Friday, December 26, 2008

o, brother

something i edited for brother. enjoy. 

hometown blues

shoppers always. the end of christmas doesn't stop it. avoiding recognizable faces. private secret cigarettes and holding them downwind. busying my days to make the time go by faster. doubt le film. shoppers never ending.  je souhaite book writings were cohesive never cohesive but. walmart. bookstore. maps. poetry out of this pen doesn't come i can't move back here. je n'ai pas les amis ici. solitary. grandma's jewelry grandma's urn. video art and beauty urging spilling. commonplace; strangeplace. shoppers again. j'ai besoin un café. slow texts i'm learning a new phone. lists comme ça. spritz. come hither. distance and not seeing faces. o my heart hurts. mani-pedi ma mère. one day of laughter. to sprint quickly. technology and connection, barely. but it's not good enough. forcing this pen to paper, insisting it make shapes. 

Thursday, December 25, 2008

christmas list

i've found the thing.  two parts vodka, one part kahlua, float some cream, serve in a christmas glass with little trees on it...and hand it lovingly to my mother.  two shots of whiskey, one for dad, one for brother ryan.  fill crystal wine goblets with a healthy slurping of valdeguie (gamet beaujolais) for his fiancee and myself.  surround table and play aggravation til your side hurts with laughter, play the christmas mixed cd he made me.  the texts from shawn every 8 - 13 minutes not only comfort or fill with joy, they also bring on hilarious taunts from the rest of the family who insist on knowing what he says and that i recite exactly what i respond.  

-patience, and sweetness
-japanese homeless
-fuck the man
- he borrowed
-vegas church
-30 albums
-bed frame, re: stacks
-applications, compilations
-stars LA doesn't have
-no smoking

and this. because of the traveling neighborhood. and they think it is important. and so i also think it is important. though, i have a funny feeling, i would think it is important anyway. 
the beckoning of lovely.

Monday, December 22, 2008

it's incessant the lists

^ technicalities
^ rachael & jack daniels
^ tarkio road
^ "the hustle and bustle of planetary life"
^ distance
^ wings
^ music salvation
^ beaujolais

Sunday, December 21, 2008

evening list

& les miserables
& tigers
& adam sandler
& 80's dance
& american apparel
& purple, blue
& mix tape
& the wasteland and others
& one two three quatre
& via
& search for a new, perfect journal


Thursday, December 18, 2008

to whittier

                                      happiness shared.
                              i keep seeing berkeley 
                                               in these hills
                                                  as we drive.
                                       the damp bay sky
                               coming to us from far.
                         low cielinged on one side.
                    and paris spelled like perris.

o deeper

my life and words and laugh and sad come from 
                 my people so please don't send me away. 
i wish i was a deep thinker. i like deep thinkers. 
quiet mysterious people who rarely speak but then 
open their mouths. oh holy books in their eyes.  they 
sleep in large clouds. they rest in small cups. lights flicker
binderwhisper o coming from their hair. darkness
from their. hands. the sad sweet kind. momentous but 
quiet in passing. makes me feel light. i know they're heavy. 
i know they're burdened. i don't envy. they don't get it.
(neither do i) that's why they deep thinkly. their ideas
are finite and sad. or imaginative and freeing. we become
curiouser.                                more wondering.
                                  forever unknowing.
the whole scrappy jumble of thoughts deeper. 

list, list

*my paychecks
*what's her name
*un mal a la tete

~twice, daily

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

( a petition ) by Shawn Morones

Wake me up, with
quesadillas and Bob Dylan.
Can every day be a Sunday?

I am requesting the month
of June, and no filters after dark.

The days do not know what they are missing
I have visited the future, and it is good.
But Spain can wait.
Maybe tomorrow.

And with shorts like
these, who really needs
air conditioning?

I am showered. Because you are attractive.
Do not deny the foothills.
I am appealing to sensations.
I am petitioning God for
quesadillas and Bob Dylan.

-Shawn Morones

the life of hunger

we find what is necessary and, like fools,
let it go. drown out voices saying,
"you're brilliant" or "beautiful," "smart,"
"worthy" or "it's o.k. - keep on" (her)

"these are hard times," he says "and i'm learning"

saddened, scribble limericks on
denny's paper placemat coffee edges
and a c'est la vie grin
mug to mouth, and tear on cheek

look for hope in her eyes.
count out quarters, pay the waitress
jingle pennies in your shoes
we smile because, it's funny.

sometimes yes, my head sinks low
but as it falls i see my hand holding his
and i notice: we're laughing.
and there's enough gas in the car to

get us home. and nick lives down the street.
sell off my clothes to pay for rent but never
ever my books. and i've told myself i can't
write like anyone but me.

there's no food on the table
but i've always had enough.
hunger never hurt me as much
as missing the ones i love.

it's good to keep lists

-filled pages
-boyfriend clothes
-just getting through the day

*rabat, tangiers, douala, constantinople, birmingham,
quebec, salamanca, dubrovnik, split, bangolan, stuttgart

could these be mastercard commercials? almost.

Sunday, December 14, 2008

i'm still looking for the right title

it's december thirteenth, late,
three shooting stars and smoke break,
two two two it says on our door,
short grass i've never seen before.
our magnolia trees sit high above,
the moon shines bright on them.
glowing bits of leaves-
like fireflies watching me.
alone, not lonely.
no. 'lonely lonely that is me' she says,
and i repeat. 

three three three. 
i wish on the third-for four; one more.
and on the first two, wonderful things for 
him and me. treats; to flee.  fame, friends. 
a wish to bring me home again. to blend, 
a trend. notebook, paper, pen. a stage; 
reclaim. passions, love, healthy worries, 
friends again.

and each time i turn away, a chance i missed another one.
and each time we go there, we can't be here.
and each time you're with this person, you can't be with that one.
each time you're in LA, you can't be in paris. 
and each time you're happy, you can't be sad. 
and each time you yell, it's impossible to whisper. 
or sing, or be silent.

each time you leave, you'll miss somewhere else.
and each time you despise, you can't possibly adore.
two two two, the number on our door. 
each time you write, you can't own that loathsome block.
shaking, a breeze, tobacco, speed, rock.

orion, the ink splattered sky.
one two three, is all that the sky tonight
would give to me. one two three four.
 four. of course there were four.
but fourth was never seen by she.
i think of those who have it worse than me. 

Saturday, December 13, 2008

more listing, and not really writing

~tape jam
~hope clan
~tobin & christian

a growing reading list that never ends. i hope it never ends. and i finally received the positive feedback i needed recently. its just that simple. holding out for december 15th and some news.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

it's good to keep lists

-grandma's ring
-chili pepper christmas lights
-wait, waits
-cross legged
-tv movies

Sunday, December 7, 2008

from these walls

a place i once lived

my house

i live in a small place, only big enough for a little girl. it is like a doll house. it is in a garden. a shady, green and magical garden that has overgrown with enthused abundance. it is secluded. the garden is full and beautiful and has been there forever. there are more flowers near the house which i tend to myself. it is warm and sunny here and the light always floods in the windows in glorious shafts that crinkle my white curtains. further from the house it gets shadier and there are tall, sweet smelling eucalyptus trees and spanish feather trees and the ones with the thick trunks and low branches for reading. there is a patch of daisies in the back. they were my mother's favorite and mine too. i sit in them and weave them into the edge of my sleeves and sometimes i feel a little ladybug dancing on my shoulder. a ways off there is an old swing of wood and strong twine and every couple of years you come and have to fix it just like every couple of years you have to repaint the house. we always laugh and have a grand time and sip sweet tea and nibble the sugary bread that crumbles. the fountain on the side of the house doesn't work and i can't remember it ever working. there is a layer of moss and water for the birds. there are some stretches of beautiful green shaded grass a number of paces from the house of the left side. that's where the picnics always those hidden areas. brought in a basket and eaten on that huge soft quilt i use for everything. my friends come over sometimes. we forget our worries, eat lots and laugh too much. the warmness of the sun overflows to the warmness of ourselves. we lay on the soft quilt and hold each other, giggling, and the daisies tickle our noses. and its perfect.
-22 march 2007 lyon, france

Sunday, November 30, 2008

a writer

"in utter loneliness, a writer tries 
to explain the inexplicable." 

~john steinbeck

Friday, November 28, 2008

(yeah, it's like that)

the way we are to people is complicated.
and i like to run away.  you can't have
problems with people when they aren't
around.              that's a lie.

i want to be in europa right now
with.   amy and tobs.
like we live there, somewhere.
                    and there is happiness and
          no money and there is wallpaper
and its falling off and long walks in the
park and dark alleys behind theatres and
stage makeup and fuzzy curls around cheeks
and paper lanterns and cocktails and maybe
we'll have a bunny and maybe we'll go live in 
the bookstore.    the stories will fall into our
heads while we sleep and we'll wake up with 
prince's kisses on our cheeks.       and maybe.    
 shakespeare's ghost himself will come to spout 
sonnets to his own
                       ancient lover.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008


"wanna go to mars?" they say.  but i, i'd rather 
stay here, whistling past dark noon i've been to 
hell red planet demons and back before. 
clash-cram-ban-ban-woop!-woop!      all the
overwhelming sounds and i, i drove the drum.
i shot a pistol through his whiskey and threw it
back.    black track tan fan looking at the fan.
spinning while matt makes his selection. 
comfortably comfortably sink into couches. matt silent.
gives his words through our music, resting cross-
legged on the floor, like a master.  

swords and whips-i slay her with my gaze.
i shamefully look away. 

all of us cold, hunched, sharing leather jackets,
damp seats, brackets, lighters, filters, whisper
we help him score the blonde. 

but nothing lasts here.

the highs come low.   the drunks too slow.
it's dark and freezing; ipod electronica never
held my soul.       
        but still, we have laughed here.    and when
he picked that one song i knew he was my friend.
i lay on the carpet, L is near me.  we red lips 
making shapes our limbs and i miss him.
cell phones chime answer back flash and hurl
words like fire.

we sang and we ran and we pulled up the sun.
not forever long ago or until,    we rest heads on 
brotherly shoulders.  ask, "wanna go to mars?"

it's good to keep lists

& johanna
& leon + brittany
& rce
& brothers of mine
& a tape of voices
those. are my friends. --->
and they are doing

and someday, we'll eat bread from our table (our
children will too) with these important things that we do.

Sunday, November 23, 2008

"emmy" he said.

"she wasn't there.  he turned away, his spirits dropping into some low, sorrowful place."

Saturday, November 22, 2008

wedding day for a friend

her name is brittany.
his name is blake.
and they are getting married.       today. 
this is a happy and good thing.

Friday, November 21, 2008

girls can't be poets

girls can't be poets
they're too busy cleaning.
wiping the sweat from you shoulders
and the misery from your brow.

they're too busy playing games.
dancing like fireflies and
dodging your bullets.

they're too busy planning superfluous activities.
your birthday party and
a camel back trek to marrakech.

they're too rash and hasty.
they'll hop in a car and drive to oregon.
they'll sleep on anyone's couch.
they won't take the time 
to write anything down.
they remember.        everything.

they're too busy primping
finger twisting their hair
zipping into your favorite blue dress.

and they're always late. 
she was listening to her favorite song,
heart pounding, how she melts every time.

they're too busy crafting shit.
knitting you a blanket
painting a mural; colors in shapes of people; you.

they're unhealthy beings,
smoking a cigarette from a jade holder.
sipping your gin.

girls can't be poets,
they don't know the meaning of art.
they can find art anywhere!
even the gutter of the street. 

they're too busy giving advice,
making you stand up for yourself.
"tell her" she says and it makes
 you say "i love you"

they're too busy cooking,
sauteeing meals from cans
to feed your children.

they're too busy lighting candles,
taking photos of friends,
writing letters to lost ones,
or studying portugese
to be a poet.

they're too busy fornicating with their lovers.
the ones who adore the lashing curve of her spine,
the taste of her skin; her need for it on the full moon.

they're too busy nurturing your seed
folded in her womb. 
cells splitting, multiplying,
round head, tiny fingers.

she makes a human being
with your hazel eyes,
her complexion,
and both of your tempers.

girls can't be poets,
they're too busy studying.
breastfeeding, breathing,
raising, comforting, disciplining,
as she whispers lullabies to her belly
her magic potion child growing.

they're busy birthing 
new generation,
mother earth,
mother eagle,
mothering us all.

girls can't be poets.
because their lives are poetry.  

-august 2008

Thursday, November 20, 2008

the first time i fell in love

and this is what it looked like

the internet

i'm at work. inside a tiny room of cream walls and barred windows feeling something like a mexican prison and realize: i'm getting paid (modestly) to check my plethora of online communities and pursue other promising futures and paychecks by emailing music venues for my boyfriend's band, searching for local auditions and drafting an online resume of theatre works, frequently switching from tab to tab, gmail, facebook, the troubadour, backstage west, blogger, etc. all the while, praying i don't become wholly apathetic which is a legitimate fear, even at 22.

this isn't a new realization. it comes and goes here in the box office. between the bush-ly economy and overpriced mediocre theatre tickets, we just aren't selling, making it quiet around these parts. we're either diving for the phone when it actually rings, or getting irritated when there is finally something work-related to do since it is interrupting our precious facebook stalking time. "they broke up?"

anyway. what depresses me is exactly how much time i spend on the internet. i spend my entire work day at the computer. processing orders in provenue and flipping back to the internet in between calls and direct sales order sheets. on slow days, like today, i can spend quite a bit of solid time writing emails, updating blogs, watching monkey's blow their nose on youtube... just to drive home and open up my more comfortable mac and once again, login to facebook, check gmail, etcetera etcetera. i can usually justify it. i stay pretty productive on the internet doing things that are worthwhile or reading blogs of my favorite poet friends whom i believe are truly brilliant and far far smarter than me.

but somehow it still depresses me to think of how much time i waste (and a lot of other people too) on the internet. the other day, shawn played me a new song he just wrote, for the first time. and as he's playing i'm leaning over looking at who else just posted on my wall. seriously? whoa, jamie. not even giving him my full attention as he's sharing something new and personal. that's sad and really really gross.

you would assume that i would end this with a promise to not spend so much time on the internet. no such promise. i mean, i would like to but i'm just not into making promises i can only average about a week in keeping. maybe i will try harder, but i'm certainly not going to post here on the internet for people to read and keep me accountable that i promise to take more time smelling the flowers and reading out of real books or actually listening to my boyfriend. i don't really have any other points to wrap up with or a closing argument about any of this. i just thought i should write a post so that i didn't feel totally useless and unproductive between now and when my shift ends. so there you have it.

seven sad forests

i'm standing there in the aisle holding a copy of memoirs of my melancholy whores and he texts me 'it wasn't like that just know that o.k.?' and then i pick up rimbaud and study the french. then burroughs and i feel the pages of food. what if i could eat books for breakfast and that was how i read? i text him back 'yeah'

she was there

and i was so uncomfortable. she stirs the most awful feeling in my soul.

i'm shaking it off.
because i saw moni yesterday.
and i like her. and
she stirs the best feeling
in my soul.

even though life can be scary. with her,
we all know. its going to be o.k.
truth. & art. & hope.

& we're trying.
and that matters.
so we matter.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

its good to keep lists

-audition. shorts.
-needlepoint, but a different one.
-the naked form
-paul mccartney

*debt cancellation
*fields, oh the fields
*playing pretend

i'm trying to be brave.

funny. "...without the colour peach."
because sometimes.
he calls me peach.

and i like that.

Tuesday, November 18, 2008

desolation angels

"and for the first time i realize it's really autumn and another year is dead- and that faint not-painful nostalgia of autumn hangs like smoke in the evening air..."

~jack kerouac

Monday, November 17, 2008

phone customers

"playhouse box office this is jamie how can i help you?"

"who am i speaking to?"





"no, ma'am. jamie"

"oh hi amy"


Sunday, November 16, 2008

i remembered a dream. but prolly just this once.

last night i dreamed i was in paris. with angelina jolie and her mom. i had a bastard child with a black kid who promised to bring in some paychecks to help. my mom mostly took care of the baby, a girl, who was not black at all. i was scheduled to audition for a selection of different ballet companies on a certain date along with tobin, doug and a bunch of other apu students i recognized. all carrying their black bloch bags. i recieved a few phone calls the day of the audition to hang out. forgetting about the audition, i was excited to finally feel like i had friends in this city. one call from dereau to come to a bar on grande boulevard and one from megan olson but the connection was bad so i was unsure of where to meet her. i almost went but remembered the audition i didn’t prepare for at all and bumped into angelina jolie and her mother and we raced to the dance building downtown. we tried to take a short cut but ended up winding through some building’s interior chute system and had to back track our way out to the street...then sprinting to the building we enter only to find hundreds of frenchies holding up huge signs that were enormous tabloid looking pictures of all of us foreigners explaining how we were dangerous. they were angry and threatened. photocopies made of passports, compromising photos in dangerous situations. doug started shouting and creating a ruckus and i don’t remember anything after that though i assume we were immediately deported.


the magnolia tree
peeps out its blossomed flowers
to look at us
and envy our feet
but not our faces


To Jamie, from Tobin. August 20, 1964

The lure of the open road
is more than I can bear.
Whatever ties me to this land
I just don't seem to care...

Adventure lies within you, she said
a question and a claim.
but i've got this itch
the 'here' can't scratch
got to move to flee the same,
Gypsy-hearted birth name.
Living life in a moving frame.
( To what end? They ask )
( God only knows )
don't matter. just go.
I'll risk the world before i remain
in the dull of the same
create myself a refrain. of
You come to me,or my backup 4...
We'll preach it -All you need is love-
We'll teach it. beat it.
beat the skepticism of-
the safe.
All you need is love*
a few scraps of clothes and guitar
I'll take you with me...
don't forget the camera
and we'll go singing somewhere far.

Saturday, November 15, 2008

september sixteenth two thousand eight

i don't write as much because i am happy and not so much confused. and life is beautiful again just like i knew it would be and will be. someday. today and tomorrow. brian wilson, sunday. hollywoodbowl. fireworks. kisses. la parapluie. a girl is in europe. i have a friend in new orleans. and soon, my amy will be in chile. and i want someone to hold me. maintenant and good. please don't spoil my day. just lay by my side, à côté de moi and be you, my relief, the end of a long day coming down.

its good to keep lists

-new york

~the pumpkin
~heavy rotation
~blues riffs

reading...desolation angels
underlining...."the moon is a piece of me"
listening...iron & wine
its a soft music phase of life

*meditations on elderly sex
*the party

next time

"next time,
we'll find a ceilingless room,
and dance all the way up."

Wednesday, November 12, 2008


"acting is standing up naked and turning
around very slowly." ~rosalind russell

last october

red shoes and them, we stumble
and rough house to the floor
false purple eyelashes on the corners
theatrical staging and
wood grain
sour kiss when the timing's right wrong
there are apples not on
the tree
comfort, that is,
elevated time step kung-fu
tennessee's folly was to write it down for me
highway 580
brown earth sparrow sky
and the rows and rows and rows
left behind
the mirror turns back around
girls weave
and short sleeve
mountain pubescent breasts
filler, melt
windmill legs & arms
paul whispers wisdom thru
the radio
bladder control out
willow & lilac
in the backseat but close
dirty tile
effervescence for tobin
and and hippie names
rosewood guitars bring the music
the sweet music
whistle, peep,
marlboro packs snap crackle
orange the godawful orange
prison down the road
kerouac dreams acid dreams
tailgating the girl stevie rae

words, the pen
musical notes & voices
record crackles, sizzles
mono, stereo
book bindings
yellow tinted images of
narrowly specific moments
the map of the city
the state
the country
the countries
the world

-27 october 2007, east bay california

yeah, its like that

Tuesday, November 11, 2008

to learn and to write

"and by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." ~sylvia plath

oh, shoot. i'm really trying to learn from this.
i'm trying. really.

Monday, November 10, 2008

"elle" and

journals and/or poetry

my friends are smarter than me.

my friends are smarter than me. i am not. so brilliant.
their ideas are better. solid. and mine are wary. and strange.

i can't talk about theology. i don't think much about jesus. i won't ponder
the cosmos i've yet to read any thoreau.

sometimes. i write poems. sometimes they're cheesy.
i have wishywashy opinions. and i feel things too much.
i can be brave. but i am not smart.
i am not intellectual.
i am not scholarly.

but maybe

i know things

like why revolver is better than rubber soul.

how to love.

i can't say it eloquently. with the words and revisions of my friends.

but maybe

i just know

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Wednesday, November 5, 2008


"...built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. it grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generation’s apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep...

...and to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world –- our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of american leadership is at hand. to those who would tear this world down –- we will defeat you... those who seek peace and security -– we support you. and to all those who have wondered if america’s beacon still burns as bright –- tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope. "

-barack obama

Tuesday, November 4, 2008

she said

"i wish that every human life
might be pure, transparent

-simone de beauvoir

Monday, November 3, 2008

..prolly not.

just be patient.
they say

4 AUG 08.
somebody help me.
everyday i wait for a large anonymous
check to come for me. everyday i hope
to get one scrap of mail. today in the
mailbox - a battery charger for my
camera. and maybe soon, something
from erin. but most days, nothing. and
especially not money.
just be patient.
they say

i am supposed to read some of these private
things, oh noe.
shhhh pretty baby
she says.
missing people
people far away and people
close by.
it was the other night, we had pillow
talk, she and i, and she said "that needlepoint
is a picture of weeds" "go figure" i said "it
looks like our front yard" and photos next
to it. allie hugging john lennon. tobs and i
at the library.
everyone at the kitchen table. there's perfume
on my windowsill. and a book about hippies. an
old checkbook. a dish quel dit "j'aime Paris"

sometimes, girls are tooooo much.
just give me a pack of cigarettes
and boys who want to talk about
authors. thing is...

i need a hug.

i missed hugs in europe. if it were up to me, we'd
never stop holding one another. holding hands,
linking elbows, resting heads on shoulders, we'd
just keep going. monica says to live in the world
you wish existed. if i never stopped holding you,
would you think me

it was october sixteenth.

when i went to san francisco.
the days and the nights were long, but there was good friends, good wine, sunshine, drives, bars, alleys, books, and a very pretty boy whom i really (really) like.
route 5.
city lights.

sitting on jack's words.

driving away from san francisco is the saddest drive.

its good to keep lists

-stephen chbosky
-jack kerouac
-lindsay eller
-billy collins

,abbey road
,times square countdown
,visiting peter pan
,the eagle & child

rereading is important.

>on the road
>of mice and men

Sunday, November 2, 2008

la parapluie

i was remembering a street.

november 1

today i saw a young girl, maybe my age, maybe a little younger, standing at the corner where the homeless man usually stands right off the freeway on lake avenue. jeans and a warm coat. thin blonde hair blowing across her face in november wind.

her cardboard read "TRAVELING need spare change."

and i got a flash forward vision of myself only i'm in albuquerque or firenze. those american freeway offramps selling flowers holding signs; the tourist crowded market square and the smell of italian ham and sitting against a wall with erin or tobin or shawn or amy or one of those. and we've dug in the dumpster and put our change together to buy a large marker, shivering colder in the american purple sky. taking turns sleeping on the sidewalk of a tiny european street in the heat of summer, playing harmonica til dawn and the tip of a hat, currency from five different nations gathering on our blanket where i sell my jewelry and offer to write love letters for a cost. i rip out bits of my journal, pieces of sentence and with pretty edges, sell them. we speak in gnarled accents to americans who might pay for us to get to siena or paris or carson city or just the border of tennessee, fare to cross a bridge to the other side of the bay where our friends are waiting. scarves are pulled tight, knotted, over damp and dirty hair, dark dark eyes and weathered smile lines are the marks of a traveler. tired but not weary. poor but not needing. we move forward or we stay for awhile, neither matters much. stop for 5cent coffee, overnight sleeping bag desert sky side of the road bus stop route 66 french train hard back chair passport check ticket check and we roll into the sunset finding home.

economy plummets as does morale

a sudden motivation to research theatre jobs in europe. for some reason the cold rainy overcast weather makes me think of europe. and wet sidewalks too. always wet sidewalks.

i'm not making ends meet now, how could i possibly make ends meet over there? without direction, pursuing: nothing in particular. i'm barely making rent on my own now. the ever constant threat of moving home hanging in the air (ah! the horror!) $100/month on gas, $50-60/month on utilities in a house i'm never in because i'm working overtime in a mediocre minimum wage paying job. squeeze in money for a few groceries, although taco bell is faring over everything lately, it really is more cost efficient. i've also got about $2,000 i owe my parents. another $5,000 from the first time i went to europe. parking tickets, speeding tickets, and too much money wasted on cigarettes and wine to help get me through this difficult time. the list goes on concluding, of course, over $100,000 to the fool who let me go to apu and have the best time of my life. idiots.

i am literally dropping mere pennies in my pink piggy bank so that i might buy a plane ticket in hmmm, lets see...2018?

i'm currently in the midsts of my second (okay...sixth) failed attempt at living in europe. i'd settle for a visit at this point. please? anyone?

i'm texting shawn as i'm thinking this telling him i'm depressed that money equals freedom. and he says, "imagination equals freedom." and i suddenly feel impassioned to cry because of course i should've known better but i still feel trapped and bound and bitter because

$1700 would get me to paris by monday and $0 would not.

Sunday, August 10, 2008

august 16 & 17

please look at my friends over there. way over there on the right side of the page. because i love them. and you should love them. please.