i wish you'd open up to me. i need some ammunition.

i do apologize. i'm in the middle of writing a play. there has, unfortunately, been more drama in my life lately than on the page. and i'm coming up on finals.

note to self: next time, in fighting via email, ask antagonist to write in pentameter with an a/b rhyming scheme. kill two birds with one stone.

also: out of narcissism, i googled myself. which i haven't done in a while. i apparently made the President's List at my school over the summer term (i'm guessing for bullshitting my way into a 4.0; don't worry. it will never happen again) i'm right under somebody named Sassafras.

the things we learn about ourselves on the internet.

related: my therapist actually referred to somebody i was talking about this week as "sounding narcissistic". i think this one's a keeper. unfortunately, she wasn't referring to me.

in the meantime: Borat: the memo

i wanna go home. i miss my cook.

detritus.

i always had this feeling as a teenager that i didn't belong in my hometown. there's nothing like a trip home as an adult to remind you exactly who you aren't.

i had to go to a baby shower today. which was preceded by my having to go shopping for baby accoutrements this morning, marginally hung over and sleep deprived. my mom accompanied me, for it seems she thinks this is something i am inept at. which could be true. the last time i was in the baby aisle, i was eighteen and searching for drug paraphernalia and raver toys.

my brother brought a mac into my parents' house for the first time. i'm surprised my father didn't throw him out.

boys never really grow up. if anybody ever tells you otherwise, they are lying.

blocking out the world

things:

i had to write a 16th century style dramatic scene for a class last week. when my father read it, he told me his first thought was, "did she plagiarize this..?"

i'll take that as a compliment.

also, Sasha Frere-Jones reviewed the Deftones' new album in this week's New Yorker.

"With his black hair and small beard, [Chino]Moreno, who is thirty-three, looks like someone who's stranded between boyhood and adulthood."

yes, i would say that's fairly accurate.

so...can I go back to not writing?

the weather gods, it seems, are in tune with my emotions. there's been a veritable deluge in the northwest the last few weeks. Washington is a lake; Oregon, more of a puddle. my father bought a $500 (yellow)gore-tex rain-jacket, which i had no comment on. i will say this: for $500, it had better not just deflect rain, but send it straight back up into the clouds and break that motherfucking cloud into timid vapor.

anyway. my point...

i was explaining to a friend tonight that Portland has rid me of 6 years of urban irritants (read: traffic on the 10 freeway, Los Angeleans, terrorist threats, the NY marathon running down my street, that lovely perma-urine aroma of the NYC subway, drunken Poles at 4am...) and then it occurred to me: maybe this was not a good thing.

sure, i'm less likely to punch somebody out. i'm less likely to have a crowd-induced panic attack.

here it seems i have nobody to hate, no daily irritants to focus all my hatred on. suddenly i'm left with trees and rain and peace and quiet. and self-loathing came out of hibernation.

oh man i need a parade to ruin my Sunday morning.

moping and working is surprisingly taxing

i'm on...um...what we'll call a personal hiatus. try to contain your enthusiasm.

iJapanish

maybe i took too much NyQuil; suddenly my iTunes store is in Japanese...