Homework

Tell me about your day

I pinched myself today--that old trick. Then, I thought, it only works because of the acute surge of nervous orgasm for one second. In that second, my brain twitters out of my nose and onto the student desk or the dashboard or the cutting board and does this song and dance: "It's purely psychological! Yeah Yeah Yeah!" while kicking up its gray legs and swashing its gloved hands in a jazzy form. My brain knows forms, but not ideas.
So, after that second was over, I felt the lack of lucid feeling I've been feeling for a while, Doctor, er, I mean, (fellow pedestrian stream-lining Forbes Avenue at 8:10 pm trying to walk home from work before the beggers come out.)
Auras are high, but gray tinted and illuminated with moldy fuzz. It could be as delightful as a Civil War sweetheart photograph on bended metal in the back pocket of a dead drafted kid, doesn't matter if he's blue or gray, because, at this point, all is an isolated gray from bleeding and blending, there is no North and South. They can't be auras...
Time is in a bad dream. When I sleep, I'm always late for job interviews, beginnings of semesters, and birthday parties. Time is a banshee laughing five times faster than a New York business person can drink coffee. I never win in my dreams: man's sadist struggle against nature--
Time.
In so called waking life I have similar experiences with time, but time also simultaneously moves like molassus in January. "Molassus in January" is something Ashley said once, oh, I don't know when. I say then, when I meet this paradox at the vicious lines out West, that time can't really exist then. If I wear a watch and eat grilled cheese at 12:15, the world is a watch. But, I was at The Point, I saw and didn't see, and so on. So, I can't live in a watch if time doesn't exist, because I didn't eat at 12:15 when the watch clicked, because the watch never clicked...
I spent sixteen oh four today. I came home and opened the jeweled case and realized I never saw a price tag and didn't recall putting three ninety six in one of my pockets. We opened them like packages of sweaters on our 23rd Xmas morning. I am undecidedly back $16.04.

October!

It has been brought to my attention, recently, by myself, and slightly others, but mostly myself, being that I am usually sickly self aware, that I have been pacing and fleeting about back and forth everywhere like a crazy girl. Note the record number of commas in the last sentence.

Well, It's almost October, and (which I can't help but say "and the leaves are stripped bare of all they wear, what do I care...") and October is the best month of the whole entire Roman calender 12 month year. Perhaps in some other universe where lunar calanders rule, October is not the best month, but for purposes now, it is, oh how solarly it is.

Yesterday had the first taste of autumn weather in the air, and it made me quite excited. Soon there will be red, orange, yellow, brown leaves, 21st Birthday and birthday in general!, blue lemonade skies (like NOW), smell of jack-o-lanturns that includes all of Halloween, and even Donnie Darko Days.

So, I promise, Angela, to buck up, clean my contacts a little better. Which reminds me, I ought to go to the eye doctor. My contacts always seem to dry and cloudy lately, and all I see is slightly blurier images of what I would normally see, with white auras. Perhaps there is too much computer staring-at, which does give me a headache. Sleep is fine and good, perhaps it's just the change in weather making my eyes all wacky like.

Whether I can see or not, I have a list of Things To Do. Mentally at least. I should mark everything down on a Post-It and stick it on my aquarium, while I watch the pinkyorange fish with their big black bug eyes blub blub with nothing else to do. I always thought animals did nothing but think enourmously deeply about things us people think about to an extent, that animals just understand a little further than we can. But, now I can only limit that to at least cats and dogs, or my cat and dogs I know for sure. Fish, I think they just bleet bleet their thin fins and wait for food to trickle down. I would like to be a cat, but not a fish.

I would like to be the little girl I observed while I was on my break a little while ago. This girl, may have been about 12, skipped on into the library to return something, her long wavy dark blond hair bouncing around, completely oblivious to -just stuff, I assume. She wore a light blue turtle neck and jeans and saddle shoes. I wish I were her, in that very second hopping up the steps to the library. But, I suppose that could be not much different than floating around waiting for freeze-dried worms to trickle down into my fishy mouth.

In context...

Though, in context this phrase is meant to mean something else, I thought it was nice on its own,

"To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love..."

It's from Pride and Prejudice.

Back in the Saddle Again!

Boy, am I bored.

School starts on Monday!

But, for now, it's back to back episodes of Rosanne on WPN.


Hmm, what should I wear for the first day of school? In elementary school I used to pick out what I was going to wear and have it all sitting out ready for the next day. It usually was a dress my mom splurged on. Like, the one with the pink skirt and the bubble design on the bodice. Bodice? I suppose that's the right word. It seems a little too racey of a word for a elementary school dress. Anyhow,

school starts on Monday and I am excited to have something to do instead of watching sindicated sitcoms on cable TV.

Cut a rug--

Yep

Take the quiz: "Which'>http://www.zenhex.com/quiz.php?id=2424">"Which Pop Princess are you?"

Cristina
CHRISTINA!You are dirrrty! You have one power-house of a voice, but are often questioned about how far you take you sexuality.

Corey Feldman

I had a dream last night where my brother and I were in the car with my mom, and it was raining outside. (Meanwhile, it later switched to us driving through what seemed to be a wormhole, but I think that's because I read and watch too much about time travel and other nerdy things...)

So, we were in the car and we were talking about fate. Allan was describing a situation with a friend of his where the friend had got in a car accident and immediatly called his girlfriend, and he hadn't called his girlfriend to tell her how much he cared about her if he hadn't been in that car accident. That's what Allan said. Then I said, It's fate. Allan disagreed, he kept insisting it wasn't fate, didn't give any other suggestion or explanation, just that it wasn't fate. I thought, in the dream, that it was because he didn't know what "fate" meant.

Then, I sat back in the car, watching the gray rain (and the blue speeding light inside the wormhole!) and thought to myself, "I believe in fate."

So, I suppose I do believe in fate. Things are supposed to happen, at least, that's a nice thought.

It's a Mystery

Stacy and I are watching this movie called "Mystery Alaska," and it's in this small town called, Mystery, Alaska - go figure. Almost all the women in it wear very little makeup and dress in conservative sweaters and pants. They're very plain, still pretty, but plain. I wondered to myself then if one of the women got herself made up, wore a sexy dress, sultry makeup, stilletos, etc, would it make a big stir in the town? The characters are initially very simple and classic, teenagers in love, children look up to their fathers. They are all so simple, like Crayola's box of 8. I put on makeup and sort of dress up everyday, and things are not simple, there are layers and layers of translucent and opaque layers. Complicated! And I think about what a little makeup would do for a woman who would most likely care less about Cover Girl. There's me walking down the street with my clothes and my makeup and my sexual politics among other pretentions, how fucking jaded I am! I am part of this jaded and apathetic land of 18-25 year olds. I looked out the window, since it was in my view, it was all dark, which made me very depressed to be stuck, or feel stuck in such a pathetic niche, if it can be called a niche. I don't feel like talking about this anymore. I'm feeling better. There are things to live for, that old saying, cliches, things to live for like love. I do believe that only from experience. Skeptical, add that to jaded and apathetic. No, skeptical is good. Skeptical cannot be apathetic. But skeptical could be just cynical. Ah, shit.
There is a good line from the movie:
"What the fuck ass fuck of a bum fuck shithole town..."

Black Holes Spin!

Squirrel Montoya

"How can I be bored?" I thought.
So, here I am, back in the saddle again, doing what I did best in the "saddle," so to speak.
I am staring at things while sitting at the desk, and listening to music.

"...an email to..."

"...It always seems Carmine makes such a scene, even when he's not there, physically. I can argue that he was there in spirit, but he would shoot me down. He's doing it right now, he's shooting my theory down about him having a soul- in spirit."

-Angela, in an email to Stacy, August 18th, 2004.

Mary Mary Mary

So, while I was shelving books, I came across Warhol: The Biography. I thought, ooo, I might like this. Now, I look through the pictures, and they're nice, he was cute when he was really young. Then he got kind of funny looking, probably from messing too much with himself, being too self-concious. I start reading the book, from the first page, first paragraph, and it's boring. I flip through, and I read "The Carnegie Museem classes were split into two groups. The Tam O'Shanters, names in honor of the Scottish-born Andrew Carnegie, were the younger members..." Who cares, man--

If I become famous, I really hope no one wastes time researching and expelling mundane details about my life like it's that important. I suppose that's what a biography is.

Also, if I become famous, I want people to write all sorts of things about me that aren't true, and I want them to make exagerations and make everything sound considerably glamorous and wild. There will be forged black and white pictures of me and good looking people that knew me for a few days, make them all look like lifelong friends in my battles with drugs, alcohol, and stardom. "Candide" black and white pictures of me smoking with Lou Reed outside Max's Kansas City, -is that what it was/is called?---

Kids will read books about me and think I was really cool.

The Moral

...of the story is, you can't control your own future. You can't control your own destiny, just like Doc says in the first movie, but no, they had to make two more.
If my calulations are correct, then for as many times as Marty, Doc, Jennifer, Biff, Einstein, etc. traveled through time (6, I think) in the DeLorean, no matter what, there will always be an alternate reality they will end up in. At the end of the 3rd movie, Marty and Jennifer end up in 1985X and will live on to 2015X, which may or may not have been the 2015 they desired (as in, from attempting to stop their kids from becoming "assholes.") This serves them right because, like Doc said, you cannot control your own destiny. He also says, "the future is what you make of it," -without a time machine, that is. But, Doc is a big hypocrit, for at the conclusion of the trilogy, he goes flying of with his new family to travel time as if he's taking the fam across the country in a station wagon. Very nice Doc, way to fuck up the space time continium.
To be continued...

Or your money back...

Holy Shit

This made me physically uncomfortable. Click "Holy Shit" and read on!
Thanks to http://jddblog.blogspot.com/ -The Velvet Blog

Cordifesto

Dana and I started some hardcore packing today. We listened to "up beat" music such as Gang of Four's Entertainment! and some Souisxie. Aside from probably spelling Souisxie wrong, I have "Happy House" stuck in my head.

So, I wore my "Sugar Never Tasted So Good" shirt today. I shouldn't get mad if people, namely dirty old men, think it means something more than it does, because I don't have to wear it. It really is just a White Stripes song, and I don't recall why I put it on the shirt, I wish I hadn't now. It's a cool shirt otherwise, very homemade, just poor diction.

But, the other topic of discussion lately pertains to the dirty old men. It doesn't bother me that much that guys supposedly do "check [me] out" a lot, but it worries me that maybe I look a certain way to draw their attention. The other night when I was out with Jeremy, I had on a black shirt and a pair of tan cordoroys. I didn't notice, but he said there was a guy blatently checking me out. So, what is the big deal boys? OOO cords are sexy, I know. I don't know, but it annoys me a little thinking about it now.
On my way to work today a boy was walking passed me and he smiled. That's all. He couldn't have even been flirting with me or hitting on me, just being nice. More of that would make me feel more comfortable. There's really nothing I can do if a couple of nasty, horny, bastards get off on a girl in an old t-shirt, jeans, and geeky glasses, except maybe complain about it and get over it.

What really bothers me is when I ignore the person-who is blatantly Staring At Me and saying "Heeeey Baby Girl," - and they act pissed off when I ignore them. Seriously, what am I going to do besides 1. ignore their crude ass or 2. beat the shit out of them. (I have never resorted to 2, but someday I will). The only girls who would stop and take it either have little self esteem or are hookers.

Going back to the 2. When I walk home from work, I sometimes pass Cumpies, a bar. I pass it when I forget to cross the street. Conviently, there is a counter and no windows right at the sidewalk, so lots of dirty old men have lots of free air to waste on really pathetic attempts to expell some hopelessness.

To make a long story short:
There is a Vaginga Monologue called "My Short Skirt." Basically it talks about how a girl can wear whatever she wants and shouldn't have to be treated like an object. I can't remember any of the exact words from it except something like -my short skirt "doesn't mean that I give it or want it." So there. I relate to that. I do like to wear mini skirts. When it's hot, it's really comfortable to just wear a skirt with just undies underneath. I like to wear my favorite skirt-a black mini skirt- because it's comfortable, fits me perfectly, and I like the way I look in it. IIIIIIII I. That's it there, the I. I really don't care when Dirty Old Man thinks of me in my skirt, but I like what I like about it. I control who can baske in my skirt wearing, for I am wearing the skirt. It is not your skirt, or else you would be wearing it. Would you like to wear my skirt, Dirty Old Man, you seem to like it very much---

So, when someone has to let out their sexual energy like a lonely dog, I have every right to let out my frustration like a confident woman. -Of course my short skirt or [unintended] suggestive shirt or glasses or cordoroys give you the right to express yourself verbally or physically just like I have the right to express myself by wearing them. But, I also have the right to give you a mean, smart ass look before turning away.

I hope I see more boys that simply smile at me, if they feel they should. Or, more that are more discrete about admiring, like Jeremy. Admitedly, (admitingly?) I do like the attention, when it doesn't piss me off, which would be almost all of the time. So, I will continue to wear my clothes, conciously as always, and maybe someday, just someday, I will get that Dirty Old Man. Someday, I will kick him in the balls.

I feel like I am forgeting or missing out on something--

like there is something I have to look for, or that's hanging around here--

and I keep forgetting what it is, then I

remember. And I want want want it--

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Iwnnt, I want it.

Good hair day

Something struck me on TV with rain, and I thought it would be nice to walk in the rain. And then I thought of the time in the rain, an insignificant time. Natalie and I walking down Forbes in the rain, the gentle, constant sort. I was really happy, like giddy happy, as in, in love happy, and I jumped in the puddles at each corner. I was wearing my black dress with the gray lacy slip that was longer than the dress. It was ruffley and moved like waves when I moved. When I splashed in the puddles, the ends of it got wet. I didn't care about that. I don't usually care to get my feet wet in shoes, but I had my boots on and didn't think I would get my feet wet. However, they did, the eyes of my boots gave way. I was so happy jumping in the puddles. That whole night I can remember as being good. My hair looked really good too.

This is what I did at work today, take this quiz

You have a mysterious kiss. Your partner never
knows what you're going to come up with next;
this creates great excitement and arousal never
knowing what to expect. And it's sure to end
in a kiss as great as your mystery.

What kind of kiss are you?
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We are losing them to

Word of the Day

APATHY

Definition: lack of interest or emotion

Example: The APATHY of voters is so great that less than half the people who are eligible to vote actually bother to do so.

Synonyms: disinterest, indifference

Here's to Existing

If it were possible, would travel to an alternate universe, in which you would have never existed?

I wouldn't. I have trouble being satisfied with just thinking, therefore I am.

It's a scary thought, imagining you don't really exist.

That's why I enjoy getting things in the mail, like letters addressed to me, and cards. I enjoy getting phone calls and emails. I love my birthday because that day everyone says "Happy Birthday Angela" to me. All these personal things, that varify to me that I exist. I need other people to prove my existence. When someone calls 2 times in a day and is wondering if you are okay because you weren't somewhere, that says to me, "Oh! I exist."
...
The above is from the link in this entry's title. I always imagine what it would be like to go back in time to my younger self. I wo---Another argument of impossibility is called the chronology principal. This principal states that time travelers could bring information to the past that could be used to create new ideas and products. This would involve no creative energy on the part of the "inventor." Imagine that Pablo Ruiz y Picasso, the most influential and successful artist of the 20th century, were to travel back in time to meet his younger self. Assuming he stays in his correct universe, he could give his younger self his portfolio containing copies of his paintings, sculptures, graphic art, and ceramics. The young version of Picasso could then meticulously copy the reproductions, profoundly and irrevocably affecting the future of art. Thus, the reproductions exist because they are copied from the originals, and the originals exist because they are copied from the reproductions. No creative energy would have ever been expended to create the masterpieces! 3 This chronology principal rules out travel into the past.

I wouldn't devulge too much information to my younger self-I've seen Back to the Future (and many times), I know what would happen if I exposed myself to information only time has the right to tell. This passage talks about the problem with that too.

I don't know man, but it would be nice to have some comments, I may not have said any of this stuff, ever,.