vegas? vegas. vegas!!

Submitted by raymond on Tue, 09/16/2003 - 6:54am

asleep in a cloud
distant sounds mingle with dreams
no thoughts, just annoyed

phone. fifteen fucking minutes before the alarm. "we got on the list for Rain. we'll need to be at there in about 12 hours. everything okay?" good god damn grumble mumble ramble scramble scribbled notes "we'll be fine." and sleep. alarm? no. anticipation hoists my still sleeping body out of bed. flurries of assorted fabrics leave me dressed. I assume I'm wearing underwear; still sleeping body can't remember the last time it put any on. a quick reshuffle of the duffles and an endless stream of "oh yeahs" before we're in the car and off and on again? wait. grocery store. I feel like a mouse in a maze poking around the Fry's. this it? this it? no. no. no. yes! mmmmm, cheese. "cheese" spelled "a-l-c-o-h-o-l." and we're off again. bouncing along to the bass.

still bouncing as we hop to a stop at the red light. and the red light. and the red light. and the red light. perfectly timed red lights. exquisite. bravo. encore. and encore. I am eternally grateful for the opportunity to enjoy each and every light along the way. I also love traffic. the pick-up truck with the camper edges away and back and away again. wait, "love" wasn't the word I was looking for. another hour of edging along finally cuts us free as if the divine hand that was pulling the little car back finally let go. at last, at long last, we zip along blurred seas of brown and blue mountains majesties.

phone. "making sure you're okay. worried. club in six hours? call back."

is that the turn? no. maybe. yes. maybe. no. there it goes. fuck. it was yes. I should never be allowed to navigate for road trips because I am the truly remarkable. we begin to fade and drift as the distance takes its toll. an endless strip of road glides by as we chase the setting sun over a hill until over the hill, we arrive at night, Vegas.

millions of specks of light give the impression of some great fluffy blanket thrown against the dark landscape. maybe, it looks nothing like a blanket. maybe, I'm just tired. as we ease into the city, we see the Lights distinct from the lights. the Lights draw us closer. the mother of all will o' wisps. you can practically hear them in the distance. hypnotic Lights so bright, they pipe excitement directly into the brain. as the Lights get closer, the pipe gets bigger as do the eyes to accommodate. eyes widen mesmerized maddened mind entwined by the Lights. a steady trickle of people pools at corners and doorways along the sidewalk. the Lights draw us closer. fickle trickle turns to teeming stream turns to a sliver of a river. we round the bend and find ourselves on the Strip amidst a flood. noise. cars. carousing. people. the Lights. flurries of movement. swearing. swaying. swaggering. the senses have declared a coup. stimuli flock through eyes and ears screaming "process me! for I am remarkably interesting!" the brain quits, storms out, slams the door behind it.

frozen fireworks
I pause to remind myself
"not epileptic"

phone. "an hour." out of the flood and into the concrete santuary of a parking structure. check in. Imperial Palace. pastel paradise to soothe sore senses. eyelids and mind are drooping. drifting. the brain slinks back in and takes a nap under a table. life is no longer a movie, but a succession of snapshots.

old woman's eyes glazed
turned to stone by flashing lights
lost another dime

phone. "20 minutes." sleep nearly drowns me in the shower in drizzle and drool. bleary eyed, but well-groomed and scented we're introduced thirty minutes later. hello. hello. names enter and leave the mind effortlessly. a courtesy pause. we smile blankly at our new friends for a moment. sorry, nothing clever to say except "isn't this wonderfully awkward?" and "shall we?" and much scurrying ensues. we find ourselves folded and stuffed into a backseat and the car scurrys along, diving to and fro, between cars and through yellow no red red red light. exciting. the Lights have lost their hypnotic power to the sudden jolting of the car. each swerve snaps our attentions to the honking frames of angry metal that we narrowly miss or that narrowly miss us. we arrive at the Palms intact, albeit slightly soiled.

unmediated reality slaps the brain awake. reality is so overwhelming that everything seems distant; another series of snapshots. I am a homunculus within a homunculus. another flood. milling about to find our people. our Virgil. lines. crowds. messes of grinning bliss, self-important strutting peacocks, those at home in chaos and those completely lost. everyone is looking around with exaggerated non-chalance or unabashed wonder. this dreamland highlights people's underlying reality. their values, their insecurities, their otherwise. I think I need better shoes. Noise. every thought, sight, move is underscored by ubiquitous bass not unlike a heartbeat. hello. hello. a single name remains: Phil. rhymes with Virgil. he will take us In. we are lead to the source of the Noise. lines and crowds hover near. flashes of cash pull us past. past the lines to the door itself. the door to the Noise. waiting. brain is awake and amused and made slightly stupid by the Noise. I feel like nodding to random people I don't know. they are looking around at me looking at them. I am very important person. I would nod if I were wearing better shoes. flashy bands make it official; I am told that I am more than very important person. very important persons cannot go where I am allowed blah blah blah blah blah crammed into a creaking elevator. all awhile the Noise pulls us closer. the doors open, the Noise spills in. a throbbing scented mess of fabric, hair, and skin spills out. twisting, bobbing bodies and flashing lights. and here our story begins.

ants dance on sugar
chaotic swarming frenzy
Rain is the picnic

haiku for a party drink

Submitted by raymond on Wed, 08/27/2003 - 12:48am

30 cans of beer
8 cans of juice concentrate
handle of vodka

alone, each is ass
together, remarkable
not unlike voltron

refreshingly strong
surprisingly refreshing
even chicks dig it

happily drift away
think fugly is beautiful
feel the spinning world

more quips

Submitted by raymond on Fri, 08/08/2003 - 5:43am

"yeah. so now I'm just surfing the web looking for laptops."
"sweet. I was shaving... I feel like I'm in an ant farm"
"bug problem?"
"no. I don't know. I'm shaving. you're looking for laptops... we must look so boring to some higher being. it'd be nice to do something that would make their version of the discovery channel."

"if I ever started to get fat, I'd go all out. I'd get like sumo fat."

"me saying that I can beat you up is like a non-poisonous snake flashing it's bright colors. it's all for show."

"heaven has three things: bean burritos from mexican taco carts, blue bubble gum ice cream from water and ice and this mint mousse. [to the plate] congratulations mint mousse, you've made it into heaven."
"what makes the bean burritos so good?"
"lard. slabs of lard. I like to think of lard as a piece of fluffy white cloud that puts a little bit of heaven into every burrito."

"I don't know what to do about it."
"I recommend casual sex."
"that's what you recommended for tonsillitis! you aren't an MD!!"

"I may not live well, but at least I don't have to work to do it."
-- character from Slacker (note: not Slackers.)

statement of intent for AAJ

Submitted by raymond on Thu, 07/31/2003 - 12:45pm

this is the statement of intent that I wrote for an application to the Academy for Alternative Journalism. given that all I do is watch movies and listen to music (some video gaming sprinkled onto the mix), I thought it might be entertaining to try to write for an alternative news weekly like the Chicago Reader or the Phoenix New Times; the Academy is funded by these papers and conducts an intensive summer writing program at Northwestern's Medill School of Journalism. I thought it sounded pretty cool, so I gave it a half-assed shot. I managed to scrape together about five "articles" (including a few rants from this site), threw in some random commentary and sent the mess off. despite having virtually no experience in writing for a "real" paper, I ended up placing within the top 30 of a couple hundred applicants. unfortunately, they only take ten people. so endeth my foray into journalism. weeee.

"A journalist... enjoys a license to be educated in public; we are the lucky ones, allowed to spend our days in a continuing course of adult education," wrote Bill Moyers in his introduction to the book "The Power of Myth." This statement provides the foundation for my interest in the field of journalism. To me, journalists are inquisitive by nature, ever seeking to better understand their communities and their environments and driven to spread their findings. During the short time I wrote for NYOU, the Daily Northwestern's magazine, I was struck by how attuned the editor was to the events of the city and the world, and how he sought to be an active participant in the community and to further explore Chicago. To me, this was nothing short of a new methodology of living in a vibrant city; one of curiosity driven exploration, rather than passive drifting. One of feeling a part of something greater, rather than feeling like a simple spectator.

It was quite easy and very appealing to dig a warm snug hole to hide in during my first years at NU. Half a country away from anything familar, I was bewildered by everything from the mass-transit system to the weather. I came from Phoenix; I believed that the sun never disappeared for more than a few days, that the time didn't simply jump ahead for an hour then back after a few months and that by "mass-transit" people meant "car-pool". Needless to say, I felt it would be a good idea to spend some time getting my bearings. I had a safe batch of similarly disoriented friends who preferred to tip-toe into well-controlled situations rather than plunging headlong into the unknown. For awhile, we made calculated but limited expeditions into the city until I found that I was in my last year of school, about to move away, still unable to come up with more than a handful of sites to show off to visiting friends.

The sudden desire to explore the city coincided neatly with my sudden interest in journalism. A close friend wrote for Arizona State University's magazine, and she bounced article ideas off of me so often, I started looking into Chicago for ideas just to keep the discussion from being so one-sided. I figured that participating in my school's paper would aid in the endeavor, but I definitely did not expect to become so inspired.

Understand that despite growing up in Phoenix, it was no more "my city" than a hotel room would be "my home." The culture itself supports this; the average time people will spend in a neighborhood is about 6 years. It's easy to exist in Phoenix for a number of years watching people pass through, occasionally looking to the city for entertainment between work and sleep. I found myself unable to keep this sort of detachment with Chicago. Hunting for new things to do, talking to friends about the city, simply skimming through the Reader all led to a larger sense of pride and belonging. This coupled with the discovery of underground scenes that have existed for decades gradually transformed Chicago into more than just someplace I spent nine months out of my year. It so enriched my experience, it grew to become part of my identity. I began to wonder if a more vibrant culture lay within Phoenix as well.

Curiosity fuels exploration fuels the desire and necessity for action. I experienced the exhiliaration of expanding an awareness of my community and of my place within it. This intoxication was contagious; I caught it from my editor and from my ASU friend and I hope to pass it on to others. I hope that my writing would inspire the same mix of pride and curiosity in readers as was inspired in me. On the surface, my interest in journalism is based upon an interest in furthering my education of the city I choose to live in. But beyond that, it is based upon an interest in finding a place in the place that I live; allowing where I live to be more incorporated with my life.

Adaptation

Submitted by raymond on Wed, 07/16/2003 - 12:09am

coverThe first line of my review of Adaptation necessarily establishes the fact that the review will be self-referential. Adaptation is basically about Charlie Kaufmann's struggle to write an adaptation of a book which ends up becoming the movie. Therefore, like Escher's famous drawing of hands drawing hands, the review of the review of this movie is intended to be the review of the movie itself. The unfortunate consequence is that for the rest of the review I appear to be revelling in my own brilliance. From this point on, the review is nothing but wandering and shoddy praise of Kaufmann's amazing writing through attempted imitation. Whereas Adapation is an exquisite mindfuck, not unlike an onion within an onion within an onion eating itself, my review is an unorganized and incoherent mish-mash of onion flavoring; more unintentional mockery than imitation.

After an ambiguous introduction, this piece meanders on to an attempt at humor by making a rather stupifying tangent about the nature of people and their interest in psychology. Instead of discussing how the movie brilliantly taps into the incessant chatter that constitutes a neurotic stream of consciousness, my review notes that the inside of a person's head is completely different from an idiot Psych 101 drop-out's "What Women Want" perception of how people think. For whatever the reason, these poor bastards think that reading minds would be a fascinating and intriguing ability to have. They have a delusional substitute teacher's hyper-romanticized concept of a classroom filled with well-behaved uniformed children. Maybe in some way, they imagine that they will be able to query these children in an orderly fashion on various subjects before having a good laugh and spending the rest of the day quietly coloring.

I wish. Irritating levels of neuroticism and paranoia make the inside of my own head fucking noisy. It's like an unruly elementary school classroom. "I want a donut", "Can we have recess?", "I have to go to the bathroom", "Timmy's trying to eat the rabbit", etc. etc. My own mind drives itself nuts; I can't imagine trying to be a substitute teacher without at the very least being armed with a cattle prod.

Kaufmann understands this. His writing perfectly and humorously depicts the process and internal monologue that accompanies a losing battle with writer's block, incessant awkwardness with love, and the poignant flailing of humans trying to find passion in this world. Adaptation is funny, tragic and all too familiar. My review focuses not on this, but on trite non-sequitors while failing in its endeavor to convey the understated novelty of Kaufmann's work. As if mesmerized by my own cleverness, I only briefly discuss the elements that make Adaptation so remarkable and entertaining. Kaufmann's fantastic writing receives only spotted and underdeveloped attention, there are random self-deprecating remarks instead of an explanation of the elaborate plot and finally, a discussion of the touching depth of the movie is entirely neglected in favor of a fruitless joke involving a cattle prod. Nicolas Cage's hilarious performance as both a gangly loser genius and a clueless optimist is also only mentioned in passing.

This review is not unlike a funny idea to a bunch of drunk and completely unfunny idiots. It should've been aborted and left as an idea and a slightly unpleasant memory rather than conceived as an actual shrivelled, deformed and largely retarded review. Such ridiculousness is only compounded by my smug sense of accomplishment. But, don't let this egotistical crap-fest of a review deter you from seeing the movie. It's fun for all shapes and sizes.

sobriety is obnoxiously overrated

Submitted by raymond on Mon, 06/23/2003 - 10:11am

last week, I spent a bit of time hanging out in Chicago with a few friends from NU. I had some other stuff I was supposed to do out there, but well... whatever. rather than trying to come up with a clever post about the trip and then getting distracted and never finishing it (as I am rumored to sometimes do), I figured I'd just put up a couple pictures of assorted tables with some of the more memorable quotes.

yay, perfunctory introduction.

"if I make it out of this city without getting a heart-attack, I'll be surprised and slightly disappointed."

"you can't compare handcuffs to a 37" electro-studded cock."

"I feel like wearing my cap and gown out to a bar some night."
"you should rob a store in your cap and gown."

"there's something undeniably sexy about a girl who can work a nail gun."

"I liked flagstaff. except for the hippies. it constantly looked like a widespread panic concert."
"like a phish concert just waiting to happen."
.....
"don't you realize that you have to take a damn shower every once in awhile? you can't just drench yourself in patchouli oils all the time."

"that was funny in a 'boy I'm glad that wasn't my money' kinda way."

"I'd be pretty fucking sad if I were raped by a dog."

"the night has officially started; we are listening to supertramp."

"what is that?"
"celery."
"why did you carry that here? [a bar]"
"it's healthy."
"oh."

"we should get them together for a steel-cage passive-aggressive death-match."

"they should have ninja moving companies. it'd be awesome if you woke up in the middle of the night tied up in the corner with all your furniture missing."

"is it awesome like having a girl dig you is awesome?"
".... to a dork, maybe."

"how long have we been drinking?"
"what the fuck time is it?"
"midnight."
"...about nine and a half hours now."
"I'll drink to that."

"my lab studies early universe structures."
"I thought first there was nothing, then there was God. what's there to study?"
"god showed up like 15 minutes later. he was like 'jesus christ, I'm late again.... hey, that's a pretty cool name.' "
" 'I think that's what I'll call my son. then, I'll kill him.' "
"thank god I'm an atheist."

"I'll drink to the increasing probability that we'll be kicked out of here before our pizza arrives."

"have you ever driven through new mexico? it looks like it was hit by an atomic bomb or something."
"well... it was..."

"can I have some of your water?"
"sure. that's just a coldsore, right?"
"....asshole."

"phoenix looks like it's just there to hold a bunch of golf courses together."

variations on a theme by kaufman

Submitted by raymond on Tue, 05/27/2003 - 8:27pm

"All is ephemeral, both what remembers and what is remembered"
-- Marcus Aurelius


I felt like the luckiest guy in the world to be able to be there, sitting across the table from her. Having pancakes in the middle of the afternoon of all things. I wanted to save that moment. Right there. Right then. I wanted to capture the essence of it, to put a label on it and file it away for the next time I needed it. I wanted to remember each feeling, each thought, each and every detail. I wanted to save whatever the hell it was that made me feel so good. I wanted to fold the comfort I felt upon itself and delicately set it aside so I could wrap myself in its warmth the next time I faltered.

Our plates arrived under piles of starch and sugar and other manifestations of pure goodness. Magnificence. Her eyes, nose, mouth were all a titter with the barrage of sensations. Her face glowed as she prodded the various concoctions in anticipation. She shot me an excited smile with raised eyebrows that said, "Do you see this? Doesn't it look great?" She looked back down and wrinkled her mouth as she concerned herself with how best to begin. Her delicate features furrowed as she considered how much and how quickly she could shovel food into her mouth while maintaining a level of daintiness.

She looks up at me. "Is this about me?"

"No. Sorry."

I'm not sure if she believes me. She pouts in mock disappointment. She is very pretty. She has these incredible eyes I keep getting lost in. Occasionally, I forget to keep my mouth closed when I look at her. "It's good. I like it so far. You're such a good writer."

"Not really. I'm stuck." I just saw Adaptation. Kaufmann got stuck. Then, he wrote about being stuck. That was pretty cool. I could be cool. But, I remember that annoying kid in junior high who wrote an essay about how he had nothing to write about and thought he was novel and clever until his teacher failed him as an object lesson to the other kids who were thinking about trying to be novel and clever. That kid was not cool. I don't want to be that kid again.

"Well, did this actually happen? You could write about how it actually happened."

"Not really. I have all these false starts and random snippets leading in directions I don't want to take it. Here's a piece I think I want to use, but I'm not sure." She looks down at the laptop. I try not to stare at her neck. I can never concentrate all that well when she puts her hair up. She is very pretty. I stare at my coffee instead. I take a sip and end up staring at her lips. Her mouth is slightly opened as she reads.

I was smiling like an idiot. There was something about the way she optimistically poked at her food. Something about seeing her enjoy herself. I want to say this something was "cute", but "cute" doesn't make me want to climb across the table to kiss her. "Cute" doesn't saturate me in pleasant memories. Lying in bed together on lazy Saturday afternoons. Walking down a quiet street. Her standing very close to me for a moment before kissing my neck.

"This is nice," she says without looking up. I chuckle. She smells good. What is it? Lotion? Perfume? It's intoxicating. My mind struggles for something witty to say.

"Yeah." Idiot. My mind slaps witty-things-to-say neuron for being incompetent. The neuron blames the perfume.

I felt pained. Some dull indescribable ache that for so long, I couldn't understand. The sight was a reminder of what no longer was and what no longer could be. The pain was the longing I felt for those days, the days of such simple contentment. Pancakes in the middle of an afternoon. That moment came so easily. Why did we live with such strained irritation? Hesitation. Distraction. Our moments reeked of effort. What had happened?

"What?" she asked. I had barely touched my food.

"What what?" I replied. This was how we now solved our problems; staring contests. Seemingly casual jousting over a torrent of emotions. I couldn't flinch first. I couldn't be the one to say "I need you. I love having you in my life" because if she didn't feel the same way, it would just be...

"No really, what?" She lowered her fork and knife as she looked at me with increasing interest. I may have been holding my breath. Her brow furrowed just slightly and she cocked her head to one side in an attempt to read the thoughts that are thrashing about in my mind. I felt my thoughts starting to etch themselves into my forehead. She still wasn't sure whether she should be concerned or amused, but this was a staring contest I was going to lose if I didn't come up with something quickly.

"I..." want to tell you that you're beautiful. am enjoying myself. need you. wish things worked out. am thrilled to be here with you. wish I bought roses for you today. don't know what to say. "... have something stuck in my teeth."

She touches her lips. "Aw. That's kinda sad," she says. She sits for a moment still looking at the screen. Thoughtful. Re-reading passages. She's very pretty. We're sitting very close together. Every breath I take is filled with her scent. What voodoo is this? I can't think straight to save my life. Is it my turn to speak? She says, "It's good though. How does it end?"

"I don't know yet. I have a few ideas..."-- none of which are coming to mind at the moment. I'm scrounging about for words. My mind is furiously slapping neurons. This feels familiar. She looks at me again. I am lost again. She bites her lower lip and smiles. Our faces are very close together.

"What?" she asks again.

Tell me what you think. Tell me how you feel. Tell me something has lingered. Tell me you've moved on. Tell me you miss getting pancakes too. Tell me something. Anything. "Nothing."

this raises a few questions

Submitted by raymond on Tue, 05/20/2003 - 1:09pm

Shit. The goddamn remote wasn't opening the car door. No real surprise, but this is a problem. If the remote doesn't open the door, the car doesn't start. This is a "feature" of my new car. I walk back into the gym and ask the guy at the front desk for a screwdriver to crack open the remote with. I don't really know what I expect to find; maybe a big switch on the inside that says "work / fuck up." Then, I could say, "Oh that's what the problem is, it's set on 'fuck up.'" Then, I could flick the switch and be on my way. Truth be told though, I already know what's wrong. What's wrong is I am an idiot.

"Lock your keys in your car??" The guy at the desk looks a little twitchy. His eyes dart toward the parking lot. It's 3 am. My car's the only one out there.

"Something like that. The remote doesn't work. I dropped it into the pool."

"You dropped it into the pool??" His eyes dart toward the pool.

"No. I went swimming with it in my pocket, but it's basically the same thing."

The remote comes apart. Alas, there is no "work / fuck up" switch, just a few droplets of water. Evidence that I am a complete moron.

"That sucks man I locked my keys in my car once too see last week these two hot chicks asked me if I wanted to jump in the jacuzzi with them..."

And he was off. Telling one story after another with a fervor that only a few cans of red bull and the prospect of a menage a trois could generate.

a day in the life

Submitted by raymond on Mon, 05/05/2003 - 1:57am

get a life, you degenerate hippie

Submitted by raymond on Tue, 04/08/2003 - 11:59am

I'm sure many of you have mothers like mine. My mother flips out whenever I mention the mere possibility that friends hinted at a passing interest in coming over. Suddenly, the house becomes this embarrassing shit-hole that must be cleaned up right away. Nevermind that just a moment before, we were happily mucking about watching American Idol in our embarrassing shit hole. Nevermind that most of us are too busy living interesting lives to wonder about what an atrocity we live in. Nevermind that the by-product of interesting lives is sometimes necessarily strewn about from the living room up to the bed rooms because of sheer absent-mindedness and / or laziness. Nevermind all of that. Years of indoctrination trained me to believe that I lived in shameful squalor, but only when friends were about to visit.

This is in some way connected to why I'm posting right now.

A couple more people found out about the site. They'll be arriving shortly to replace, but subsequently join the legions who have come to understand the futility of checking the site regularly. In the meantime, I feel like there should be some content to greet them. something akin to trying to delude friends that I don't actually live in a sty, I guess this content is an attempt to delude new readers that this site isn't completely devoid of anything of interest. So, here is content in all its brilliance. It's a stretch, but we'll see how it works out.

Given no subject to write about, I usually touch on a little topic I call "the fucking hell I'm up to." Unfortunately, with no job, no school, no girlfriend and no jobless, schooless, and girlfriend-less friends, most of what I've been up to can be summed up with a single word.

Dick.

Should be a short post. (Here at blinkingtwelve, we like to slather the innuendo on pretty thick.) But contrary to popular belief, dicking around upwards of 90 hours a week takes quite a bit of planning. Keeping myself busy until friends get off work, bothering groups of friends in shifts so no one group gets too annoyed with me, hitting different coffee shops at different times of the day so the employees and regulars don't catch on to the fact that I actually have absolutely fucking nothing to do, and good lord, finding enough things to do to stay busy but nothing that takes too much work-- heaven forbid I get so bored that I'm forced to find another job-- this is all very complicated, and yet I rarely ever get any sympathy for all the effort I exert to keep myself properly entertained.

How do I do it? Mostly through your standard means of wasting time; sleeping too much, reading, watching healthy amounts of tv, driving from location to location during rush hour, exploring new coffee shops and bookstores, watching an ungodly number of movies, hunting for CD's, bothering friends, being a mallrat, etc. Ultimate frisbee league has started up, so practices and games take up a few days a week. I also just joined a gym, so all that running around doesn't make me any more scrawny than I already am. Shih-tzin giggles kinda stuff. Outside of all of this, I've been hanging with a friend at his work for rigorous four-hour sessions of Halo about every other day. (My friend works in a store people rarely go into, in a mall people rarely visit. Somehow, he manages to get paid upwards of $12 / hr....) I figure that as long as I'm unemployed, I might as well be developing a skill.

All these activities break up the monotomy of a regular week, but they aren't really enough to tide me over for the long term. Thankfully, I've had a few other things come up to break up the months. I flew to Denver, met up with my sister, bought and took her car. The fun part was I got about a fifteen minute lesson on how to drive stick and had to wing it back home after a few days of being snowed in. A few weeks ago, a friend of mine pointed out that being as to how I wasn't doing anything at all, I might as well be an advisor for a camp. I ended up spending much of the week telling high school kids to shut the hell up and things of that nature. Coming up on the radar, there looks to be a few out of state ultimate frisbee tournaments, I still have a stash of stuff in Chicago that I need to figure out what to do within the next month or so, I promised some east coast friends that I'd be out to visit and in a few months, I need to house-sit for a friend of mine who happens to live in paradise.

So the bulk of my time is spent chillin'. This is perhaps how I give most people the impression that I am a complete fucking waste of space. During conversations people often search my face imploringly for some semblance of a higher desire or drive or some impression that I'm looking to get on with my life... whatever the fuck that all means. People get this look bordering on desperation whenever I shrug in response to the words "career" or "grad school." More and more they scrunch their raised brows at me in a way that says, "Fucking Christ, you couldn't possibly be this shallow, could you?"

Of course not. But, I've rambled on for long enough about how I waste my time. How I existentially redeem myself will be the subject of another post.

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