It's important that I wander about barefoot, that the soles of my feet, soft and supple after a winter indoors, press upon the raw earth and feel its intensity as they become dirty and carelessly calloused again. It's vital that I stay true to my nature, which is not one of manufactured, sweet scents and scrubbed skin, but rather is filled with my own scent, the smell of my hair and my eternal insistence on lying on the ground, sitting on the floor, sprawling on the asphalt driveway, blissfully sprinkling the sun upon my skin and drinking the sounds of the twittering birds as if they were wine. I'm always dirty in the summer and my skin is always smudged in one place or another. Those who love me and know me best are familiar with my seasonal antics, and they adore me for it. They love the smell of the earth on my body, my crumpled, wild, thrown-together hair, my feet that glisten with indifference and the freckles that splatter upon my nose, my cheeks, my shoulders, and randomly about my bodice, marking me as fair, familiar, erratic and forever distinct.

Update:


-yesterday I talked to the professor in charge of DAAP admissions. He didn't really say anything, but I don't think I'm going to get in. Initially I burst into tears, but then realized that this might be my golden opportunity to go into a field in which there is more money. I was immediately consoled.

-I have two massive exams coming next week, both of which I've kind of already studied for. Kind of.

-This weekend I embark on a 3 day long road trip. Wish me luck.

-I have yet to finish catch-22.

-I think I'm developing a nervous disorder. I'm not particularly happy about this, but it would make a lot of sense if that is, indeed, the direction I'm heading. Who am I to resist fate?

-I am wonderfully broke at the moment. After the road trip and Bryan's birthday, I'll be riding that little line between red and black pretty damn hard. Huzzah.

-I want to write, I really do. I'm simply too busy, too worried, too unhappy with everything I do manage to write. Forgive me, my darlings, and take pity.


That is all.

The trick, dearest friend, is to spend one's time wisely. It sounds simple, and I suppose it might be, but if it truly sounds simple then I don't think I'm getting my point across. The trick is to spend your time in the most wisest of all ways possible, to conspire against the clock as if it were your worshiped, important yet neglected, sparkling little enemy, and brilliantly weigh in effort-to-return ratios with skill and slight doses of panache. Sometimes sacrifices must be made.

For example: popcorn.

I find nothing more laborious in the world than standing next to the microwave with my eyebrows pulled together, my head resting in clenched hands as I desperately struggle to decipher the pops and crackles coming from the contraption. I can never decide when it's done. The task is not as simple as the bright package claims it to be; the pops are never clear, the buzzing of the appliance muddles the vital translation, and right when you think one second has elapsed between pops a muffled fizzle rings through the air and leaves you completely confused.

The solution is a simple one: undercook the popcorn. Yes, the package states four minutes, but you risk scorching the delicious little morsels by following the vague directions. If one settles on a nice, round, three minutes, however, the task is accomplished! Half the bag goes uncooked, I realize, but I clearly stated that sacrifices must be made a couple paragraphs ago and now is the time to sacrifice, and popcorn kernels are the burnt offerings to be placed on the alter and offered. Don't be fooled by the popcorn button; the fate of any bag of popcorn subjected to the roughish popcorn button is too horrific to be mentioned here. Resist, my stallions! Do what must be done and under cook the damn popcorn.

Not that I know anything about cooking popcorn, mind you; I just tried said challenge and managed nothing more than a shriveled, smoldering burnt bag in which no corn was popped. I'm pretty sure I'm onto something with this three-minute thing, though, pretty damn sure....

“If you approach the problem and say, “We know what is right and we would like to use the atomic bomb to persuade you to agree with us,” then you are in a very weak position and you will not succeed, because under those conditions you will not succeed in delegating responsibility for the survival of men. It is a purely unilateral statement; you will find yourselves attempting by force of arms to prevent a disaster.”

-J. Robert Oppenheimer, head of the Manhattan Project and key creator of the atomic bomb.

*Sigh*. How incredibly profound. If only President Bush had taken a history class or two...

Oh irony, you heathen, you cur! You blasphemous, bitter little thing! How unexpected you always are...

I recently placed a bid on ebay for a Sony Ericsson phone. 2 days later I realized that phone numero uno had defied rhyme, reason, and the evil scheme of the cellular companies, and is now completely functional! I was told by every tmobile employee I visited that no, cell phones really aren't built to withstand a thorough hosing-down at the car wash. I believed them, set the little one to rest in one of my many purses, and proceeded to bid on a very pricey one.

So I now have one working phone, and one coming that I don't need (and can't really afford). And, you know, a $500 car insurance payment due on the 15th.

This will be fun.

I don't think I've ever been this happy with my body. Yes, an unforgiving arrogance has always dominated the personality I project, yet I've always had numerous qualms with the reflection the mirror gives me.

Now, however, the mirror bows before me. I've come into my own; my stomach is not completely flabless, but is toned; my frame looks a little more lithe, yet my curves persist gallantly. Swimsuit season no longer stands on the horizon and haunts me, but rather teases me as I wait. Bring on the swimsuits! Bring on flirty summer dresses! Bring on lavish summer fashions!

I'll be waiting.

Oh, I don't think I told you.

Elisse and I are back on good terms again. I'm extremely happy with this, because she's my best friend and I adore her dearly, and I need her, quite frankly. It's nice calling her up. Though our lives and the lives of others will transform in the most magnificent ways, wheeling and turning as the sidewalk spins out of control beneath them, there are a select few individuals with whom an unyielding connection will always stand. No matter the years that pass, if we come back to contact with these certain people, deep in the heart of the conversation we will find the familiar intonations and thoughts and spirit that were there before.

Magnificent, that.

Anyway, Elisse is in the midst of a messy break-up with Carter, and I'm worried about her. They are no longer together, but she will always feel a connection with him. Things will work out, she'll be fine, and she might even be able to enjoy cheesecake again in the near future, if all goes well. Until then I can do nothing but worry about her.

There are certain parts of this depthless society that confuse me; among these being the crusade against a woman's curves, pubic hair, and natural state in general. Though the former is a serious issue, one which ravages the country with eating disorders and the theft of female confidence, the latter can be seen as trivial but annoying all the same; who the fuck decided that a woman's pubic hair is a bad thing?

Is there no grace to the womanly fuzz that naturally dons the area? Does it not soften the figure as the stomach gently slopes to soft, rich, protective curls? Is there a reason we wish to erase the calculating characteristics that separate grown women from underdeveloped girls? Tell me, Howard Stern, askmen.com, select individuals guiding the societal trends, tell me: what is wrong with pubic hair? I am a vain woman, a very vain woman; I gleefully endure the harsh rituals of eyebrow-plucking, leg/armpit shaving, and hours of primping that are commanded by society's perception of femininity, and I do them because I appreciate the end result just as much as the men around me. The vain formalities listed above make sense to me, though I never fail to gripe about them. The ritual of Brazilian wax, however, confounds me completely; how is a naked, hairless vagina remotely enticing? I understand that trimming certainly has its aesthetic benefits, but robbing a woman entirely of her cushioning tuft seems completely illogical.

I am glad Bryan respects and adores a woman's natural beauty, because if anyone expects me to go a-shavin' the nether regions then they're out of their mind. Any woman who has the money and time to spend $150 and 3 hours a month at the salon desperately needs a hobby. Like scrap booking, that ironically enough, despite all its useless puddles of uselessness, is 5 times as productive as waxing.