot remember nor pronounce. He is nocturnal, pygmy, illegal, and effing adorable. Basically a cartoon character come to life. His nose is my favorite, a bit too long for his face and moves when he sniffs. A hedgehog is my new backup plan for when I live somewhere I can't bring one of my three dogs.

3. This is yesterday when I went to Buffalo Exchange in order to get out of the editors office. I found this T-Shirt with a body-hair design and because I get made fun of for being attracted to men with chest hair, I sent this out to a couple friends with the tagline, "Look - I'm James*!". Self-deprication almost always puts people at ease - especially when you are wearing a T-Shirt with nipples on it.

*James is my boyfriend. Here is us last Sunday. Yes - those are Biore pore strips.

Shrek is S.A.F.H.

What is normal? From slight diversions from the norm in physicality, sexuality, and spirituality, how different is acceptable, and how “normal” should we even try to be?

My friend sent me an extensive definition (urbandictionary.com) on what a hipster is. The words ‘different’ and ‘unique’ were repeated as positive attributes of hipsters – their fashion, their music, and their attitudes towards the “mainstream”. Why the hate on the mainstream? Is everyone else missing out while they wear their Abercrombie tank tops and blast Wiz Khalifa on weekends?

As it turns out, the mainstream is much more warped than I previously believed. In a Marie Claire article on women’s “numbers” (the number of people they have slept with), women with numbers ranging from zero to 100 explained their outlook on sexuality and lifestyle.

You would expect the two extremes to be a bit nutty (in this case a religion freak and a woman who regularly attends sex parties), but the women with numbers somewhere in between seemed just as lost in the mainstream as the rest. Take a 30-something-year-old woman who has slept with 6 men, and has been in an 11-year relationship. Seems pretty normal, right?

Turns out, behind these numbers this woman is secretly more attracted to women, even though she has no intention of leaving her boyfriend – and the father of her two children. I guess normal is never so normal after all.

With some people- you get what you see. This makes things easy, but unfortunately these people are rarely worth knowing in the first place. While hidden issues or insecurities are rarely the winning scavenger hunt find, they are part of what makes people complex, and in that nature, just as normal as a self-proclaimed anarchist who shoe gazes in his spare time.

According to Shrek, “Ogres are like onions. Layers. Onions have layers. Ogres have layers.” “You know not everybody like onions. What about a cake? Cakes have layers.”

In this situation, Shrek is clearly a hipster. He realizes that many things in this world have layers to them, as do people, but he specifically is something not many people enjoy. He likes to think of himself as an acquired taste.

Donkey prefers the mainstream. Cakes are delicious, who doesn’t like cake? The cake might have something gross hidden on the inside, like carrots. But who would bother to hide anything bad in an onion?

A hurdle applicable to both my mainstream and hipster brethren is best worded by Donkey: “You’re so wrapped up in layers, onion boy, you’re afraid of your own feelings!” So don’t get fat on cake or let onions make you cry too much. Whether mainstream or not, people are people, so you better check yourself before you wreck yourself.

Everything is different and everything stays the same.

Going back to a place you haven’t been in a while is a great way to keep in check. Today, I went back to La Jolla Crack House (aka La Jolla Music on Girard), which I hadn’t been to since my awkward phase. It has been about 4 years since I picked up an electric, and I figured there was no better way to spend my new free time.

Stepping in was nostalgic, as the same exact people still work there. The French lady who runs the place is still a bitch (however less intimidating now that I tower over her), and the musty music sheets and overpriced instruments still adorn the walls that should have been replaced after the police busted the former owners. Down the long, narrow hall marked “Teaching Studios”, the buzzing fluorescent lights illuminate 12 doors, leading to four by four windowless closets with padded walls (hence, the crack house).

This store, the only one with barred windows in La Jolla, exists for me as a kind of time vortex. A parallel universe to the time track I normally run around, (Starbucks, Bishop’s, 7/11, Windan’ Sea lot, home, repeat.) and returning to my favorite teacher, Josh, was refreshing in a very musty way. The man has not changed in the last 4 years, and comparing myself to his constant existence elicited an expected but comforting realization – I have become the person I wished I was when I was last here. I am also exactly the same.

I am the same person with uncovered traits. As we grow, no one ever really changes. It doesn’t matter if one of my best friends used to wear pink and now has 9 piercings. She is the same, especially to me. People often mistake surfacing of personality traits as changes, but if we are truthful to ourselves those things were always there, we just didn’t see them.

This is the same with ourselves. We are always who we are going to be, from a very young age, if not conception. We will never change into different people. Circumstances change, and time destroys and builds some things along the way, but personalities are constant and (usually) pleasant in that nature.

So go and visit an old friend, or an old stomping ground if you need a good look at yourself, or a reminder of who you are through who you used to be.

Well this is awkward, or is it?

There has been an awkward overuse of the word “awkward” lately. The counter to this overuse is the introduction of the word “uncomfortable” as a synonym. While this is not only incorrect, my fear is because we lack the social skills to use the term “uncomfortable” in its real context, we will overuse it to the point where it has no meaning (i.e. “awkward”).

In certain situations, one may feel genuinely uncomfortable, yet social standard tells us it is awkward to say so. This is what I call the unkward cycle.

Example 1: A quiz is placed before you that you were not expecting. I’m sure this is an uncomfortable situation for you. You know it would be unwise to tell your teacher you are uncomfortable by your lack of knowledge, so instead you and the quiz feel awkward, simply staring each other down without much interaction.

Example 2: You are on a blind date. You feel uncomfortable because your friend has no taste, and set you up with Mexican Frodo. You feel uncomfortable by the situation, and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands as to avoid contact with said date. You can’t decide between folding your arms across your chest and leaving them at your sides. Your indecision leaves you with your arms retracted and writs dangling. You look awkward. And like a reptar.

The reverse unkward cycle: probably worse. This here is when the unkward cycle is paused, then flipped on its head. Now instead of feeling uncomfortable and acting awkward, you feel awkward and act uncomfortably.

Example 1: Your ex-boyfriend and his best friend walk into Mandarin House on Christmas day. Your entire family, excluding you, is sitting at the front table. Everyone feels awkward. This leads your mother to fake-invite them to your upcoming New Year’s party. She then retracts the statement when she realizes what she has done by claiming she knows something is on Facebook, but doesn’t know how to work it. She states she should ask your cousin, Lauren, how to use Facebook so she can be sure. Your cousin retracts into her seat and your mom avoids all eye contact. Ex-boyfriends, fake invitations, and fake generation gaps are all uncomfortable.

Example 2: Your dad wants you to go to Hawaii with him alone for his birthday. You aren’t sure if this is awkward or not, but instinct says yes. So, when asked if you will go, you turn to his wife and ask, “Why aren’t you going with him?” Silence. This is now uncomfortable for everyone, including the Chinese delivery guy.

(Note: Mandarin House Chinese food is inherently awkward. My fortune cookie told me “You and your wife will live a long happy life together.” My dad made me trade him for, “You are original and creative.” But what if I wanted a wife?)

Now that you are well acquainted with the unkward cycle, I call on you as citizens of society and social experiment (high school) alike to call out what is uncomfortable when an uncomfortable situation arises. Also, stop calling out when things are awkward. Do your best to remedy the situation, the old-fashioned way. This is the only way to stop the unkward cycle, and the endangerment of two, very important words.

Oh, the irony

The most misplaced word in the English language today is the term irony. Lemony Snicket explained it very well to me in one of his Series of Unfortunate Events books (The Reptile Room, to be exact), and everyone should be so lucky as to have him for an English teacher.

Lemony Snicket, aka Daniel Handler, defines dramatic irony as “when a person makes a harmless remark, and someone else who hears it knows something that makes the remark have a different, and usually unpleasant meaning.” This, my friends, is the best definition of dramatic irony I have yet to find.

Even though these are children’s books, by correctly using ironic devices in his narrative and also correctly utilizing dramatic irony throughout the plots, A Series of Unfortunate Events gave me my sense of humor - right after an uncle gave me my sense of claustrophobia.

After being shut in a suitcase and wheeled around the house by my drunk uncle (a different, but equally insane one), I retreated to my room and carried on reading a book about cursed orphans: a very normal hobby for a very abnormal girl of 11.

My history with the term aside, I think it should be made a point of in English classes to teach children what the words they hear on Family Guy actually mean.

For instance, when Fireman 1 notes, “These relaxing scented candles burned down the whole house!” Fireman 2 responds in a singsong voice accompanied by a fancy two-handed finger wag, “Irony!” False.

Since I couldn’t find a Snicket definition for regular irony, here is Wikipedia’s:

A statement that, when taken in context, may actually mean something different from, or the opposite of what is written literally; the use of words expressing something other than their literal intention, notably as a form of humor.

Not only is Fireman 1 not humorous but Fireman 2 is incorrect as diagnosing his comment as ironic, as Fireman 1 meant exactly what he said. This is unless, of course, Fireman 2 was trying to be dramatically ironic. But simple irony, it is not.

Another example of misuse (also involving fire) would be to say that the burning down of my grandparents’ house due to unattended Advent candles during a trip to Costco was ironic, but it was not. It was a sign from God that my step-grandmother should have stuck to being Jewish and saved her family the torture of that Easter weekend we spent 6 hours in church watching her conversion.

Lastly, post-irony, which you should also have in your irony arsenal, is a return to the sincere after the irony card has been played. I have been described as post, post-ironic before, but I could not tell you without a shred of sarcasm what that person meant.

P.S. The term you are probably looking for when something strikes you as oddly funny is sarcasm. It is a strain of humor, which sometimes employs irony, and is popular among hipsters, the clinically depressed, and Spongebob Squarepants (which upon reflection, can all be grouped categorically, as the hipsters are probably enjoying the bob with a flourish of post-irony).

Did'ja get yer tickets?

Laws passed in Arizona following the attempted assassination of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords are similar to California’s. Some believe that these laws create a myriad of inconveniences when purchasing a gun. In the words of Homer Simpson, “But I’m angry noowww.”

Lets break it down. Because of Brady Act, California has a 10-day waiting period between the purchase and delivery of a handgun after you have proven that none of the following apply to you (injury.findlaw.com):

1. Were convicted of a crime punishable by being in prison for more than one year;

2. Are a fugitive from justice;

3. Are addicted to, or illegally use, any controlled substance;

4. Have been ruled mentally defective by a court, or are committed to a mental institution;

5. Are an illegal alien living in the United States unlawfully;

6. Received a dishonorable discharge from the U.S. Armed Forces;

7. Renounced your U.S. citizenship, if you are a U.S. citizen;

8. Are subject to a court restraining order that involves your 'intimate partner,' your partner's child, or children; or

9. Were convicted of domestic violence in any court of a misdemeanor.

These rules are stupid. Here’s why:

1. My friend's dad went to a white-collar prison for three years for tax evasion. He needs a gun to protect himself from loan sharks. What now?

2. I am a fugitive from freedom. Can I buy a gun in the name of Communism?

3. I'm not addicted. I can quit anytime.

4. Since when do gun dealers make hospital visits?

5. If I'm an illegal alien, I'm not getting my gun from the government. My printed money doesn't even come from the government.

6. This one, I have to admit, makes sense.

7. Can I buy a gun in the name of Communism?

8. What if someone besides a former sex friend has a restraining order out on me? This thing can fire from 500 ft away, right?

9. Aw man. I wasn't gonna shoot her, just give her a good pistol whipping.

As a lifetime member of the NRA, the flaws in this system sadden me. Before you look at me strangely, the membership was a Sweet 16 gift from my uncle who thought I was getting too soft living in the city and needed some culture. He in turn refuses to “stick his big toe in mentally-ill, liberal California” because of the aforementioned laws that “infringe on my [his] 2^nd amendment rights.” Go Ducks.

Because of his Oregon residency, my uncle is able to go “domestic cat hunting” and breed dogs on his 10-acre lot. His doublewide trailer is home to a wide range of shotguns, handguns, rifles, Chinese throwing stars, nun chucks, and an extensive Under Armor wardrobe. Graveyard shift at a prison in Hermaston, OR, (“They call it medium security to keep the townspeople at ease, but it’s actually maximum security”) means that he is, in fact, nocturnal, so getting a call from him at 3 am in NYC asking editorial advice on the “post apocalypse survival book” he is writing didn’t come as a surprise.

Further grievances to settle: the NRA misunderstood my registration card. My ID now boasts an enraged bald eagle and the moniker “Tata Morales”. They refused to correct this vowel confusion when I brought the issue to the NRA’s attention. Tata’s for life.

143, 2?

143 as an abrev for “I love you” is lazy. But has the phrase itself become just as bad?

Today, it seems like people say ily to everyone they come in contact with. It has become a way to express even the vaguest appreciation for someone. Now, when a girlfriend says something funny, instead of acknowledging her wit, her friend will say “Hahaha I love you.” This looks odd on paper, but even I’m guilty of this miscommunication.

When I consider the people who I have said ily to, I think back and realize I really didn’t love most of them. ily has become so gratuitous that it slips easily, and once said in a fledgling relationship, it is difficult to ignore twice. Saying ily is easier than exploring your true feelings about someone, acknowledging specific personality traits or even coming up with a new topic of conversation.

“143 I make her say it when we sexing.” Ray J’s grammar aside, the truth in this statement is cringe inducing. The chemicals released by sex (dopamine, norepinephrine, and endorphins, to name a few) prompt both males and females to feel more intimate and attached to one another. This is dangerous; because it usually leads people to say things they might otherwise not. Proceed with caution if you find yourself wanting to post-coitaly 143 anyone.

“143 that’s what she sends me when we’re texting.” Texting makes saying anything easier. However, ends of texting conversations are often awkward, and a “love you” send off can seem fitting. Never text ily before you say it. Ever.

Next time you consider telling someone ily, really think about it. Would you die for this person? Do you want them in your life forever? If not, don’t bother. Come up with something more genuine to say, because honestly, I’m getting sick of 4.

bring on the leash babies

“Right now, you’re in a cozy, safe, car seat."

As my adolescent homestay reaches its close, my mother reminded me during one of her brynnalogues* that right now, “You can kind of lean your head to the side and pass out, but it’s not awkward, whereas without a car seat you would just fall over.”

I’m not sure if that last comment referred to my anticipated sobriety (or lack thereof) in college next semester, but this analogy got me to thinking, “Am I really in a car seat?”

As it stands, I am 18 years old, completing a progressively pointless high school career. I park in 2-hour slots and spend most of my time at 7/11, the bunker, and the gym. While my mom is generally permissive, I am reminded each weekend that my life is not quite my own when 11:30 pm rolls around and my Cinderella-clock-strikes-12-and-you’ll-turn-into-a-pumpkin-mouse anxiety kicks in.

That being said, as most of us seniors drive around in our cars, harming the environment with all sorts of carbon emissions (both fuel and fun related), we still have the vague sentiment that the people upstairs effect our decisions. I consider this last idea to be the proof that we are all leash babies in one way or another.

As much as it pains me to admit, I was once leashed. Not by my own parents, thank god. If you must know, my babysitter took me to a party at a house with a backyard on a cliff. When I was 2 years old. Clearly the sharpest knife in the drawer, she got nervous and bought me a leash so that if I did happen to become curious about the vast unknown I might be yanked back over the edge by a harness. Similar to the one I put on my 3.5 lb dog, Bear, so I can pull him out of harms way without choking him to death.

Leashes aside, it is important to recognize that no matter how hard you DGAF, there will always be a tug on your conscience. It’s there so you end up with more in life than an area code as a pronominal modifier.

* My mother’s name is Brynn. My brother coined this term sometime last Spring, as my mother likes to deliver her wisdom in drawn out speeches, often repeating herself with little room for interruption, akin to a monologue.

Pass the Tabasco - er, Sergio.

“Which other sultry Spaniard could this be?” he responded to my inquiry of identification. What a retort, from a hot tortilla of a man.

Besides the fact that I no longer sleep (and yes, I realize that as a second-semester senior, this news is blasphemy), my greatest hobby is now this blog. As is the case atm (at the moment), I am foregoing homework in order to blog. Specifically, to pay tribute to my biggest fan.

I was not aware I had any fans at all, considering I have 8 followers and one snarky comment to my name, but apparently my attempts at wit and my Sarah Palin–esque additions to the English language manage to light up the face of the spiciest kid I know.

Sergio Santamaria and I go back to freshman year. He was new, and I was literally the weirdest girl a new kid could hope to report about to his public school friends. One memorable encounter between Serg and I occurred in the Bentham locker area one fine afternoon when I decided my hair needed some revival. I entered an enclosed area-which I assumed to be empty-when I proceeded to bend over at the waist and vigorously flip my hair back and fourth (If only I had the foresight to make my routine into a hit single. And Will Smith was my dad.) My only guess at why I did this is I needed a volume lift. And yes, I now know they make products for that.

In the middle of my final flip, I caught view of a face in my peripheral vision, full of what can only be described as horror. This adorable Latino slice of love had witnessed what I had thought to be my private grooming session, and I felt nothing but pity for him. This was after only a few days into his first semester at Bishop’s, and by the looks of this small Hispanic boy cowering next to his locker and avoiding my gaze it was not going well.

The next day in health class: we watch with disgust as our dean of students meticulously peels a condom onto a ripe banana. Sergio finds a time to mention “Yesterday, I was getting a book from my locker, and I saw you come in but was too nervous to say anything. Then, I thought to myself, ‘Who is this crazy girl coming in here and flipping her hair all around?’” I didn’t really know how to take this but with a blush of the cheeks and a giggle of acknowledgement of my unacceptable actions, while internally vowing to discover a socially acceptable way to achieve voluminous locks.

Since that day, there has been only love between us. Sergio “Spice” Santamaria has charmed his way into my heart with his accent, his eyes, and his intuitive understanding of Shakespeare. This one is for you, Serg, do with it what you will.

Surprise me? I would rather have fries, thanks.

I hate surprises.

Scratch that. I hate surprises that aren’t surprises. I hate knowing something is coming my way, but not knowing what exactly – good or bad. I also strongly believe that if you aren’t a good enough secret keeper to completely blind-sight your best friend on their birthday, you have no business throwing them a party at all.

“Oh, nevermind. I was going to ask you something but I want to save it until next time I see you.” That is approximately 12.6 hours from now. I will obsess until then on what it could possibly be that is so earth-shatteringly important it needed to be spoken about in person – you know, in case the Russians are listening. I am not pleased with this heads-up, nor do I want one in the future. Similar to the way I would like to be kept in the dark when “people talk trash about me.” (If confused, view previous entry.)

UPDATE (3/5/11): You may only postpone an important question for later if you are wearing this shirt. Courtesy of Courtney Hoffman.

Even worse than a warning about what is sure to be an unpleasant future conversation is when someone says, “I’m so excited, I got you the best present ever!” Listen, I’m sure you’re excited about stepping up and being a decent friend once in a while, and you may have even gotten me a good Christmas present (albeit a few weeks late), but the thing is, you are setting yourself up for failure. What if it isn’t “the best present ever”? What then?

This is what: I stand there awkwardly with my mediocre gift, wishing you had instead jumped on my back like a spider monkey (or “squirrel monkey” according to Snooki), and thrust your poorly wrapped, nondenominational gift in my face while ordering me to unwrap it with the command and zest of a drill sergeant. All when I least expected you - much less, you bearing gifts. If that were the case, I would have been so shocked to receive a present at all that I would have been thrilled to open even a bag of trail mix. I would be taken aback by your anticipation of my eventual hunger and you would be thanked profusely for your thoughtfulness.

So the moral of the story is, if you are going to surprise me, don’t ruin it. And not only should you not ruin it by revealing your master plan to the receiver before its due time, but letting the receiver know anything is coming their way at all will only let their anticipation build to either intolerable anxiety (i.e. “that question”) or to an insurmountable level of expectation (i.e. “that present).

P.S. Also a bad form of surprise: online shopping. I have waited exactly 6 days for my $40 tank top from Urban Outfitters to arrive on my doorstep. (You would think a $10 shipping charge would get it there eventually.) This is why I never buy anything online. However, shopping was the best way I could see to spend my Tuesday at school last week, and I was excited at the prospect of a new shirt to wear out that weekend. Well folks, that weekend came and went, and still no sign of my tank top. And when it finally does arrive, it probably won’t fit. To be honest, I don’t even want it anymore. I told myself “the best gift ever” was on its way, and thereby successfully ruined any want of tank top I originally possessed with the anger of having to wait. (Note to self: you are not patient).

Formspring.sadism.me

Formspring: Found in the backgrounds of most teens computer screens, collects disease and filth hourly. Known to cause low self-esteem, distrust of your peers, and an itchy rash.

Why would anyone invite anonymous (really? Not even an area code?) people on a personalized website to confirm all of your insecurities? Why does anyone want to be asked, “how much do you weigh?” or to be told, “your a slut”? A better question is why does anyone respond to these cowardly and often misspelled (see above) insults?

Everyone knows that bullying is easy to do with the anonymity of texting and the Internet. Seriously though, if you know you are being bullied, why would you set up a website for people to do it more easily? What is our generation coming to if no one even wants to defend themselves, much less have any semblance of a private life?

The problem with technological advances in communication is that we are becoming more and more anonymous and public at the same time. No one really knows who anyone is, nor do they seem to care. Whatever happened to TPing someone’s house to send a message of distaste? Whatever happened to “that’s my business”? Nothing is private anymore, and you don’t even have to commit the sin of gossiping to get the juicy details – they’re advertised!

Facebook is another example of a website that offers no way to keep people in check. I’m not saying it is a good idea to know every person who looks at your Facebook page, but I would be much better behaved if I knew I was being held accountable for going through the old profile pictures of my ex-friend’s boyfriend’s college roommate when there is nothing better to do on a Sunday morning.

But back to the point. Is the point of Formspring to beat people to the punch? Does it hurt less if you know people think you do drugs and sleep around too much? Do you feel powerful getting to respond sarcastically to questions of your character?

For instance, I recently had a confrontation with a teacher in which after she berated me for being a rumored problem child, she said. “I like to know when people are talking trash about me so I can have a chance to prove them wrong.” I responded with, “Well I don’t like to know. So in the future, please don’t let me know.” She hasn’t spoken to me since, and I couldn’t be happier. Problem solved.

Whether the point of Formspring is to know precisely how your name is being dragged through the gutter at any given moment (judging by subsequent actions of almost anyone who has a Formspring, I doubt this to be the truth), or a public way of validating your insecurities, an announcement on Facebook that you have created a Formspring essentially reads like so: “Take your best shot. I don’t care who you are, I just want to hear how much you hate me.”

Formspringers: good luck. You are going to need it.

Love, Kyle (Vaginatime) Fjeldheim

to sit on my throne as the prince of bel air

(definitely just spent too much time writing this):

In North San Diego born and Raised
In The Ranch is where I spent most of my days
Chillin' out, maxin', relaxin' all cool
On facebook instead of doin' work for school.

When a couple of photos, they were up to no good
started comin' in up where my news feed should.

I saw these pics and my mom got scared
and said, "You're gettin' too mad
bout what you know Tate shouldn't wear."

I went to her page and when I got there
She was wearing a LJ High sweatshirt and was smilin' everywhere.
If anything I could say that this pic was rare
but I thought, "nah, forget it. Get mad, respond with more than a glare."

I pulled down the "post" button about 7 or 8
and i posted my work and said "Yo Tate, smell ya later"
Looked at my work it was finally there
pointing out what Tate knows she shouldn't wear.

♥

my friendly neighborhood 7/11

Seven Eleven, Twenty Four Seven,

On the corner of Nautilus and Heaven.

You boast the only white employee on the block:

My diet coke dealer, I need you ‘round the clock.

Double gulp please. We will mock you otherwise.

Go big or go home, even in the midst of night.

Groms sit outside. They sometimes ask for a ride,

More often than not down to Windan’ to check the tide.

Even on weekends, 7/11 is the place to be

Late night, every night whatever your needs.

Once I arrived with a friend speaking French,

They let us use the restroom then across the boulevard we went.

My dedication to you is so sincere,

I can never replace you, I hope you’ll always be here.

I came into this world 7 pounds 11 ounces,

And I want nothing more than a sign that pronounces

My love.

The sadest part of this ode is yet to come,

When I leave for college, I’ll leave not only La Jolla, but my home.

7/11 that is, and their 89 cent doughnuts,

But don’t cry for me, ‘cause I’ll be home for Christmas.

So about this star business

According to the Minneapolis Star Tribune, a natural change in the earth’s axis has overridden the current astrological system. The signs, they are a’ changing, and in this recession, I find toying with people’s emotions quite petty.

People are freaking out about losing a key part of their personality, and having to change their Facebook astrology subscription.

The realm of Cancer lost some good people, including some personal friends of mine, but perhaps they will be happy in their new home. No time to ponder what could have been. Move on! There are plenty more zodiacs in the sea - including some fresh meat I’ll get to later.

Personally, I completely agree with everything horoscopes say about my personality, but don’t waste my time on what they think about my Venus regression this month, as it sounds more like razor burn than some luck in the romance department. I believe that because I am such a true Cancer (homebody, relationship person, sensitive, moody, creative), July 20th was left alone.

Unfortunately however, my birthday is the new Gemini/Cancer cusp, and I belong to both signs. This is a problem. Some of my least favorite people have been Geminis (I’m sure it was more of a personal than a galaxy-wide issue), and I am upset to now be so closely associated with the twins. But it could be worse.

What’s worse: Everyone born between November 29^th and December 17^th now belong to the sign Ophiuchus. This, I refuse to believe. This change does not affect me in any way, and I know a few people for who this unpronounceable sign is probably a good match. But that would be difficult to say considering no one knows anything about it because the Star Tribune made it up.

Messing with the pop culture staple of personal horoscopes is highly unnecessary, and how anyone has the time to be bored with the Universes’ current state of being should take a minute to examine my tan line from today. It’s January. (It should also be noted that San Diego saw exactly 6 days of sun the entire summer). Talk about a precession change in axis.

"Go on, take a bite."

No, I’m not getting the iPhone for Verizion – and no, its not just because I’m poor.

First of all, Steve Jobs is a cashtitute. Apple gets to start the whole game over again with a different network. Verizion customers are 4 generations behind AT&T. If you wanted your phone to do everything but wipe your ass you probably already switched carriers. Or got a droid.

I am personally acquainted with someone who owns what seems like every possible Apple product, which I have renamed his CrackPad, CrackPhone, CrackMac, and CrackTouch. Why one person needs to own the bridge (iPad) between the iPhone and MacBook Pro when they already own both is beyond me. Also, I thought your phone was smart enough to store all your music. Why do you have an iPod that looks just like your phone? Do you get confused?

Case in point: Steve Jobs has made Apple products so appealing even my father wants an iPad. When he told me this I reminded him he doesn’t even have an email address. Whether Steve Jobs pulling people by their wallets into this century is his gift to a generation or his borderline criminal masterpiece is difficult to say.

On the other end of the spectrum, after my phone recently took a dive (9.5/10 points) into my green tea, I was introduced (by what used to be a friend before he made this suggestion) to John’s Phone. “The simplest phone in the world” can’t text, can’t go on the web, and has no caller ID. What kind of an accomplishment is that? My mother sold phones like yours in the 90’s. The John’s Phone comes with a free address book so you can frantically flip through your Rolodex (another invention I thought was extinct) to see if the person calling you is your date for Friday or your stalker. (Good luck figuring it out in time!) Going backwards is stupid. Even stupider than the thought of Skyping on a four inch screen.

I know my phone isn’t as smart as yours, but I like my enV 2. I like my keyboard with real keys because I taught myself how to type 72 words a minute in 3^rd grade. Also, I’m not coordinated enough to use a touch screen. Even the mouse on my new MacBook Pro startles me when it zooms without prompting. (A tip of the hat to Jobs for making colleges almost exclusively Mac friendly.)

Long story short: I like being smarter than my phone, but going retro is for hipsters.

better than sexting

Every day, after I skim my emails and Facecreep, I delve into my guiltiest and most public pleasure: texts from last night. Often read aloud in my house for maximum enjoyment, this website’s contributors have the ability to touch me daily with their highs, herpes, and dry heaves.

Truthfully, I feel for these people - and their livers. The texts involving family gatherings of any kind are always personal favorites. Dragging drunken mom, grandma, and 12-year-old nephew into the equation make for great character development. I like to think I understand these twenty-something’s who boast communications degrees from Michigan State and enjoy Taco Bell’s fourthmeal, so I care about the origins of their budding alcoholism and slutuality.

Sometimes I know exactly what these crazy kids are going through, and I feel cool for being on their level. Sometimes I have no idea what they are talking about and I feel cool for having retained most of my brain cells thus far. And sometimes, my real friends outdo the parenthetical area codes I have come to know, and that scares me the most (i.e. “My aunt put a joint in my sister’s stocking. She said it was fine though, cause it was, like, 30 years old”).

At first, I hoped to join this elite group of hardcore partiers, hand selected by an invisible jury, who, judging by the website, operate via a blackberry dangling from someone’s mouth. I giddily submitted a text of my own which I thought to be quite humorous. After an hour of refreshing the browser bar I realized I had been appropriately snubbed and I never submitted again, because, unlike FML.com, TFL.nu is a prestigious publication– and I don’t dare clog their inbox while better shitshows await their national debut.

The desperation these anonymous texters display in the midst of their one-night stands and public urination not only makes me feel better about my Saturday nine o’ clock turn in, but they also give light to my life. I can feel as if I had been the genius to put brownies and mousetraps on (330)’s front porch, without needing to wonder why half of (330)’s kitchen floor is missing. (Ohio has some issues).

I invite you to indulge irresponsibly in the entertainment TFL.nu offers. Browse the country by most embarrassing walk of shame. Vote whether (414) had a “Good Night” or a “Bad Night” after waking up to pictures of them barbequing wings with a blowtorch. Or, if you are like me, simply watch in awe from outside with your nose pressed against the glass.