I Wanted You To Be Reading

I love the feeling when I'm riding my bike and and wind is at my back. It's like I'm a kid for a minute and somebody is there running with me, pushing my bike, promising not to let me fall, and I'm so into it I don't even realize I'm pedaling for myself and they let go already.

I had the notion to talk about music that came out that I like, but I know I'm not qualified to critique music like the professional bullshitters. I don't have the words for it. Like when I talk to Jude about art, and end up saying things like "artistic-y". It's not that I don't know anything about art, but I don't know how the real art people talk about art and I'm afraid of looking like a dummy, so I go for the dummy on purpose act. It's less embarrassing when you do the stupid thing on purpose, than when you try to be serious and people think you look stupid anyway. I try to control for that. But anyway, back to the subject of music, I had the notion to talk about it, but maybe I think I'll just tell you that there's something out that I like and you can describe it for yourself.

New Things I Found This Week:

1. the new Kyte album, Dead Waves

2. the new National album, High Violet

3. Jónsi's (the frontman from Sigur Rós) solo album, Go

4. Ramona Falls, Intuit

5. Harlem Shakes, Technicolor Health

6. the song "Lady Bones" by Magneta Lane

I just found out about Sigur Rós like 2 days ago, because I've been living in a cave on Mars with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears. The new MGMT album blows. M.I.A. gets better the more you listen to her, and especially after you listen to Aziz Ansari's bit on speaking to her in Tamil. I am full of disorganized thoughts today. I might be distracted.

I thought my heart bone was broken and nothing was going to fix it. I thought it was sleeping or dead. I thought all those bad boys and heartbreakers and monsters had ruined it for anyone else. But I can feel. I can really feel. And I put myself out there, and I don't want to be afraid anymore, so don't let go of my bicycle, and I won't stop pedaling. Not 'til I die.

...

Rules for life, #10: love like you've never been hurt.

Hard Rain

I love the way the rain falls from only one spot on a tin roof, as if over time nature's bent the rusty old tin into a spout for tiny sidewalk gardens below. If it weren't for the valuables in my bag, I'd toss my old Van Gogh umbrella in the street and walk where the trees don't cover and get completely soaked.

I see how vibrant the green grows when it rains and rains for days, and I can't help wonder if somewhere in our primordial past we drew life from the storm too, life that we're missing out on in our fancy rain boots and oversized coats. What if we aren't getting the full experience of the air we breathe and the sun that warms us because we're living under artificial roofs, surrounded by paneling and drywall and cement, breathing recycled oxygen, staring brainlessly out our glass windows.

What if we could be so much more? Stronger. Wiser. Greater. The knowledge and the intelligence of peoples who spend their whole lives in forests is different, not inferior. They see sharper and farther. They move faster and stronger. They know which foods are safe and which aren't. We'd be dead in a week in their shoes. And we'll never know, because none of us has the courage to find out. We'll never give up our technological comfort and our Pumas and blue jeans. You or I or anyone else.

But I can't help wonder, if I could just get out in that rain, if I'd get just a taste of it, just for a moment. If I tilt my head back and let the sky wash off all my makeup and pretense, fill my mouth, run down my chest and neck, for just one minute, will I be more alive?

A Way To Do

Sometimes I hear a song so beautiful that I never want to hear another ever again. Music is such an integral part of my existence, that if I had to choose between losing my vision and losing my hearing, I would choose to keep on hearing and keeping on singing. My eighth rule is to always have the right song ready; I might add to that, know your theme song, the one you need when it's getting too hard to keep on keeping on, the one that can save your life. Your theme song can and should change because life changes, it's dynamic. Anyway, there's a point to this, right? I found my theme song today.

"I want, I want, I want. I must find a way to DO."

Go Do

Jonsi

Go sing too loud, make your voice break, sing it out.
Go scream, do shout, make an earthquake...

You wish fire would die and turn colder.
You wish your love could see you grow older.
We should always know that we can do anything.

Go drum, do go out, make your hands ache, play it out.
Go march through crowds, make your day break...

You wish silence released noise in tremors.
You wish, I know it, surrender to summers.
We should always know that we can do everything.

Go do, you'll know how to.
Just let yourself fall into landslide.

Go do, you'll know how to.
Just let yourself give into low tide.

Go do!

Tie strings to clouds, make your own lake, let it flow.
Throw seeds to sprout, make your own break, let them grow.

Let them grow (endless summers)!
Let them grow (endless summers)!
(Go do endless summers)!

You will survive, will never stop wonders
You and sunrise will never fall under

You will survive, will never stop wonders.
You and sunrise will never fall under.
We should always know that we can do anything.

Go do!

Rules for life, #9: do.

City Girl

You really get to me, in a good way. You make me want to be a better person. Not because of anything very specific that you say, but because of everything you do. When I'm angry, you're calm and steady; you give me a hug, pass me a beer, and tell me not to get too mad. And instead of getting frustrated with you the way I would want to with anyone else not getting mad for me, I feel like I don't have to prove how tough or principled or whatever I am by staying mad, like it's okay to let my anger go. I don't need to be a firecracker all the time, you hear what I'm saying, you're not afraid to tell me I'm wrong. I might be too proud to say it at the time, but I know you're right, and it's so good for me. No one's ever been able to do that before.

I did have a kind of ridiculous night last night, so it's little wonder I ended up getting all kinds of irate. I can blow my top, it's true. Someday soon, I'll be as cool as you. Or at least as cool as me on a good day. And I won't need a beer to do it. Of course, I've been saying I'm gonna stay in every night and be good and take care of my shit, but of course, I'm out the door by 10 without fail. I have little love for this house, I want to be out in the big wide world. The summer wind is blowing in, and it's calling me out to ... town.

You know, I belong in the city. I say it all the time, but I would literally go insane if I had to be anywhere less interesting than this for more than a week. As I said to Lindsey once, "If I went to school here (Dickinson), I would kill myself." I can't sleep without the sounds of sirens. I can't breathe without the smell of cement and exhaust. I can't get along without my bars and my cafes and my parks and my cinemas. I just can't be where people don't walk fast enough. I need sixteen different places to get my produce, and twenty-six kinds of chai. I am a ridiculous person. I want to live in New York, provided it doesn't eat me alive. Maybe not forever, but at least for a little while. For a summer. For a year. I want a taste of it. I ate Tokyo up. I'd never been happier or more alive, in fact.

I miss Japan. I miss the weird culture and the food and the politeness and the perversion. I miss temples. I miss awful little office bitches. I miss the way they play music and commercials on TVs in trains. I miss the way the toilets talk to you. I miss the way Ueno park smells. I miss the crosswalk at Hachiko Square. I miss kyujyuukyu-en sushi. I really need to get back, bad. But I also need to see the rest of the world. It's a matter of sacrificing the familiar for the wonderful strange unknown. I'll take the future over the past any day.

Last Person, Jenny Owen Youngs

Where you're sitting on the barstool,

Keeping motionless as you can be,

You're thinking maybe if you're lucky,

Life is like T-Rex and stillness will sweep you away to where it's safe.

'Cause you're feeling like the last person left on the planet tonight

And you're scanning the horizon seeking out signs of life,

And you pray that you're wrong but you're right.

So hold on tight!

'Cause all that stares back at you are bloodless zombie eyes.

Why don't you come home with me tonight, alright? Alright!

I'm not trying to make you think this is some kind of great big deal,

I just know exactly how you feel.

I could be the thing you reach for in the middle of night,

Maybe be the one who treats you right.

Let me be the one who treats you right.

Now you know you've never seen me,

There's no reason for you to pay mind,

But I'm asking very nicely and all it takes is one step to start leaving the dead behind,

And to try out walking life.

And what's the worst thing that could happen?

We find out that we don't quite fit.

On the flipside we could be just right,

And sure there's a chance that we both end up broken and split,

But that's my kind of risk.

So quit worrying where they fall if you should roll the dice.

Why don't you come home with me tonight, alright? Alright!

Not trying to make you think this is some kind of great big deal,

I just know exactly how you feel.

I could be the thing you reach for in the middle of night,

Maybe be the one who treats you right.

Let me be the one who treats you right.

Butterfly Effects

Yesterday, in celebration of Earth Day, I took a nap on the sunny ledge in my office window, curled up like an American Apparel clad cat. I keep a pillow top in my office, because I am well prepared. Forgot deodorant? Got that. Need a snack? Got that. Just gotta have an afternoon shot, and a chaser? Well, I got those too. Theoretically, I could just stay in there for days and days and emerge none the worse, though I think there's some kind of social stigma against living in your office at school. I probably won't. But I could.

I thrive in chaos. And yet I hate disorder. I suppose you could divide the world, for me, into things that are meant to be orderly, and things that are not. Things out of their places just get to me. If a junk lot is meant to be a junk lot, then that's that, and I'm fine with it, but if encyclopedias are out of order, I have to set them right. A wooden puzzle was once left out, its component parts strewn haphazardly across the coffee table, begging to be put back together, calling to me. It took me 45 minutes to solve it, but I did. And I feel like people love to set me those traps. They know I'll be caught. Without fail, I'm the one that finds the puzzle.

Some things just belong in their right places. I categorize them like this and like that. I don't know what to do when they aren't where they go. I have a stylist. I have a make-up artist. I have an art friend, and a game friend, and a jock friend that will train me til my body aches for days. I have a place I like to read. I have a spot in the bed I like to sleep. I have a set of favorite chords that will pretty much guarantee me sold on a song. I have theories that I adhere to, and ways I like to argue. I sit in the same seat in every class, and set my things up in just that way. I listen to just the right mix tape at just the right time. About the only thing I haven't figured out is other people, and making sense of it all. Maybe I'm weird. And if I'm weird, then the people around me that put up with it, they must be weird too. I wouldn't put it past them. Or else it's we who are normal, and all others who are the freaks. That's plausible too. I like to say I hate being categorized, but I label everything and anything. It's not so much that I want to be so unique, but rather that I like to fuck with people. I just realized I'm writing about nothing.

I'm under a lot of stress. This semester is still such a close call, and I'm struggling to get it together. Maybe it's a combination of external stimuli and pressure at school? I'm getting tired of people expecting worse from me than I've given in the past. I'm not a bad person. I'm doing my best. I haven't tried to hurt anyone. I'm just looking for happiness like everyone else. In my little well-ordered, chaotic bubble. I almost have it.

American Beauty

I had one of those moments today. You know, the kind they steal for the movies, the kind you remember forever. You never see it coming, but you know know it when it's happening. Sometimes it's the simplest thing. We were sitting under a cafe umbrella when it started pouring, but we just pulled the chairs in closer and stayed, sipping our coffee together in the rain. There were people talking about nothing nearby, and the traffic moved in slow motion. I should have been cold, my drink was cold, but I wasn't. For a moment, there was so much beauty in the world.

Things are going better than I expected. The end of the semester just might come together after all. I have a plan, and it's not crazy (although I am). Even though there's still a keg on my porch and I dunno how to pay all my bills, I'm not afraid of how I'm gonna make it this month without breaking down in tears. I'm gonna be just fine. Even on the rainy days.

I've been wanting to make mix tapes again lately, part of that creative outlet thing, I suppose. Almost got it together enough to draw yesterday, but that fell through. I'll get there soon. But mix tapes I can do. I have one for every kind of weather, one for driving at night, one for love, one for sorrow, one for looking on to tomorrow. I think I might start posting mixes I'm especially happy with on here to share with the entire four person audience I have. Oh, internet! I love expressing the moment with music. My life has a soundtrack. I want it to be a good one.

And just to counter all the happy bubbliness, I'd like to say, right now, my dumb exes are acting like total fucks. I'm sure I said I'm supposed to feel for them because they're sad or whatever, but there's no good excuse for just being an asshole. I'm doing my best here, to be your friend or respect your wishes or whatever the fuck it is you want, but I can only take so much abuse before I snap! Either be in my life, or don't, but don't treat me like you have free license to treat me like crap. DeJesus Christ! Before you know it, I'll wish I never knew you, and you won't even have someone to mistreat.

Whew. That helped. Too much animosity building up, can't have that. Sometimes I think writing keeps me a good person, you know. Jude says that the thing you do when you're not doing what you're supposed to is the thing you're really supposed to be doing, but by that logic, I ought to be writing. I wonder, why can't I have both? Why can't I have it all?

What I Want

I was up late last night, thinking not just about my paper topics, but also about me. I tend to be kind of rough on myself, kind of judgmental, kind of scrutinizing. Some of it has to do with confidence, but some of it is just standards. I have very clear ideas about who I'd like to be, while being just as aware of who I actually am now. A lot of this tends to mirror and respond to the people around me, or the people I imagine may be around me someday.

So last night, I was thinking about who I want to be to you, you who are dear and precious to me, you whoever may manage to reach me. I want to be the good influence, that shows you what's good for you without telling you to change who you are. I want to be the force that grounds you when you get too far off base. I want to be the smile you can't seem to get at when you just think about it on your own. I want to be the rock you lean against when you're too weary to keep walking. I want to be the little bird that listens when you have something to say you can't say to anyone else. I want to be the distraction you need when you've got to forget about life for a while. I want to be the love you settle into when you close your eyes to the uncertainty of sleep. I want to be the notebook where you write down all your aspirations, and the pencil you cross each one off with as you get just what you want. I want to be the scene you see when you feel yourself suddenly inspired. I want to be your anchor when you feel too far out to sea. I want to be your happiness. I want to do right by you. I want, I want, I want. I must find a way to DO.

Don't Look Back In Anger

I thought I was going to be able to update every day forever, but as it turns out, I just have way too much going on in my day and in my life to do that, so all I can promise myself is that I will do my best. Kind of like most things.

The end of the semester is killing me. I'm struggling to pull together something like seventy pages of writing in the next couple of weeks, and I'm not sure it's physically possible. I may have to cut my losses and put my effort into what's gonna hurt me the most if I fuck it up, but maybe if I really kill it I can catch up this week. I dunno. I'm not a miracle worker.

And I believe there's diminishing returns on the effort I put into things. I put in the needed effort, I get a return of just scraping by, but I get less and less of a return for each additional unit of effort I add after that. I need to find that happy 5% extra that's actually worth it, and forget the rest, so I don't kill myself. There's more I want to worry about than just that.

This summer is gonna be a stretch. There's the apparent line-up of: family reunion in Charleston directly following the semester's end, the fuckface camping trip in June, my program in San Diego in July-August, and the girls' trip to AC after that. I also have to donate eggs in there somewhere, and I'm a little concerned about conflict over that. I also have to find a source of funding for the summer - I'm thinking unemployment? It can be done! I guess I can tell you now, I'll be studying nuclear policy at UCSD on full grant; guess I'm not a total waste of a grad student after all.

We had a shit show party last weekend. It was really fun until I sprained my foot and knee, which was sometime after I threw the beer at Andre and jumped in the window. Shit was flying off the porch, out the windows, down the stairs. Kanye West showed up. I learned that we need to set ground rules for our crazy parties before we end up with the cops in our living room. I will devise a plan to avoid this for the next time I want to have a night of mayhem.

According To You

I was going through my twitter account the other day looking for these personal rules I started making up when I first came back to Philly and I was trying to make a new life for myself. I had the idea recently to keep going with it, since things are a lot better now and I remembered that they made me pretty happy. And anyway I'm terrible at taking my own advice, and I thought keeping track of it might help. So I found my rules. I think I'm gonna start calling them "the code," just so I can say, when something goes wrong, "keep to the code," like a good little pirate. Unfortunately, to get there, I had to read through some old memories, too, things I'd really rather not remember going through. I have to remind myself when I'm tempted to be bitter that I did in fact get through it, and I'm possibly stronger and better for the experience. Here they are:

Rules for life, #1: do things that make yourself and no one else happy
Rules for life, #2: take pleasure in every single sensation
Rules for life, #3: fitness classes called "boot camp" are not as fun as you'd think, a.k.a. think things through
Rules for life, #4: always say how you feel, no matter what it is
Rules for life, #5: stretch all the way out on your queen size bed, because you deserve to
Rules for life, #6: if other people on the subway can clearly hear the music coming out of your headphones, it is too loud, a.k.a. don't be a dick
Rules for life, #7: nothing is ever as hard as you tell yourself it will be when you put it off for one more day
Rules for life, #8: always have the right song ready

I just added that last one today, when Kati was telling me about a dream she had wherein her exes (boys I would skin alive if I ever met them on the street) were texting her all the bad things they thought of her. I didn't know what to say, but I shook my head and changed the track on the stereo to "According to You" by Orianthi, because fuck those guys.

No matter how horrible people tell you that you are after a breakup, you aren't a bad person. You just have to know deep down they're hurting and they can't express themselves properly, so they lash out. You ought to feel for them, though it can be difficult to sympathize at the time. The song is about the way the ex used to see her and treat her, and the way another better lover cares for her and shows her just how good it can be. Even if you're hurting or angry, it's not right to lash out. Hearts don't break permanently. It will stop hurting someday. There will be love for you again.

Look at me, I used to write these idealistic blogs back in high school, a lot of real sappy bullshit. Then I got my heart broke and quit writing for the longest time, at least anything of any real consequence to my life. I used to think I wanted to blog politically, that somehow through sharing my ideas and words I could help change humanity for the better. And maybe I still can, when I get older and wiser and certainly better at it.

I got into this business, in fact, because I've got it in my dumb head that I can save the world. Somehow, some breakthrough I have, some sacrifice I make, can change lives for the better. I don't want fame or the Nobel prize money, I just want to make people smile. You can challenge me for disingenuous, you can call me an empty-headed, bleeding heart idealist if you like, but I mean that with every fiber of my being. The only thing that makes me feel happy and worthwhile is making others happy, often at the expense of my own happiness. I know it's not the best thing to tie my self-worth to, and it's got me hurt in the past, but I wouldn't change a thing, 'cause damn it, I have principles. I don't eat meat and I don't tell lies and the most important thing I can do is to make you happy. Yes, you.

And all of that sappiness has distracted me for long enough. I'm in my office with Kati, drinking vodka and trying to do my homework. There's somewhere I'd rather be, baby, but I know being here is the right thing to do if I'm gonna survive my semester. Anyway, it's kinda nice to sit and study here just the two of us, it's actually pushing me to git 'er done (well, not right this second, but you know what I mean.) I just have to make it to Friday.

In closing, a song lyric for you:

"We've got a long way to go to get there, we'll get there,
But if there's one thing we know, it's that we will not grow old."

-Lenka

Mr. November

I'm an idiot, by the way.

I thought I had lost the book I've been writing on and off for years completely (this would be the second or third time I've lost creative writing in crisis situations) and had resolved to give up. Maybe I'd do it as a comic, or even just dump the project altogether. But I'd forgotten somehow the fact that I had written many of the chapters by hand in a notebook that never left my bedroom. Sitting in bed doing my homework, I happened to look over at my book shelf and see the familiar cardboard cover of 100 pages of treasure. There're probably snippets missing here and there from where I continued to write once I had transcribed, but for the most part, along with the book chapters Lindsey sent me, my work remains in tact. I can't believe I didn't think of it sooner. Admittedly, I've been distracted.

Kati went off to reclaim her one true love this weekend. I must confess, I'm starting to think about my own future. I bottled and corked my emotions after a tough winter, tried to love again, failed, made a mess, and thought I was just better off not letting anyone in. But I'm opening like petals, too slowly to see but most surely. I've begun to wonder what kind of person would want to spend a lifetime with me. I don't mean marry me - I definitely don't mean have babies with me - I just want to know who would read by my side as I work into the late hours. Who would help me build a tree house. Who would want to wake up beside me in the morning, and who would still love me even when I'm old and faded.

Have I met that person yet? Are they right in front of my eyes? Did I have it, and lose it? Or are they still out there somewhere? Would I know it if I met them? When lovers know these things, how do they know? If it were hardwired in, we all wouldn't have such a problem with it. They say only 10% of the population can fall in love and stay in love for life. What if I'm not part of that 10%, or what if they aren't? And what if I am? I don't know which scares me more. I do know I don't want to spend my life alone. I know I want to be happy.

I spent a lot of time learning how to make myself happy without relying on anyone else, so I worry that I've precluded the need for a lover, in doing so damaging the mechanism that binds two human beings together. On the other hand, there are moments when I just feel fire. I know that passion I've felt before is still in there, I know I can feel, it's what I draw on when I write or sing. It composes me. And I could die for it.

I didn't mean to get so carried away with seriousness. I suppose that's what I get for stowing it away for so long. Since it's out now, though, maybe that means I won't need to bring it up again any time soon.

Chat Roulette

Last night, we got on chat roulette around 10:00 p.m.; we didn't make it to bed until almost 4:00 a.m. I mean, we figured it would be at least an okay way to spend a Friday night. Last time we got on there, we met some pretty okay dudes, it was more entertaining than creepy, and we didn't see a single cock. So I guess lightning doesn't strike twice, because this time we got the worst that chat roulette has to offer. It was bad. But we obviously hung around because we have that much faith in humanity, and met some real nice boys ("huggy bear" and "babyface"). Talk about a small world, they live in Philly, and one of them went to my high school. Of course, we invited them to our party next week. They have no idea what they're getting themselves into, but they will.

And I got a new nickname, "Bubbles." Don't ask.

I spent seven hours downtown today, variously in different neighborhood cafes, doing research and homework. I had a lovely conversation with a Lebanese girl over my very exciting cultural immersion lunch. Also, my hatred for teenagers has been thoroughly reaffirmed. That aside, it turns out the Starbucks at 4th and South is a great place to "safe people watch", that is, do it so they can't see you. I love to people watch. I'll put on sunglasses so I can just stare at every detail and every nuance, and wonder what makes people tick. If you people watch with me, you can expect insensitive, stream-of-consciousness commentary.

On my way home, I stopped to see Jude in Old City. He's like a sitcom character, always at the same cafe, knows everyone in town, and has something to say about everything. On this particular occasion, he was sitting with two old European(?) men, talking about golf. As I make to sit down, a Duck bus rolls up - and at this point, you need to know about me, I hate the Ducks with a passion hotter than a thousand suns - and thirty college kids start blowing those goddamn quackers at us. Jude flipped them the shocker. I threw bread at them. The irony is almost certainly lost on those kids, since they started yelling and cheering, and sang a chorus as the bus pulled away. We could hear them for a few blocks further still. The old European men had a hearty chuckle, though. I can't say I could ask for a better experience than that.

And that was the most interesting part of my day. Dearest momma brought me the new laptop I'll be paying for all summer, and I'm pulling my hair out trying to get my iTunes library straight; my OCD prevents me from just saying, "fuck it." Also, it's been a nice opportunity to get reacquainted with old music I'd forgotten about. I continue to find ways to see good in the bad. I think I'm actually learning.

Filet O' Fish

When I got home today, Kati told me that I have a weird life. It's true. Last week, we stood in the Rite Aid for five minutes listening to the singing fish from the McDonald's commercials and dancing in the aisle for a bewildered local crowd. Now, she's sitting next to me listening to Raffi tapes on YouTube. "I like to eat eat eat apples and bananas ..." I do have a weird life, or maybe I just have a weird roommate. (She just asked me why should could hear geese.)

My track record for today is a little better than yesterday. I got up on time. The downside of that is that I couldn't fall asleep until past 4 a.m. this morning, and around dinner time I was already ready to pass out again. So I didn't get really anything done, and now we're watching Happy Gilmore like real serious productive, professional students. Like Desiree tells me, grad school is a story of barely getting it together at the last minute, because somehow we just can't get ahead. So far, she's been right.

I got an official letter in the mail about my summer program, but I'm still not sure if I'm allowed to talk about it. Here's a hint, though: I'll be in La Jolla. I'll need to get a tan by July.

I've made my selection on a new computer. Although I'd really like to just say fuck it, and only use an iPad for the rest of my career, that I can lose without losing my head, I'll be getting a MacBook Pro (and an external hard drive, this time.) I've learned to lock my door, at least; as my advisor tells me, sometimes it takes a catastrophic event to force us to change our behavior. My behavior has certainly changed, although I can't say it's changed for the rational. I tweeted over to the people at Mozy the other day, asking if I could be their mascot. I'd be a darn cute sob story. They're not buying it yet though, jerks.

And how am I paying for this? I don't think I've mentioned it here yet, but I'm going to be an egg donor. I've already been matched with a couple, and I start treatments in a few weeks. That might make some people uncomfortable, even angry, but the way I see it, I'm helping two people fulfill a dream they can't on their own. Plus, I get a delicious five grand as compensation, which will happily pay for a new computer, clear my credit card debt, and who knows what else. If I can avoid getting a job this summer, giving me all the time in the world to devote to academia, then I will. Now that's what I call being a professional.

Day Drinking

My life is hilarious. I had all these grand plans to get so much done today, and they just never played out.

First of all, Jude and I went to see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists last night. It was an amazing show, so full of energy and so genuine. There were two belligerent frat boys bouncing around, drinking something straight out of the battle and fist pumping in people's faces, and Ted actually stopped the show to tell the crowd to even out the dynamic. "They're just dancing," he said. I've got to learn to see things that way. And I danced until my whole body hurt. Until we needed a drink to dull our senses and stagger gently home.

So this morning at 7 when my alarm went off, I just rolled over and back into my dreams. (And for lucid dreaming purposes, I dreamed up some incredible imagery involving the aurora borealis and cloud sculpture.) It was well past 11 by the time I made it into the sunlight, cringing like a vampire into the shade. I missed the job search talk I meant to be at by a long shot, then got a call from Nick about day drinking, and figured the day was already shot, so why not?

And it only took us about two hours to get completely wasted. Margaritas at Copa Banana are only 5 dollars on Thursdays, and they give you a pint! What were we supposed to do? 5 o'clock is a new record for me, okay. I don't even really remember where I met back up with Jude, but apparently I (physically) ran into him a few times, probably embarrassed him publicly, and got sick all over the sidewalk at his favorite cafe. I have no idea why he puts up with me. I passed out at his house, woke up still drunk at 10 minutes to Quizzo and ran off like an ungrateful little jerk, but I eventually met up with my friends, and we killed it. We're in a tournament, and it sounds like we're gonna win. I had to drink soda for the rest of the night, though, and I'm still coming down to sober planet as I lay here watching ABDC and savoring the sensation of my brain melting down and dripping out of my ears.

I've been thinking about my plan to rebuild, and I've decided that I'm gonna spend the summer cultivating my atrophied sense of creativity. Writing new stories, doing independent study and research, finally getting around to that web comic I've been saying I'm gonna for years, learning to take better pictures and shoot film, and most obviously, blogging. I wonder if the way I write is interesting, entertaining, funny, intelligent. If I'm going to go through with my great plans, I've got to learn to how to make the memories stick. I've got friendships to build and to buttress. Expect a lot of day drinking, experimental tripping, barely believable stories, and wild adventures. I'm already making plans.

And on that note, I have a reveal to make. I got accepted to a program, and I'll be spending three weeks in California this summer, but I'm not allowed to (publicly) tell any more than that until everyone else gets their decision letters. Details will be forthcoming.

The Envelope

I'm still adjusting to my self-enforced new outlook in life, my empty desk, and my empty bank account. While it's easy to say I'm going to let it go and roll with it and find peace in adversity, it's hard. But I'm getting there.

This morning I came in early to finish a paper that I didn't do because of the chaos of the robbery (henceforth to be known as "the incident"), and found a unlabeled yellow memo envelope in my mailbox. Inside was a note, written in subversive calligraphy pen and obviously forced script, "Taylor- Hopefully this helps." And 100$. Now I have my suspicions, and if it is who I think it is, they should not be throwing around that kind of money given the grad student lifestyle we lead, but I'll never really know for sure, and I can't well go about asking, can I? Thank you, my sneaky little good Samaritan. "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers."

Desiree says this is my week. That people will be right there buying me drinks and looking after me. Nick says that we have solidarity in our department, and that we don't like to see "one of our own" get shafted. They're both right. My faith in humanity is pretty damaged, but what I'm learning is that there are a few people out there that are just really amazing, and I'm fortunate enough to know them. And anyway, there are billions of people out there who have it orders of magnitudes worse than I do, and isn't that why I came to grad school to begin with? Now if I can just survive the semester unscathed, then I really might start to have faith again.

In the meantime, I can keep my mind off things by writing it all out. And I need this. I haven't seriously blogged since high school, and since I lost my book in the incident, I need a new outlet for my creative inclinations, and where better to do it than the pretentious, self-serving world stage of the internet? There's no point in being sad about my loss. It won't change anything. All I can do is start over, become better than I was before, and never look back. I can do that, right? Anyone can do it. I can do it.

The Incident

Postdated April 6, 2010

My name is Taylor. I'm 24 years old, going to grad school in Philadelphia. I have a loving family, a lot of amazing friends, a bright future and a good head start. I write short stories, drink a lot of tea, and sing on Tuesday nights. I have a reputation for fucking with people, but I'll always tell you I'm just kidding. I speak Japanese. I throw a decent party. I'm pretty happy with who I turned out to be. My life isn't hard. It's not unique. It's just a little off key, like so many a karaoke singer, and that's just how I like it.

Yesterday, I was robbed blind. At least of every material thing that mattered. The purse and its contents I can live without, sure, but the laptop that held all my art and writing and photos and music and memories, 24 years' worth (and no backups) that's gone, probably forever. And so begins my quest to put it all back together.

Strangely, losing all that has given me a sense of complete freedom. I don't have to worry about where my wallet is, because I don't have one. All I have to worry about is where I am at this exact moment in time. Jude says I should start contacting old friends, ask for copies of old pictures and things they might have. Maybe they'll have some I've never seen, and there will be newness to those old memories. Maybe I'll be able to reconnect with them. And maybe he's right, and maybe I'll do some of that. I'll write some letters, I'll call, I'll visit. But what I really, really think I should do, and will do, come to that, is to start making new ones. Bigger ones. Do things I never dared to. Travel the world. Meet complete strangers. Eat bizarre delicacies. Hear the music of places I never even knew existed. Breathe unfamiliar air. Jump off bridges. And this time, I'm keeping track of everything.

So today, I say to myself, and anyone who wants to meet me, hello, and welcome to my brand new life.