Happiness Is ...

Warning Label: this shit is sappy as hell. Read no further without a barf bucket at hand.

My heart feels so full that I'm afraid it might burst, so full that it fills my chest until I can barely breathe, so full that it hurts, so full that if I move just to speak, I might die. There aren't enough good words in the world to describe it. But I want to try. 

I said, I can't remember the last time I was this happy. 


She said, things really seem to be looking up for you. They are. I'll start at the top. 

Friday night, as far as I knew, I was just going over Jude's later on so we could go to a wedding together the next day. I guess I should preface all this with the fact that he always seems to be going to this and that cool and exciting event related to how cool and exciting his career is, and I confess I'm a little envious sometimes on account of the coolness and the excitingness. So on this particular Friday, one of these things is going on, and he asks me along. I got my hair done and I'm feeling pretty and he knows to tell me I am because he's amazing. This event happens to be an opening for one of his students, in a weird little gallery. This is the very place I called a nest of hipsters on my other digital outlets. It was fun, really, full of weird smelly people with weird smelly clothes, but all very nice and friendly, and we stood in a corner talking about the things that hipsters do and arguing about the plaid to non-plaid ratio in hipster packs. It's not as glamorous as I had imagined, it was much, much better. Drinking cream soda and making that's what she said jokes in a corner while judging everyone in the room is all I could ask for, haha. We wandered around after that for several hours, checking out bars and the people he knows, he told me about his last wedding date (prompting my determination to top that shit), before trudging home to watch TV and giggle until we passed out.

In the morning, I joked about ditching him and then we went to meet Sean at the cafe, coffee like we always do, a little earlier than I was ready to be up but okay just the same. I have to say, I fucking hate weddings. I've never had a good wedding date. I've never had a really good time at a wedding, ever. I never want to go to them. But  when Jude asked me to be his date, I blurted out, I'D LOVE TO without really thinking, and I wanted to go, and I wanted to show us both that the world is just full of tofu people and two amazing fun people like us can actually have a good time doing just about anything. And that's exactly what we did. 

Jude is a hilarious driver. We miss a turn, and there's an explosion of cursing and swerving and mumble mumble, until we get back on track. I play goofy hipster music. We stop at a funny little diner, chatting about the road trip we keep talking about maybe having someday (another experience I want to top), and sit by the mirror so I can stare at the other diners and he can stare at them in the mirror. The motel has us double-reserved. We set the fire alarm off running the shower to steam our clothes because there's no iron in the Courthouse Inn. Jude is tie-tying challenged. I can't sit still. But I know he looks incredible and I feel pretty and standing next to him in the mirror we look amazing. He drives us to this beautiful castle a few minutes late, walks me up the drive, and introduces me to his friends. His friends are welcoming, and he's got his arms around me, and I don't feel weird or scared or anything. We explore, run off and sneak under a barricade with our drinks and kiss where no one else can see, and get kicked out like kids in high school. Actually, we found every not allowed place to kiss in the whole darn place, and we found a perfect moment, through a field of fireflies at sunset, into the woods, alone ... I don't know, but my heart hasn't sat still since. We danced silly, we drank, went out, and came back, and I sleep better than ever because he's there. And we sure as hell topped his last wedding experience, and all the wedding experiences I've ever had. And maybe all the days and nights I've ever had. I was so happy that night I could have died.

Sunday, we ate bagels in the motel nook - and he took his time eating to tease me before we left because he knew we were late and I was antsy - and he drove me to Yardley to meet up with my two closest friends, Rich and Steph (or Steph and Rich, in case they're reading and have half a mind to assume the name order has anything to do with which one is my favorite). I haven't seen them in a while - Steph lives in Texas, and Rich is busy all the time - and we decided to go to Hurricane Harbor for the day. And, it was amazing. We went on every single ride. They have this new thing like a giant funnel you drop marbles in only the marbles are people in rafts! I went down the tallest steepest slide when Rich and Steph chickened out and went down the weenie little ones, and I even made friends in line. We had deep conversations about our friends and who we date - and not so deep ones about cock. We teased Rich about being in such good shape since our beach trip from last year. We had an innertube sumo match. Oh, and get this. Steph and I are so cute that we went up to one of the rides with Rich, intending to race down in our tubes, but the guys working up top were into us, they tried to steal us from Rich. And Rich got so protective! We ended up getting split up again on another ride later, but we were pretending to ignore him at the time for teasing too much, and so when we were ignoring him, we missed him fly off his inner tube and lose his glasses in the pool. We went out for sushi and ice cream in Princeton. We taught Rich how to eat edamame: Steph told him to put the whole thing in his mouth, and he realized this "as soon as it entered his mouth." That's what she said. Wehad an amazing touching conversation, dinner wherein Rich and Steph both tried new foods!, ice cream with rosemary and hot pepper ... Rich gave us each a CD, and we cried. Rich drove us home, and we talked about things I never talk about, and sad as it was, I realized how darn close I am to both of them, and writing that right now makes me want to cry. If you're reading, I love you guys.

Anyway, Rich took me back to Jude, late as usual, and ... Well, we were talking about not wanting to be those people that get upset when plans don't go right. And fuck if things didn't go as planned last night. This part is more detailed because it happened most recently and I remember it best. So here goes. We were gonna go to karaoke, but karaoke was cancelled. And there it was, a perfect opportunity. I'm not attached to my date plans, I'm really not - I've had great dates that were great because they went terribly awry - but this particular night I did something I never, ever do. I said, let's go bowling. Now, I hate bowling. I avoid it. I don't know where it came from. But I said it. And Jude said, I'm terrible at bowling. But instead of being a weenie, I said, me too, let's go anyway. It seemed like a great way to not take life so seriously and just be completely spontaneous. So we did. We took our time though, because we knew we'd suck. We sat in the Piazza. We strolled up 3rd Street. We played one game at North Bowl, we were accordingly terrible, and it didn't matter at all. It was fun! It was silly! We took crazy themed pictures in the photo booth and stared at the romance books and bacon-flavored gummies in the vending machine and Jude told me about this old video game machine that moves from venue to venue. We exchanged Mitch Hedberg jokes. I put on socks with flip flops. And then, because the night was young, we went to Charlie's and I asked him to teach me pool because he likes pool (he likes being good at pool) and he makes me want to learn to like the things he likes too. And I enjoyed it thoroughly. He's a great teacher. He never made me feel silly or inadequate, he didn't seem embarrassed that he was good and I wasn't, and he's really really cute when he makes a shot that he's excited about. Nothing else in the world mattered. And then we went home to watch TV and giggle until we fall asleep. 

I feel closer to him every time I see him. Every time I say or do anything. I'm happy. I'm having fun. I'm  getting comfortable without turning boring. I'm inspired to do selfless things. I feel safe and wanted. But it's exciting and wonderful and amazing and I haven't gotten this close to another human being since college. Since I was a young idealist. And he's got me remembering ... I still am.

And my life, even though it's not been perfect, it is great right now. It is amazing. I'm in love. I'm happy. This is perfect.

PBR & American Spirits

I'm sitting, the bare backs of my legs in their skirt stuck to the white vinyl couch, on a night that feels like it should be a Friday but isn't. Everything is done, it just needs to get turned in, and then it will officially be summer. Which would be good news, if I hadn't just found out I was denied the state support I was expecting for the next couple of months. I can't really get hired, work a month, quit, and work somewhere else another month, now can I? I could take out a loan, but that would only add to the endless swamp of despair (and debt) I expect to be wading through in the not too distant future. I have confidence in my ability to overcome the swamp, but this part really bites. I'm going to try not to dwell on it too much, by changing the subject. 

Jude is sitting next to me, autographing trading cards of himself. It is completely ridiculous. I envy the lifestyle, paying the rent with little masterpieces, but it would never work out. I'd always want to do my own thing and never what anyone else wanted. And I prefer to illustrate myself anyway. Didn't I want to do a comic at some point? I'll get around to it maybe eventually. We came across a piece of his other art this evening - the non-commercial, the personal - and I've fallen in love with the expressiveness of it, screen printed to some blank page in the back of my mind forever, and with everything else about him. And I want to steal the notebook we found it in. But I'll probably content myself with sneaking glances at it when he's not looking.

And now for something completely different. Do you ever put your iPod on shuffle and just let it go? And then sometimes a song comes on that you hadn't heard in a while, that belongs on a mixtape you need to make, or already did and forgot about, and it makes you smile? Yeah. I love those moments. Yo La Tengo, You Can Have It All, first experienced at a party at Ashley's house back a million years ago in a winter backyard, back when everyone thought Rich and Ashe were dating and before they knew how absurd a thought that was. Included on the mix, Songs for Rain. 

Rich always has the best music. If I had to come up with one person that had influenced my musical taste the most overall, since of course childhood when Dad bestowed upon me the gift of the Beatles, it would be Rich, hands down. He always has something new and interesting for me. And he's the one that got me started making mixtapes. He and I spent a whole day together once in the cafe of Yardley Starbucks, making the cover art and the liner notes for Steph's going away present. At first I was intimidated by his swanky style and discerning taste, but I realized eventually that even dandies and hipsters look up to someone when they decide what is and isn't good enough for them. I downloaded everything Rich mentioned in passing or played in the car, and fell in love with all my new favorite bands one by one, until one day I was looking for new things and recommending music to other people myself - you should check out the Lacrosse album, on that note. And that's when I started making mixtapes. But I will never be a hipster. Assholes.

Actually, the people that I think of as hipsters, the ones I know anyway - and I guess really this is part of the game - always say, "I don't know why people call me that." Because you don't like being labeled, you unique fucking snowflake! You, in your thrift store togs and converse all-stars, touting your natural vegan ways, riding your fixie while you listen to mixtapes you traded to other assholes on the internets. My favorite attitude on this will always be, "Fuck you. I'm gonna drink my PBR and smoke my American Spirits 'til I die." That's right, you tell 'em, girlfriend. I like some of the coda of the hipster lifestyle, and when Urban Outfitters put out a line of bi-cycles, you can bet I wanted one, but something about the idea of not shaving and using that bullshit Tom's deodorant that doesn't deodorize shit doesn't appeal to me. I'm more like a teeny-hipster. Or a hippertini. People that know a lot of hipsters but aren't in the club. They shop at Urban and American Apparel, but also at the Gap. They ride a bike, but it's not a cool fixie. They don't own a record player, but they do have everything Apple has ever made. They take polaroid pictures. Their hair is not cut asymmetrically. And they still smell good. That's me. If I walked up to a pack of hipsters in a cafe, they'd know - they'd sniff me, question me about my band t-shirt, remark that they'd only gone to that show for the opening act, and turn their noses up with a sulky sway of their collective hips. 

The password to get in is nothing - I'm supposed to act like I don't care, but I'd rather tell them all to screw off.

Actually, cafe people aren't that bad, especially the boys. The ones at Saxby's, which is the only tolerable cafe on campus, are pretty tolerant of hippertinis so long as they are not trying to pretend to be hipsters. They play good music, and they delight in telling you about it if you ask, but they sure as hell spend every free minute standing around with their arms crossed judging people. I make sure to smile, and I've been meaning to drop off a copy of the CD I bought from the last opening act I talked to them about. I'm not trying to get into the club, I'm a genuinely friendly person, and generous where I can be.

And on that note, I made my sister a mix right before I left South Carolina, and I know she found it because she moved it out of the way, and didn't say a word to me. Jerk. Maybe she's the type that gets all embarrassed when people give them things - which I do - and feels awkward bringing it up. Or maybe she just forgot. I will be sure to ask her about it later in front of a group of people. 

I think maybe I will start inventing words like Jude says he used to do, and like they do on How I Met Your Mother. Terms for things we just haven't thought of yet, but that we could all use. Everything has a name, whether we want it to or not, it's just a matter of human ingenuity coming up with the best way to express it. Sometimes it's just a certain way you smile when you're just so happy you could burst and you want to tell someone about it but there's nothing to say so you just smile. I haven't got a word for it, but you'll know what I mean when I do it. I do it a lot lately.

Weimeraner

I burnt the shit out of myself today. I had it all planned out, timed it and everything. Somehow I forgot the sunscreen, and to take down my bathing suit straps, so in addition I'm going to have an asshole tan. Today wasn't shaping up for success by any count, I have to admit. 

Last night I had eight various mixed drinks, mostly mojitos, plus other people's leftovers, several shots, and some legal pot. I danced for three hours to reggae-bluegrass-jam. And then I punched some guy in the face. And then I tried to walk home so no one would see me upset, but when a stranger makes you feel fat and far from home, it leads to face-punching and tears.

So I slept too late, and woke up with a monstrous headache and waves of nausea. It threw me off all. day. They all warned me, too, somehow I always manage to fuck up. Every single vacation I go on, I give myself first degree skin cancer and ruin the experience of sitting thereafter. It also causes sun comas. I still owe the university a little work, but I haven't gotten anything substantial done because I find myself doing more napping than waking. 

Upon one of those catlike wakings, I was invited down to the beach to look for shells, which I can never turn down, and off I went, sans sunscreen again. My back is a total mess. As I sit here, I can see myself reflected in the shimmer of cooked flesh across my bare chest, and can only imagine what tomorrow will bring. It does occur to me at this juncture that I have a particularly weird experience to relate, though.

We went out with the intention of getting oysters on the half shell. One of the boys recommended us a little place up the road, so we decided to try it out. I'm just going to try to describe this experience in the following paragraphs, although this will be no means capture the full bizarreness of the evening.

We turned down a dirt road leading into a marsh, empty, and dead quiet. A few dark houses lined the row, and the trees grew so thick back there it almost gave the feel of twilight. The theme song from Deliverance comes to mind. Bobbee said we ought to turn back, that we were on the wrong road, but Dad pointed to a fucking dirt lot ahead and said, no no, that's gotta be it up there. We pull down there to find a mass of cars parked like hick trucks on a front yard, carefully orchestrated around heaps of garbage and plywood. Walking up, the road is lined with broken oyster shells and beer caps - actually, I thought the caps were little shells at first, but on closer inspection, realized this was not the case. The grand shadows of buildings that aren't houses finally greet us, surrounded on all sides by literal mountains of old oyster shells, and beyond that, the buggy steamy marsh. 

It took us probably ten minutes to figure out how to get inside and get food. A helpful sign painted, "Restaurant This Way" with an arrow greeted us, but as it turned out the arrow pointed to nothing. So we wandered around the complex for a while. There are a number of small, abandoned buildings full of garbage and wood, and painted bright colors, huddled around the foot of a larger main building. One of the smaller buildings is a train car. One is a 6 x 6 brick cube with the name of an attorney on a plaque outside and the door kicked in. The main building is literally sitting on cinder block stilts, and made of unadorned plywood. Two forty year old lawn chairs sit at the bottom of a ramp to nowhere, watching forlornly as oyster greenhorns climb the ramp to the top, only to find nothing there - although it does offer a lovely view of the rooftop moss garden on a building below. 

We finally found ourselves directed to a bait shack, where a man named Mimi will greet you and take your order, cash only, fried only, and everything good is out of season. Also there's a private wedding reception on the back dock, where rednecks in golf shirts and red baseball hats celebrate the union of their unpedigree pups. You order from Mimi, then walk back up the dock to the cinder-plywood masterpiece and find a good thirty people sitting underneath at plastic tables with mis-matched, degrading chairs. It looks an awful lot like the inside of a garage, with a concrete floor and junk heaped variously around, complete with a crappy garage cover band, consisting of my Uncle Benny's doppelganger, a beatnik conspiracy theorist, and a desperate Richard Simmons in the midst of a serious heroin binge. You seat yourself and just wait, sipping coke out of cans, until the waitress comes. She doesn't know where the food is going when it comes out, she just comes out and stands in the middle of the garage yelling your name until you claim your shit. 

And it's the weirdest seafood I've ever seen. Mimi swears it's all fresh caught in the bay, but it's been fried beyond recognition. They give you a 16-inch slab of fried fish, soggy fried shrimp, a hairball that's meant to be a crab cake, something called hush puppies which as best as I can figure are fried corn meal balls, all heaped atop the worst french fries I have ever had - though I'm sure they don't catch those. You have to get your own silverware and condiments and napkins out of a barrel. When we finally get called, the band plays - butchers - Tom Petty, and some guys start whooping and hollering and clapping like it's the rodeo. This is the low country experience, says Bobbee. While I was struggling to digest that mess, I watched a fucking Weimeraner run around the tables, sniffing at people and stealing pieces of fish and garbage. And the low country people were not fazed or even interested.

I should take at least a moment to describe the bathroom in the place, in closing. The walls are pinned up with old bedsheets from 1974, and all spare surfaces are graffitied with the nicest graffiti I have ever seen. Visit such and such a home living website. Goodbye to broken promises and forgotten dreams. I love you, Brad and Jenny. Michelle Branch lyrics. And the toilet was lovingly inscribed, Love Toilit (sic) Have a nice dump, have a nice day :), in pink hi-lighter. I like weird bathrooms and always take care to note especially memorable ones, but overall, this was probably the weirdest. I thought I was in the bizarro world. As we left, my dad leaned in and said, I have a quote from the men's bathroom for your blog, Clinton Pucket is a homo. And whistling Deliverance, we drove back to civilization. 

And thus ends my weird day. I'm not drinking for a ... week. 

Tofu People

And a few hours later, I'm still sitting here, wasting my time on YouTube. It's amazing how you can be surrounded completely by people and still feel lonely. All my relatives and all their kids and all their drama and all their lives. 

It's not that I want what they have; god no. They're all married and breeding like rabbits, and they have to arrange for their own eating times because someone has to hold their babies. I mean, what the fuck. I had a conversation today with my stepmom about how kids probably aren't for me. She says they weren't for her, either, and I guess at 50-whatever it's too late to change your mind. She said I should freeze my eggs, but in my head I'm like, yea, that costs money, I'll never bother. If on the .000% chance I get to that point, there's always adoption. Yuck.

But here's the other thing she said to me: those people, they lose their personalities. And when you ask them later, they say their kids were their personality. They don't just associate themselves with their kids, they identify themselves with their kids. The thought of it makes me shudder. It's a lot like what Jude said getting married was like. And at first, that disenchants me entirely of the thought of family life. But objectively, I have to step back and say, now hold up. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone is like that. Maybe some of them are just boring people. Tofu people. They just soak up the flavor of what's around them, and still mostly taste like tofu, and the other food tastes less like itself and more like tofu too. Which is gross and creepy, but I think a good analogy. Some people are really boring. They have no personality of their own, they just sap it from others, and add nothing to human discourse. They define themselves by their routine, and if their routine happens to be staying home and raising kids, then of course their personality will be their kids. If you find yourself around one of these people, and you say you like something, they will say, oh my husband hates that, or my kids love this. Well that's fucking great. What do you think? And then the answer is some wishy washy I don't know. 

I hate being around them. Outside of their children's needs, they never know what they want to eat or do, they never have anything useful or interesting to add to conversation, they need your help deciding on clothing, they never take responsibility for anything that goes wrong. It's the embodiment of everything I hate in human society, except maybe racism and genocide and rape and such. Their husbands go mindless, and spend as much time away as possible, assuming they aren't also tofu people. Oh, and that's the worst. Tofu couples? Shoot me.

But there's a solution, world, and here it is: don't marry tofu people, and don't have kids with tofu people. Your life can be interesting always and forever if you always spice it up. Keep a bottle of curry in your pocket, despairing romantics of the world! Someone exciting is waiting for you!

And as for you, my dear, I miss you terribly. And you do not taste like tofu.

Weird Girl

I'm sitting on the couch watching the second to last or last episode of Lost (I think), without having watched any other episode after the first handful. My ten year old cousin was here too, knowing just as much about it as I did, asking questions from time to time but fairly patiently watching. Well, he just got up and, unapologetically, left. I, on the other hand, am rooted to this spot, confused to the point of mesmerization. I don't know that I'm exactly interested, or just waiting for my mind to clear. 

While I am sitting here doing this, I realize at some point I forgot to write about all the other important things going on in my life. I sort of finished my semester - same grades as always - and I'm in fucking South Carolina, for crying out loud. I mean, I've been updating to that end on Twitter, but I realize if I have a readership and it doesn't overlap, they must be severely confused. But isn't that an indulgent thought? At any rate, I'm at Folly Beach, which is named thus because this is where the pirate Blackbeard cornered himself upstream hiding from the navy, was caught, and then killed, and I know this because I am clearly the coolest kid in school.

There is, in fact, a disappointing lack of pirate legend and lore down here, however. Doesn't anyone else care that the Golden Age pirates hid all over this stretch of coastline for decades? Alas, I am a nerd. I shall not be loved and accepted except by nerds. Which, I guess, is why I never really fit in at these family things. Might be the red hair, piercings and tattoos, too, that probably has something to do with it. But you know, those things are a part of my personality. I may be naturally blonde, but on the inside, I have always wanted to be a redhead, I'm not fully expressing myself or happy unless I'm a redhead, and I'm supposed to be a redhead. My piercing, I took out for months - a year - a few years ago, and it never healed over. It's meant to be there. My tattoos all have meanings for me. These things are all a part of me. 

Some people change their appearances to hide something; others to express it, and I express. Today, my sister told me I should become a tattoo artist. I told her, I'm kinda far along this track, I can't really just quit. I did tell her about my hero, Emilie Hafner-Burton, and her nose stud and her phoenix tattoo, and how I'm going to vindicate myself eventually. I was reading today about the bohemian bourgeoisie, whom by my career choice I will eventually join, and how in order to maintain our identities and prove our detachment from the material and the mainstream, we must sport a tattoo or a motorcycle, and so I feel like by the time I get there, society will catch up with me, haha. There's a justification. But really, no one's ever said anything about my weirdness, and the people that really, really matter accept me for it.

And sometimes they say that stupid bullshit about how I'm not weird, or how everyone's weird, or who wants to be normal? Shut up. I identify with "weird". I like it. I want it that way. And I don't need anyone to make me feel better about it. Just love me, and don't talk about it. Jerks.

Like A Maple Tree, But Pretty Sweet

You say that I started it with my secret pirate blog, but really, that’s not true. It’s not a secret blog—everyone knows about it, just no one reads it. And I didn’t start it expressly to write to you, you just happened to be right there when everything felt terrible, and you happened to be the one to pick me up and dust me off. You listened and advised and set me right. You were there. So you were wiggling your way into my little heart, and of course that’s what came out when my creative fingers started itching to move.

I’m not turning the blame over to you. That’s what irresponsible people do when they do something bad and don’t want to get in trouble for it. While I’m not claiming to be responsible, this isn’t bad and I’m not worried about getting in trouble. We both started it. I’m sure that even the people that complain about sappy morons on the Internet want to feel love and fire and magic, and even though they bitch, as much as they bitch, you won’t hear a word from them when they’re happy too.

In fact, sometimes I’m nearly convinced that we’re just putting up the fight because we’ve cultivated the attitude for so long that we expect ourselves to, because we need the world to know that we’re tough and we won’t let anyone in to break our hearts ever again and the only way to do that is to talk the talk to anyone that will listen. And we almost had ourselves convinced. Almost.

But I find myself doing, every day, exactly the things I swore I was swearing off. I get so full of inspiration sometimes, caught up in some moment or some song, in fact, that I’ll make a post on Facebook or Twitter, declaring to the world how I feel, only to think about it, and rethink it, and delete it a few moments later or act like it never happened. I worry what those people I’ve been crowing to will think. I worry what, after I’ve been telling myself all this time, I’ll think. And most of all, I worry about what you’ll think.

And that’s silly. You told me you don’t think I’m crazy. I’m not crazy. I’ve been told so many times, I’m too much, I’m overbearing, and so I’ve always held back. And you know what, I’ve been told by those very same people that I never said what I was thinking or showed how I felt. I wish I could blame those boys for not knowing what they wanted, when in reality, I always should have just been myself and accepted the consequences. That’s hard to do. But that’s also what got me into this mess in the first place. So, because of that, I’m going to get it right this time, I’m going to be open and honest and myself, and if what comes out isn’t what you want, then I’ll know you and I just aren’t right. But if there’s an off chance that we are, at the risk of being crazy, I’m willing to find out.

I love you. You have my whole heart. I may not always say it because I like to think you have to know, when I just look at you, and I don't want to ruin the word by saying it too much, but I absolutely do. I want to be cultured and cook and ride around the county collecting antique cameras with you. I want to make you happy when you’re sad; I want to make you laugh when you’re happy. I promise not to talk about tomorrow, so long as we don’t speak in finite terms. I’m content to just ride along to the tune of indie mixtapes until we’re too old and tired to ride anymore. I’m content to make big plans to fly away with no certain dates until we fall asleep on the floor. And I’m content to do precisely nothing but giggle about the dirty word you just said until we start to wonder where those last nine hours went. And I don’t need fancy dinners and gifts. I just want to see you smile to yourself like you think no one’s looking. I just want you to catch yourself humming that song I gave you. I just want you to realize that somewhere along the line you’re happy. Because, my darling, you have done that for me.

The Missing Liner Notes

Two Kids

Various Artists

1. Last Person, Jenny Owen Youngs
2. Roman History, Pet Lions
3. Bad Kids, Black Lips
4. Camilo (the Magician), Said the Whale
5. Now We Can See, The Thermals
6. Sugarcube, Yo La Tengo
7. DC Comics & Chocolate Milkshake, Art Brut
8. Very Loud, Shout Out Louds
9. Sunlight, Harlem Shakes
10. Mint Car, The Cure
11. I Was Meant For You, She & Him
12. Last Person, Jenny Owen Youngs

I think I wrote in the cover that I wasn't including liner notes because it might be more fun to guess, but the more I think about it, the more I have to say about that mix. And I didn't want to bother you about it too much, because I don't want to give the impression I'm looking for compliments or whatever. I just have things to say. So, the missing liner notes:

I think I did at least include my mixtape rules in the jacket; those are pretty important, if not completely arbitrary. But I do have a rule about repeating artists on a mixtape; I make the exception here because the first and last tracks are really part of the same song, and help to tie the thing together. First/Last Person, for me, is sort of the mindset I decided to take up when I went out on that winter night. Instead of moping and feeling sorry for myself, I figure,

What's the worst thing that could happen? We find out that we don't quite fit.

But on the flip side, we could be just right, and sure there's the chance that we'll both end up broken and split,

but that's my kind of risk.

But I also came across Jenny Owen Youngs right as I was starting to get it together after my own heartbreak, and I associate her with things getting better and happy times. Sometimes, when I'm riding my bike on a sunny day, I sing to her album out loud as I fly down the sidewalk, regardless of the reactions of passerby. She helps me to look to brighter things, so she comes naturally first in a mix about getting happy.

In contrast to that, I have to remind myself of what my hang-ups were at the time. I did feel sorry for me. Roman History is kind of a depressing story, but he also talks about what he needs for it to get better. Then again, that's not why I picked the track. It's really meant to be light-hearted and fun. I have inside jokes with myself, like how I didn't really like or start to drink gin until we started hanging out, and the line about how he "says he knows Jude and she says she does too".

Bad Kids is just about being bad and having fun. Adventures. Not looking back.

Camilo (the Magician) is about a guy and a magician (obviously), and impressing a girl, and I recall a certain magic trick someone showed me using pennies and dimes when he sings the line about holding that coin tight. He's asking Camilo how to do magic, to show the girl that even though she's sad, not everything in life is real, and she'll get it together soon.

I admit I'm a little disappointed you already knew the Thermals track, but I guess I should have known you were a bigger music buff. I used that one for the same reasons as most of these, because we don't have to admit we were wrong, because we won, and we're okay.

Sugarcube is one of my favorite Yo La Tengo tracks. It's just a good song. But it's also about trying to do anything, even the impossible, for someone, and I think that's just a beautiful idea. I can admit here, when I really care about someone, and I think this is true for most people with good hearts, and I bet you too, I'd do anything in my power for them.

The Art Brut track, haha. that's just a nerdy little shout out. They ought to play it in Brave New Worlds.

I went to see the Shout Out Louds last week, and you said you didn't know them, so I knew that was a safe bet. This is my second favorite song by them, my first favorite being about breakups and not very useful, haha. It's about wanting to be better. Not that I don't think I'm good enough, but I think maybe if I had bigger dreams and more money and whatever else, I'd be better.

Sunlight doesn't really mean anything at all. I just like it and it's fun, and the way the beat rolls it makes me think of riding bikes.

The first time you sat at my karaoke table, you asked me what you should sing, and I said the Cure; you asked what track, and I said my favorite, or Mint Car. And you didn't know Mint Car, so I put in on here. It's a really sweet song. "I really don't think it gets any better than this."

The She & Him track is another sweet story. If I'm gonna go by Jenny Owen Youngs' mantra, "I'm not trying to make you think this is some kind of great big deal" by including sappy songs, I put this one on here because I really like it, and maybe it's the kind of thing I'll believe in next year. And anyway, I have a big crush on Zooey Deschanel, and it's a good lead in to the last track, which is about the end of worrying about it and maybe finding out how to be happy.

There. I feel better now that I got that out.

Mix Tapes

I haven't been writing lately because I'm an idiot and I backed myself into a corner in finals week, and I've had about four hours of sleep every night trying to get it all together on time. This isn't what I'd like to be doing, but I don't really have a choice. It gets pretty lonely up there in my room, even though there are people and cats in close quarters all the time. I miss you. I really miss you. So I just thought, when I had a moment, I'd make you something.

Last time I made a mix tape, I felt like it was unwanted and a waste. I don't know if you know this about me, but I spend hours on these, drawing a cover, writing the liner notes, agonizing over the song order and whether or not the lyrics will send the right message. And to have that put on a shelf, hidden so no one would see it, never thanked, and never reminded about it again, that stung. The person may as well have thrown it in my face. I was angry. I didn't want to do it anymore. But I bounced back in time. I made them for me. And for the first time in ages, I made one for someone else. And it came to me easy.

I feel creative and happy now, even though I'm exhausted. That was exactly what I wanted to do with my afternoon. And then I had the brilliant idea to wrap it up and leave it as a surprise. I didn't get to see the look on your face when you opened it, but I can imagine it, and the thought of that makes me smile. And feeling inspired to do things like that for another person for the first time in forever, now that's really something.

In other news,


"Inch for inch, the human male has the largest penis of all the primates."
"Really? I thought it was the horse."
"... the horse is not a primate."

- conversation just had in my living room. Guess who shared this little gem. Hint: the fucking pre-med studying for anatomy on the couch.