Alright, ya'll. Fingers to keys. Let's do this. Since we’ve last talked, a lot has gone down. For one thing, I’ve moved to Brooklyn. For another, I lied. The Brooklyn thing was really all I’ve got, but what a thing it is! I can’t believe how many little pockets exist here, each with a new style of architecture and culture to explore and ultimately gentrify (ha ha?). Really, there is something so satisfying about taking the train into Manhattan in the morning, contributing the to crazyville that is midtown, and then, come quitting time, leaving it all behind for the quiet tree-lined streets of Brooklyn where a burrito is but a stone’s throw away and free (and good) comedy shows occur on a weekly basis. Fetch the smelling salts and get those slapping hands ready cause this previously sour and foul blogger is obviously under some trance that makes her want to give transformative make-overs to the less popular and pass out affirmations to the homeless (you see? I’m feeding their souls). Seriously, this whole positivity thing could severely damage the whole unlikable witchy vibe that I’ve spent half of my life cultivating. AND I’m living in Williamsburg, which, as a post-hipster epicenter, should breed nothing but a holier-than-thou attitude with a constant cloud of cynicism hovering over it. But no. I even like Williamsburg cause it just makes life so damn easy.
Another thing that I really like about being here? I think that I might have friends. Creating a social circle for myself was a little more difficult than I expected. I sort of thought that I would be met at the airport by an ethnically diverse group of young people who all wear cardigans and split their time between the UCB theater and writing sketches at some coffee shop/bar where none of the furniture matches. And what? They think that I would be the perfect addition to their comedy group that is currently teetering on the brink of success? And I would be the one to push them over the edge? Why, of course I’ll accept. And while I’m at it, I’ll take the perfect leather jacket and a cure for world hunger (more affirmations, maybe?). Alas, I once again had to learn the lesson that seems to be popping up all over my life these days. Most things worth having take work to get (yeah, you're welcome for that taste of mind-blowing philosophy. I'm full of life-changing shit like that). And by work, I mean loudly complaining at work about how you don't know anyone in this city and how depressing your weekend is going to be until someone, ANYONE, takes pity on you. See, the first time you spend time together, it's out of pity, but then you hit them with the awesome personality that lurks beneath your shameless bids for attention and WHAM they're hooked. Then you use the first friend to get another and another and... Suddenly, you're training it down to Park Slope for a Bad Movie Night or heading to the Lower East Side to go to a literal pickle festival. Through my methods, I've actually met people who do perform improv, write amazing sketches, and perform stand-up. True, my complaining has yet to convince them to collaborate with me, but I'm sure I'll wear them down eventually. If that doesn't work, I can always exhaustingly and unnecessarily throw out punch lines until my real funny shines through ('what is this? New Jersey?!").
Apropos to nothing, isn't it about time that Jane Lynch got some public affection? Has she ever been less than great in anything that she's been in? Sue Motherfucking Sylvester, am I right? How many rhetorical statements can I put in a row? Does Glee's success mean no more Constance Carmel? You can actually answer that last one, if you'd like...
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sweat
So, the Summer of '09 officially kicked off yesterday and I sit as living proof of that. I write, sweating my balls off, from my couch. Or I would be if I had balls... but even then, I wouldn't have balls because they would have been sweat off. Oy! This heat is making me talk crazy. Seriously, Wisconsin! Must we resort to such extremes? Cold and dry. Hot and humid. How about warm with a soft breeze? Too much to ask? Blah. I bitch, but Madison summers are known for being crazy awesome. All of the students are gone, so the townies get to reclaim their city for a few months, which means late night patio drinks, seeing free music at the Union, biking, and eating amazing local produce.
Speaking of fun summer activities, today I went with some friends to Lake Ripley in Cambridge, WI. Did you know that Madison's lakes are supposedly unswimmable? They are, which is why we have to drive a half-hour to go swimming. Not that I'm complaining. Lathering up with sunscreen, cracking a High Life, and blasting some Santogold- I don't think that I could ask for much more. It was so relaxing that I even fell asleep for a bit, face-down into my towel.
Tomorrow is going to be in the nineties and I'm searching desperately for some air-conditioned space to sit in for a few hours. I think the closest that I'll get is sitting in my mom's shadowy downstairs, drinking smoothies, and watching hours of Generation Kill (which, by the way, is turning me into an even angrier person). In the evening, I'll be celebrating my roommate's birthday with a soiree at our house that will include pizzas baked in ovens (ick) and whole bunch of white wine (yay).
This was the worst blog post ever. Sorry, but I'm feeling a complete blog-related lethargy (blogthargy?) and I fear that, if I don't push through it now, it might be September before I post again.
Better stuff to come, I swear.
Speaking of fun summer activities, today I went with some friends to Lake Ripley in Cambridge, WI. Did you know that Madison's lakes are supposedly unswimmable? They are, which is why we have to drive a half-hour to go swimming. Not that I'm complaining. Lathering up with sunscreen, cracking a High Life, and blasting some Santogold- I don't think that I could ask for much more. It was so relaxing that I even fell asleep for a bit, face-down into my towel.
Tomorrow is going to be in the nineties and I'm searching desperately for some air-conditioned space to sit in for a few hours. I think the closest that I'll get is sitting in my mom's shadowy downstairs, drinking smoothies, and watching hours of Generation Kill (which, by the way, is turning me into an even angrier person). In the evening, I'll be celebrating my roommate's birthday with a soiree at our house that will include pizzas baked in ovens (ick) and whole bunch of white wine (yay).
This was the worst blog post ever. Sorry, but I'm feeling a complete blog-related lethargy (blogthargy?) and I fear that, if I don't push through it now, it might be September before I post again.
Better stuff to come, I swear.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
I don't want to be your weekend lover...
Generally, I try to avoid dating or any type of sexually charged mingling of the sexes. Lingering glances and touches make me feel claustrophobic; I can’t function in a conversation that lacks boner jokes; and, to me, “sexy” means putting on a clean bra and possibly deodorant. Despite my better efforts, I occasionally find myself in situations where people somehow manage to test my unreasonable and unmoving boundaries and see past my unwelcoming attitude (usually through vast consumption of alcohol). So was last night when I went to see a friend’s band play at a local club. Just so you don’t assume that I constantly wallow in a pool of self-pity and deprecation, I’ll admit that I was feeling pretty good. My hair was doing nice things for me, my skin was all aglow, and for once I managed to look not like a complete A-hole (A=ass) in skinny jeans. Not unrelated, I drank a gimlet after work AND am trying this new thing where I don’t send out unwelcoming vibes. Anyway, sitting at a table with my friend, a bunch of dudes suddenly saddled up like we invited them or something. Naturally, I started trying to play wingman for my girl, saying stuff like “She’s real smart at college” and “I hear she gives a sweet beege,” but more and more this one guy kept turning to me and asking me what I studied, where I’m from, etc. More than that, he kept touching my arm. WHO DOES THAT? Not I, that’s for sure. Ignoring my natural instinct to run home and watch old episodes of Perfect Strangers on the computer, I decided to be brave and try and do what comes naturally to others.
Things were going… okay. The guy had an ironic mustache, which never bodes well, but he also went to Berkley, which means that he’s probably pretty smart. So, for a while, I hung in there and I can’t stress enough how unusual that is for me. But then he said this:
“Yeah, I’m sort of a connoisseur of cities.”
What. The. Fuck. Before you think that I’m being too hard on the guy, let me tell you how unbelievably pretentious this sounded: SO UNBELIEVABLY PRETENTIOUS. That’s when I got up and left the table for a “closer look at the band.” Later in the night, a couple of friends approached me to plead his case.
“PQK,” one said. “You were just the other day saying that you don’t get touched enough.” (note: I was joking when I said that)
“He’s a really nice guy,” the other said.
“I’m not really the ‘in town for the weekend’ type of girl,” I said, diplomatically.
A little bit later, I felt someone’s hand on my messenger bag. Turning around, I saw The Guy. Naturally, I said the first thing that came to mind:
“Are you trying to mug me?”
Apparently, he wasn’t (though I’m still suspicious). Turns out, he was just checking out the buttons on my bag.
“Oh,” I said. “That one’s from Lula Café in Chicago. Have you ever been there?”
“No,” he replied. “Which is weird because I’m sort of a connoisseur of cafes.”
I am not kidding. He dropped the C-bomb TWICE. And yes, this post merits lots of caps locks. But the fun doesn’t stop there. No, he followed it up with something equally uncomfortable and self-conscious:
“PQK, how do you feel about candidness?”
Candidly, I think questions like that are reserved for bullshit, whimsical hipster rom-coms, but I think I actually answered with something along the lines of “if you don’t have anything nice to say…”
“Well, candidly,” he continued. “I think [insert comment about my looks that I'm to embarrassed to type here].” (at least the guy has good tastes. har har)
“Candidly,” I said, almost puking with nervousness. “That girl is dancing crazy.” And then I pointed to some crazy dancing girl. And side shuffled away, muttering “thanks.”
I’m asking you, Internets, is this sort of thing normal? Is this how men and women usually strive to interact with each other? Maybe I just grew up with too many male friends, which means that I openly scoff at lame comments like a sister rather than say “connoisseur of cities and cafes, eh? That is sexually appealing to me somehow” like a flirt. All I know is that, for once, it was so satisfying to go home to my own bed and sleep alone, clutching my laptop. Call it sad, but it cannot be anymore depressing than bragging to random girls in bars (as nice as their hair may look). Besides, how can I fit into that world? What can I say back? I guess I’m a connoisseur of Buffy episodes. I’m a connoisseur of bagels. I kick ass at Trivial Pursuit: Pop Culture Edition. Jaded as I may come off, I’m convinced that one day I’ll meet someone who will be impressed by these things, but I highly doubt that he is the type of person who continually takes pictures of himself (this guy did) and has facial hair that is intentionally stupid.
I know this post is about a mile long, but I'd like to give the gents out there some advice that I'm completely unqualified to give:
-Beards can be good if kept neat. Mustaches are just awful no matter how great your fixed-gear is.
-Be sincere. If you love to ride that fixed-gear, by all means, ride that fixed gear. Just don't do it if you don't actually give a shit about bikes. The same can be said for conversations. Rehearsed sentences like "how do you feel about candidness" come off as just that: rehearsed. It's not quirky. It's awkward. Just talk.
-If you want my attention, be funny, be smart, be humble. That's really all there is to it (is that so hard?). Oh, and be wicked good looking.
And now a note to my friends:
It's become clear that you have no idea what my type is. I know that I'm into fashion, but, in the end, it comes down to the fact that I would date a guy in cargo shorts over a guy wearing raw denim as long as Mr. Cargo Shorts would repeatedly watch Wet Hot American Summer with me and make me laugh. Also, I kind of like socially integrated nerds (meaning a nerd that can handle drinking a beer at a bar with a small group of people, not nerds who solely date through online gaming). I've crushed on many a T.A. even though there are more stylish people in class. It's way cooler to know about Shakespeare than it is to complain about how Animal Collective have sold out with their newest album. I guess what I'm saying is that I appreciate the effort. You're just trying to help cure the social awkwardness and loneliness that I wear way too obviously. But please, stop pushing me towards boring people who are later randomly described to me as an "arrogant asshole" and a "pretentious prick."
Oh, and P.S., the night wasn't a total waste. I definitely danced the "Tootsie Roll" along side one of Kanye West's stylists. Ah, brushes with fame...ish.
Things were going… okay. The guy had an ironic mustache, which never bodes well, but he also went to Berkley, which means that he’s probably pretty smart. So, for a while, I hung in there and I can’t stress enough how unusual that is for me. But then he said this:
“Yeah, I’m sort of a connoisseur of cities.”
What. The. Fuck. Before you think that I’m being too hard on the guy, let me tell you how unbelievably pretentious this sounded: SO UNBELIEVABLY PRETENTIOUS. That’s when I got up and left the table for a “closer look at the band.” Later in the night, a couple of friends approached me to plead his case.
“PQK,” one said. “You were just the other day saying that you don’t get touched enough.” (note: I was joking when I said that)
“He’s a really nice guy,” the other said.
“I’m not really the ‘in town for the weekend’ type of girl,” I said, diplomatically.
A little bit later, I felt someone’s hand on my messenger bag. Turning around, I saw The Guy. Naturally, I said the first thing that came to mind:
“Are you trying to mug me?”
Apparently, he wasn’t (though I’m still suspicious). Turns out, he was just checking out the buttons on my bag.
“Oh,” I said. “That one’s from Lula Café in Chicago. Have you ever been there?”
“No,” he replied. “Which is weird because I’m sort of a connoisseur of cafes.”
I am not kidding. He dropped the C-bomb TWICE. And yes, this post merits lots of caps locks. But the fun doesn’t stop there. No, he followed it up with something equally uncomfortable and self-conscious:
“PQK, how do you feel about candidness?”
Candidly, I think questions like that are reserved for bullshit, whimsical hipster rom-coms, but I think I actually answered with something along the lines of “if you don’t have anything nice to say…”
“Well, candidly,” he continued. “I think [insert comment about my looks that I'm to embarrassed to type here].” (at least the guy has good tastes. har har)
“Candidly,” I said, almost puking with nervousness. “That girl is dancing crazy.” And then I pointed to some crazy dancing girl. And side shuffled away, muttering “thanks.”
I’m asking you, Internets, is this sort of thing normal? Is this how men and women usually strive to interact with each other? Maybe I just grew up with too many male friends, which means that I openly scoff at lame comments like a sister rather than say “connoisseur of cities and cafes, eh? That is sexually appealing to me somehow” like a flirt. All I know is that, for once, it was so satisfying to go home to my own bed and sleep alone, clutching my laptop. Call it sad, but it cannot be anymore depressing than bragging to random girls in bars (as nice as their hair may look). Besides, how can I fit into that world? What can I say back? I guess I’m a connoisseur of Buffy episodes. I’m a connoisseur of bagels. I kick ass at Trivial Pursuit: Pop Culture Edition. Jaded as I may come off, I’m convinced that one day I’ll meet someone who will be impressed by these things, but I highly doubt that he is the type of person who continually takes pictures of himself (this guy did) and has facial hair that is intentionally stupid.
I know this post is about a mile long, but I'd like to give the gents out there some advice that I'm completely unqualified to give:
-Beards can be good if kept neat. Mustaches are just awful no matter how great your fixed-gear is.
-Be sincere. If you love to ride that fixed-gear, by all means, ride that fixed gear. Just don't do it if you don't actually give a shit about bikes. The same can be said for conversations. Rehearsed sentences like "how do you feel about candidness" come off as just that: rehearsed. It's not quirky. It's awkward. Just talk.
-If you want my attention, be funny, be smart, be humble. That's really all there is to it (is that so hard?). Oh, and be wicked good looking.
And now a note to my friends:
It's become clear that you have no idea what my type is. I know that I'm into fashion, but, in the end, it comes down to the fact that I would date a guy in cargo shorts over a guy wearing raw denim as long as Mr. Cargo Shorts would repeatedly watch Wet Hot American Summer with me and make me laugh. Also, I kind of like socially integrated nerds (meaning a nerd that can handle drinking a beer at a bar with a small group of people, not nerds who solely date through online gaming). I've crushed on many a T.A. even though there are more stylish people in class. It's way cooler to know about Shakespeare than it is to complain about how Animal Collective have sold out with their newest album. I guess what I'm saying is that I appreciate the effort. You're just trying to help cure the social awkwardness and loneliness that I wear way too obviously. But please, stop pushing me towards boring people who are later randomly described to me as an "arrogant asshole" and a "pretentious prick."
Oh, and P.S., the night wasn't a total waste. I definitely danced the "Tootsie Roll" along side one of Kanye West's stylists. Ah, brushes with fame...ish.
Breakdown
snowdrops
buds
delicious smoothies
my dog refusing to sit still so that I can take his picture...
...but insisting on being in others.
new shoes
short sleeves
and nothing productive.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Early Birds
Today, I went out for dinner with Rachel. At 4:30 P.M. This suited both of us fine.
Before going to the restaurant, she and I sat in the sun (41-degrees today, suckas) talking about the new apartment I'm hoping to rent.
"It's smallish, but the architecture is nice," I told her. "The only problem is that I hear that the building isn't very soundproof."
"That sucks," she replied.
"But I also hear that the crowd is pretty low key, so it's quiet by 10:30."
"No," she said. "It'll suck for you."
"Why? I don't listen to music or own a T.V. I never have people over either."
"I guess that only leaves the sound of you weeping."
Before going to the restaurant, she and I sat in the sun (41-degrees today, suckas) talking about the new apartment I'm hoping to rent.
"It's smallish, but the architecture is nice," I told her. "The only problem is that I hear that the building isn't very soundproof."
"That sucks," she replied.
"But I also hear that the crowd is pretty low key, so it's quiet by 10:30."
"No," she said. "It'll suck for you."
"Why? I don't listen to music or own a T.V. I never have people over either."
"I guess that only leaves the sound of you weeping."
Friday, February 20, 2009
Bucked up on nasal spray and optimism
Just to let everyone know, I'm out of my funk. The day after I wrote that last entry, I got kind of sick, which explains (to an extent) my emotional hysteria. Yes, bring on the birthday and I'll be happy anyway that it comes (runny nose and all), just as long as I spend it with my family and closest friends (one of whom has taken off work to have dinner with me)!
Let's move on from less sentimental topics, shall we? Here are things that I should have been blogging about instead of feeling like a lame-dash-oh:
-How much I hate Terrance Howard
-A dream that I had in which I was helping Mary Louise Parker find a sperm donor. I referred her to my friend who happened to be OMAR from The Wire
-How much I love The Wire
-The awesome new art that I just got framed (more later).
-How my mother celebrated a birthday of her own.
-Needing to come clean about watching a full episode of Sober House with Dr. Drew.
-Having a coffee with the head writer of The Colbert Report (more later?).
-Anything else. Anything else at all.
Let's move on from less sentimental topics, shall we? Here are things that I should have been blogging about instead of feeling like a lame-dash-oh:
-How much I hate Terrance Howard
-A dream that I had in which I was helping Mary Louise Parker find a sperm donor. I referred her to my friend who happened to be OMAR from The Wire
-How much I love The Wire
-The awesome new art that I just got framed (more later).
-How my mother celebrated a birthday of her own.
-Needing to come clean about watching a full episode of Sober House with Dr. Drew.
-Having a coffee with the head writer of The Colbert Report (more later?).
-Anything else. Anything else at all.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Ring-A-Ding-Ding, 2009!
As most bloggers know, there comes a point where you just don’t want to write anymore and think about throwing this whole blog thing to the wind. That’s how I’ve been feeling the past few weeks and am still feeling, but I decided to push through and type out an entry anyhow. It’s an exercise in creativity… or maybe narcissism… I’m not quite sure. Actually, I’ve been feeling quite creative lately. Not in the sense that I’m actually doing anything creative, but my mind seems to be brimming with ideas about short stories, screenplays, interior design, more web videos, etc. Only when it comes to fashion and blogging am I feeling blank. I sit down to write and end up watching an hour of ThunderAnt videos instead.
There are a lot of things to catch up on. We saw the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009. I passed the New Year visiting my grandparents in Vancouver. On the plane ride out, I got sicker than I’ve ever been. I broke out into a cold sweat, got dizzy, turned white as a ghost, vomited multiple times, and felt like I had eaten a bowl of knives for breakfast. I suspect that this was caused by taking a percocet that didn’t belong to me just because the term “muscle relaxant” sounded nice for air travel (I get terrible travel anxiety). Let me be a lesson to you. Taking prescription drugs that don’t belong to you is never a good idea.
I stopped vomiting by the time we arrived in British Colombia, but the stress didn’t end there. Did you know that being around family is stressful? Did you know that being in Whistler whilst (alliteration! What-what!) having no interest in winter sports can be boring? I even tried tubing—turns out that sliding down a hill in cold snow is not that much fun. Did you know that it’s embarrassing to have a small emotional breakdown in a ski rental shop, no matter how nice your dad is being about it? Well, I know all of these things. Luckily, I also know that Vancouver has great shopping and restaurants, it’s great to celebrate my grandfather’s 77th birthday with him, and looking through old family photo albums is a fantastic way to spend an evening. In addition to that, I’ve discovered that I’m totally effing crazy for missing cold-ass Wisconsin so much and even more crazy for being so happy to be back and ready to start school.
Since I slacked in writing a “Happy New Year” post (Happy New Year, by the way), I wanted to use now to write out some of my resolutions. I don’t hate resolutions like some of my nearest and dearest. I think that we should strive for progression and that we need to allow change to enter our lives so that we can evolve. That being said, here are mine:
-Try not to talk bad about myself so much. I have a habit of self-deprecating when I get nervous and I’m really trying to stop.
-Stop bickering with my roommate so much. One of my roommates and I argue constantly about everything (except the house). Some company pointed this out to me and I realized how unattractive it is. Sure, a good debate here and there is fine, fun even, but to do it constantly just obnoxious.
-Be less passive in expressing what I want. It’s time to get aggressive in going after what I want in life. It’s not going to come to me.
-Be less crude… sometimes. I have a tendency to endearingly call people names like “cocksucker” or “twat face.” These names have a time and a place, but I can see how friends might become exhausted when I never call them by their actually names, insisting on using expletives instead. Sorry, guys.
-Lastly, be Tina Fey. I think that if I were to idolize anyone, it would be her. I love that she created her own career and has kept her (I hate this word) quirk. I think that she gives hope to those of us who are funny, clever, and have maybe blogged one too many times about certain science fiction T.V. shows. Congratulations on Globes, Miss Fey!
PQK out.
There are a lot of things to catch up on. We saw the end of 2008 and the beginning of 2009. I passed the New Year visiting my grandparents in Vancouver. On the plane ride out, I got sicker than I’ve ever been. I broke out into a cold sweat, got dizzy, turned white as a ghost, vomited multiple times, and felt like I had eaten a bowl of knives for breakfast. I suspect that this was caused by taking a percocet that didn’t belong to me just because the term “muscle relaxant” sounded nice for air travel (I get terrible travel anxiety). Let me be a lesson to you. Taking prescription drugs that don’t belong to you is never a good idea.
I stopped vomiting by the time we arrived in British Colombia, but the stress didn’t end there. Did you know that being around family is stressful? Did you know that being in Whistler whilst (alliteration! What-what!) having no interest in winter sports can be boring? I even tried tubing—turns out that sliding down a hill in cold snow is not that much fun. Did you know that it’s embarrassing to have a small emotional breakdown in a ski rental shop, no matter how nice your dad is being about it? Well, I know all of these things. Luckily, I also know that Vancouver has great shopping and restaurants, it’s great to celebrate my grandfather’s 77th birthday with him, and looking through old family photo albums is a fantastic way to spend an evening. In addition to that, I’ve discovered that I’m totally effing crazy for missing cold-ass Wisconsin so much and even more crazy for being so happy to be back and ready to start school.
Since I slacked in writing a “Happy New Year” post (Happy New Year, by the way), I wanted to use now to write out some of my resolutions. I don’t hate resolutions like some of my nearest and dearest. I think that we should strive for progression and that we need to allow change to enter our lives so that we can evolve. That being said, here are mine:
-Try not to talk bad about myself so much. I have a habit of self-deprecating when I get nervous and I’m really trying to stop.
-Stop bickering with my roommate so much. One of my roommates and I argue constantly about everything (except the house). Some company pointed this out to me and I realized how unattractive it is. Sure, a good debate here and there is fine, fun even, but to do it constantly just obnoxious.
-Be less passive in expressing what I want. It’s time to get aggressive in going after what I want in life. It’s not going to come to me.
-Be less crude… sometimes. I have a tendency to endearingly call people names like “cocksucker” or “twat face.” These names have a time and a place, but I can see how friends might become exhausted when I never call them by their actually names, insisting on using expletives instead. Sorry, guys.
-Lastly, be Tina Fey. I think that if I were to idolize anyone, it would be her. I love that she created her own career and has kept her (I hate this word) quirk. I think that she gives hope to those of us who are funny, clever, and have maybe blogged one too many times about certain science fiction T.V. shows. Congratulations on Globes, Miss Fey!
PQK out.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Rock the region
Today, I'm heading down to a friend's wedding in Indiana. My usual wedding date has better things to do than make me feel wanted, so I will be going stag, which means a) I'm hitching a ride with a friend of a friend's parents, b) I will likely be placed at the table with all of the inbred and unseemly relatives that they are too embarrassed to put front and center, and c) I will drink too much champagne and start crying about how beautiful the flower arrangements are, how beautiful the bride is, and how pure their love is. And then I will yak on the dance floor. And then break out my moves.
God, I love weddings. No, really. I do.
God, I love weddings. No, really. I do.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Too tired to think of snappy title
I gotta say that the past two days have been exhausting. I'm not used to feeling all of this hope, optimism, and good will toward mankind.
When can I go back to hating everybody? Oh well, I'm sure that it will happen soon enough.
When can I go back to hating everybody? Oh well, I'm sure that it will happen soon enough.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Free from the Bradley effect
I just voted in my first presidential election for the first non-white democratic candidate in the first school that I ever attended. If that's not enough to make a girl misty-eyed, I don't know what is.
A little obvious, I know.
On a less world-changing note, I've decided to do NaBloPoMo! Check here or at Lake City Lake for daily blogs from me in the month of November.
A little obvious, I know.
On a less world-changing note, I've decided to do NaBloPoMo! Check here or at Lake City Lake for daily blogs from me in the month of November.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
Word Vomit
I’ve been trying to write an “I’m back!” blog for over a week now and it really isn’t going well. Truth is, Italy was kind of a bust and recounting it to you folks is almost as exhausting as living it. Eventually, I hope to slap up some pictures of my trip, but this brief paragraph will have to suffice until then.
Speaking of exhausting, almost everything has been exhausting lately. The humidity is dragging me down, physically and emotionally, and all I can bear to do, it seems, is watch Pushing Daisies reruns, internet shop, and emotionally collapse in on myself like a dying star (a tip of the hat to Jan Levinson). I’ve been almost entirely off caffeine for two weeks now and am attempting to exercise regularly to prevent the stream of anxiety attacks being thrown my way. The sudden speeding up of my heartbeat, accompanied by tears and pillow biting, has subsided, but the constant tug of dissatisfaction has remained, well, constant. The upcoming semester is completely uninspiring, my job is equally lack-luster, and I’m finding myself questioning all of the relationships that I have (or don’t have). Remember that entry that I wrote awhile back? Well, instead of feeling like my world is on the brink of change, I find myself constantly losing hope.
I can’t blame anyone else. Maybe if I were motivated or, and I hesitate to use this word, self-assured, I could propel myself into something better. But I’m not these things. I’m not a problem solver; I’m a problem dweller. Do I try to be a better blogger? No, but I do sit up at night wondering why crap bloggers (all readers excluded) seem to get a kajillion hits a week and receive various accolades while the bulk of my readers consist of people who share a part of my genetic make-up. I get jealous of actresses in movies and on television for having a job that I would love to have, but do I have the balls to audition for anything? No. And why? Because by not blogging more, not auditioning for plays, not learning to play guitar, not singing in public, and not approaching people who I want to be friends with, it all stays under my control. I can tell myself that it’s my choice that I don’t do theater anymore and it’s not because I’m a bad actress and someone won’t cast me or I can say that my lack of readership is do to my choice to not involve myself in blogging communities, not because what I have to say is uninteresting or poorly put together. Is blaming my lack of motivation just another excuse to put off doing anything?
I can self diagnose all I want, but what do I do with the diagnosis?
Speaking of exhausting, almost everything has been exhausting lately. The humidity is dragging me down, physically and emotionally, and all I can bear to do, it seems, is watch Pushing Daisies reruns, internet shop, and emotionally collapse in on myself like a dying star (a tip of the hat to Jan Levinson). I’ve been almost entirely off caffeine for two weeks now and am attempting to exercise regularly to prevent the stream of anxiety attacks being thrown my way. The sudden speeding up of my heartbeat, accompanied by tears and pillow biting, has subsided, but the constant tug of dissatisfaction has remained, well, constant. The upcoming semester is completely uninspiring, my job is equally lack-luster, and I’m finding myself questioning all of the relationships that I have (or don’t have). Remember that entry that I wrote awhile back? Well, instead of feeling like my world is on the brink of change, I find myself constantly losing hope.
I can’t blame anyone else. Maybe if I were motivated or, and I hesitate to use this word, self-assured, I could propel myself into something better. But I’m not these things. I’m not a problem solver; I’m a problem dweller. Do I try to be a better blogger? No, but I do sit up at night wondering why crap bloggers (all readers excluded) seem to get a kajillion hits a week and receive various accolades while the bulk of my readers consist of people who share a part of my genetic make-up. I get jealous of actresses in movies and on television for having a job that I would love to have, but do I have the balls to audition for anything? No. And why? Because by not blogging more, not auditioning for plays, not learning to play guitar, not singing in public, and not approaching people who I want to be friends with, it all stays under my control. I can tell myself that it’s my choice that I don’t do theater anymore and it’s not because I’m a bad actress and someone won’t cast me or I can say that my lack of readership is do to my choice to not involve myself in blogging communities, not because what I have to say is uninteresting or poorly put together. Is blaming my lack of motivation just another excuse to put off doing anything?
I can self diagnose all I want, but what do I do with the diagnosis?
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Oh, I'll come over. I'll come over at 'night'
The other night, I was invited over to a couple of friends’ air-conditioned apartment to avoid the rain and humidity while helping mix and roll out some hand-made pasta. Six delicious ricotta-stuffed ravioli, one beer, two glasses of cava, and a glass of wine later, I polled them on a question I have been thinking about lately:
Is sex appeal something that can be learned or is it just inherent?
I admit it. I had ulterior and personal motives to my question that my friends saw right away.
“What is this really about?” they asked.
How shall I put this in a way that isn’t exaggerated? Alright, here we go. I am probably one of the least sexy people that you will ever meet. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have poor body image. If I may so myself, I think that, on the ugly-pretty scale, I definitely lean towards pretty. It’s not a personality problem either. As you can tell from this blog, I spend a lot of time in my head and, believe you me, it is a great place to hang out. It all comes back to sex appeal and my lack of it.
For example, despite the amount of times that it has been explained to me, I don’t know or understand what flirting is.
“You just act more interested in whatever that person has to say,” they say.
“So, it’s being fake,” I say.
“No, because you really are interested.”
“So, it’s just talking?”
“No, it’s more than just talking.”
“What about fart jokes?”
Oh, I also feel uncomfortable touching people, so those lingering handshakes and under-the-table footsie games can be ruled out.
My little poll evolved into a thoughtful critique on my romantic abilities.
“Ha! It’s like when Kenneth on 30 Rock says ‘I’m a good sex person!’” I interrupt.
“Maybe your problem is that you focus more on 30 Rock than you do on sex…”
That little taste of truth was quite the conversation killer, let me tell you.
Is sex appeal something that can be learned or is it just inherent?
I admit it. I had ulterior and personal motives to my question that my friends saw right away.
“What is this really about?” they asked.
How shall I put this in a way that isn’t exaggerated? Alright, here we go. I am probably one of the least sexy people that you will ever meet. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have poor body image. If I may so myself, I think that, on the ugly-pretty scale, I definitely lean towards pretty. It’s not a personality problem either. As you can tell from this blog, I spend a lot of time in my head and, believe you me, it is a great place to hang out. It all comes back to sex appeal and my lack of it.
For example, despite the amount of times that it has been explained to me, I don’t know or understand what flirting is.
“You just act more interested in whatever that person has to say,” they say.
“So, it’s being fake,” I say.
“No, because you really are interested.”
“So, it’s just talking?”
“No, it’s more than just talking.”
“What about fart jokes?”
Oh, I also feel uncomfortable touching people, so those lingering handshakes and under-the-table footsie games can be ruled out.
My little poll evolved into a thoughtful critique on my romantic abilities.
“Ha! It’s like when Kenneth on 30 Rock says ‘I’m a good sex person!’” I interrupt.
“Maybe your problem is that you focus more on 30 Rock than you do on sex…”
That little taste of truth was quite the conversation killer, let me tell you.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Like Peter Pan, but without charm
This afternoon, I walked over to my parents’ house for a little (more) R & R. I didn’t feel like they were paying enough attention to me, so, naturally, I did what any mature twenty-one-year-old would do:
I threw a tantrum about my new highlights and left.
I threw a tantrum about my new highlights and left.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Age impedes my stream, no fuckin' fear of you
Recently, I’ve decided to try and be more ambitious. To be more ambitious, I’ve decided that I first need to be more assertive. Now, I don’t consider myself a doormat by any means. I come across as pretty confident (a brilliant façade) and I can talk big, so people generally let me be—growing up on the mean Wisconsin streets, this is quite the accomplishment for an O.G. like myself. However, there are certain times, particularly times involving my advancement in the world, that I totally fall apart like when asking for a raise (to be truthful, I’ve never been ambitious enough to have a job where you get raises) or applying for college (my mom decided I should go to community college—Thanks Mom!). I panic, apologize, excuse myself to go stifle my sobs in the bathroom stall (done multiple times at various jobs and once at an orientation for UW), etc. In fact, my voice has a certain point of volume which, when exceeded, unfailingly breaks into crying. Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but no. This is not has sexy as it sounds. Anyway, coming to a point in my life where I’m exhausted by my lethargy and ambivalence—a point where I actually want to test my own abilities in becoming what I might want to be—I’ve decided to assert myself.
Some people might do this by reading self-help books; others might do this by being aggressive assholes to people who are weaker than them (also a valid choice). Me? I’ve decided to do this in true PQK fashion: converting my thought process into the voice of Deadwood’s Al Swearengen.
Warning: This clip is on the vulgar side
So basically I’ve been thinking in iambic pentameter and peppering my internal sentences with words like fuck, cocksucker, and cunt. I haven’t confronted any prospective employers yet, but I do break it out while speaking to the decapitated head that I keep in my closet (rent the show, it’s only three seasons for Christ’s sake).
This internal change might be because I have finally finished the show’s final season and it may also be because I’ve realized my calling as a surprisingly good-hearted thug/pimp/leader in an 1870’s South Dakota mining town. Either way, I enjoy thinking, “Does that cocksucker mean to give me fuckin’ pause?” while waiting on a table at work.
On related HBO note, I saw the Sex and the City movie and 14 of my 15 predictions come true. Carrie does not wear a hat shaped like Marx. Rather she wears a hat shaped like Ezra Pound.
Some people might do this by reading self-help books; others might do this by being aggressive assholes to people who are weaker than them (also a valid choice). Me? I’ve decided to do this in true PQK fashion: converting my thought process into the voice of Deadwood’s Al Swearengen.
Warning: This clip is on the vulgar side
So basically I’ve been thinking in iambic pentameter and peppering my internal sentences with words like fuck, cocksucker, and cunt. I haven’t confronted any prospective employers yet, but I do break it out while speaking to the decapitated head that I keep in my closet (rent the show, it’s only three seasons for Christ’s sake).
This internal change might be because I have finally finished the show’s final season and it may also be because I’ve realized my calling as a surprisingly good-hearted thug/pimp/leader in an 1870’s South Dakota mining town. Either way, I enjoy thinking, “Does that cocksucker mean to give me fuckin’ pause?” while waiting on a table at work.
On related HBO note, I saw the Sex and the City movie and 14 of my 15 predictions come true. Carrie does not wear a hat shaped like Marx. Rather she wears a hat shaped like Ezra Pound.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Back in 19 Diggity 6
Truth be told, I’ve never really gotten along that well with people my own age. Yes, before anybody jumps on me (you know who you are), there are exceptions, but generally my friends average out to be about seven years older than me. Believe me, this is not a “look how mature I am” post. My premature aging probably goes beyond what is natural or impressive. For example, on a recent trip to Target, I bought corn pads (all cleared up, FYI) and a contour neck pillow with memory foam. And no, it wasn’t the fancy NASA kind. I’m also a penny-pincher who always chooses to go generic. I also love old lady names like Ethel and Dolores, am obsessed with comfortable footwear, and, when I can be talked into driving, I don’t like going faster than 25 miles an hour. To me, the perfect Saturday night is curling up with my dog and catching up on my stories. I think that music was better “back then” and hide my alcohol in a collection hollow Civil War figurines (that might be a lie).
Anyway, never was my old ladyishness more raging than today in my Women’s Studies lecture. As the professor was introducing the guest speaker (some broad on her period, no doubt), I kept being distracted by two girls sitting next to me who were fake whispering (the kind that sounds more like talking). Not only that, but these were the same girls that had fake whispered through the entire previous lecture. I tried to ignore it, but found out that I could not. What did I do? Did I yell at them to shut up? Did I give them the hard stare? No, what I said was this:
“Ladies, can you please wait to have this conversation after class?"
Throughout the remainder of the lecture, I kept shaking my head and thinking, “Kids these days. Who ARE their parents?”
Anyway, never was my old ladyishness more raging than today in my Women’s Studies lecture. As the professor was introducing the guest speaker (some broad on her period, no doubt), I kept being distracted by two girls sitting next to me who were fake whispering (the kind that sounds more like talking). Not only that, but these were the same girls that had fake whispered through the entire previous lecture. I tried to ignore it, but found out that I could not. What did I do? Did I yell at them to shut up? Did I give them the hard stare? No, what I said was this:
“Ladies, can you please wait to have this conversation after class?"
Throughout the remainder of the lecture, I kept shaking my head and thinking, “Kids these days. Who ARE their parents?”
Friday, April 11, 2008
April is the cruelest month
In every English major’s life, he or she is blessed with hearing a recording of T.S. Eliot speaking. The first time I heard him was in my modern American lit. class. The second time was today. For those of you who haven’t heard him speak, here’s a little taste. And no, I really don’t expect you to listen to the entire thing.
Keep in mind, friends, the man is from St. Louis, AMERICA. He’s just some expat who decided he wanted an English accent. He’s like the original Madonna, rubber bracelets included (I hope). Some people are annoyed by people who speak in accents that aren’t originally their own. I, for one, think that they’re awesome. I adopt multiple accents a day, all of them equally terrible.
Since hearing ol’ T.S. for the first time, his accent has been put into my repertoire. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t throw him around haphazardly. I don’t shout, “Marie! Marie! Hold on tight!” to the cab driver or the kid behind the counter at the coffee shop. No, he is reserved for only those I care about most deeply.
Here’s an example from a conversation between my mother and I this past weekend:
PQK: (in the voice of T.S. Eliot) Winter are the cruelest months.
Mom: Don’t you mean “April?”
PQK: (still as Eliot) No.
Mom: It’s “April.”
PQK: (as myself)No! I… (as Eliot) Yes.
Mom: Ha.
PQK: (as Eliot) Shut up. It’s my poem and I can do whatever I (pausing for dramatic effect) want with it.
Excluding telling my mom to shut up, that’s relatively endearing, right? Not if you ask my poor friend Dustin, one of the main victims of my impersonation. Not only does he have to listen to it, but he has to listen to it as I freestyle poetry… poetry about him. Once, I recited one on the way to the dog fair (yes, dog fair) that lasted almost ten minutes. It went vaguely like this:
PQK: (as Eliot)
Dustin… How he used to laugh and play,
Crying “Mama, mama! Unleash the dog!”
Now his hands, cracked and long, they stretch
Toward the sky, stained with clouds like a soiled blouse.
“We will get coffee. No, we shan’t get coffee.”
This is our day. This is our day
You must listen to whatever I say.
Dustin: (exasperated) The end!
PQK:(as Eliot)The end!—is not yet here!
I think that I have now thoroughly demonstrated (A) what an amazing modernist poet I am and (B) why you should never be friends with me.
Keep in mind, friends, the man is from St. Louis, AMERICA. He’s just some expat who decided he wanted an English accent. He’s like the original Madonna, rubber bracelets included (I hope). Some people are annoyed by people who speak in accents that aren’t originally their own. I, for one, think that they’re awesome. I adopt multiple accents a day, all of them equally terrible.
Since hearing ol’ T.S. for the first time, his accent has been put into my repertoire. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t throw him around haphazardly. I don’t shout, “Marie! Marie! Hold on tight!” to the cab driver or the kid behind the counter at the coffee shop. No, he is reserved for only those I care about most deeply.
Here’s an example from a conversation between my mother and I this past weekend:
PQK: (in the voice of T.S. Eliot) Winter are the cruelest months.
Mom: Don’t you mean “April?”
PQK: (still as Eliot) No.
Mom: It’s “April.”
PQK: (as myself)No! I… (as Eliot) Yes.
Mom: Ha.
PQK: (as Eliot) Shut up. It’s my poem and I can do whatever I (pausing for dramatic effect) want with it.
Excluding telling my mom to shut up, that’s relatively endearing, right? Not if you ask my poor friend Dustin, one of the main victims of my impersonation. Not only does he have to listen to it, but he has to listen to it as I freestyle poetry… poetry about him. Once, I recited one on the way to the dog fair (yes, dog fair) that lasted almost ten minutes. It went vaguely like this:
PQK: (as Eliot)
Dustin… How he used to laugh and play,
Crying “Mama, mama! Unleash the dog!”
Now his hands, cracked and long, they stretch
Toward the sky, stained with clouds like a soiled blouse.
“We will get coffee. No, we shan’t get coffee.”
This is our day. This is our day
You must listen to whatever I say.
Dustin: (exasperated) The end!
PQK:(as Eliot)The end!—is not yet here!
I think that I have now thoroughly demonstrated (A) what an amazing modernist poet I am and (B) why you should never be friends with me.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Are you there, blog? It's me, the PQK
Alright, yall. It’s been awhile. Many of you have probably gone on to find new and better blogs. How can I blame you? I wouldn’t want to be in a relationship with a blog this unreliable and distant either. But please, I’m begging you to give me one more shot to explain myself.
Over the past month, there have been numerous occasions where I have sat down to write entries, like “What would it be like to live with aliens?!” (I sort of know, I live with a Canadian) or “If I was a has-been Backstreet Boy, which one would I be?” (Wikipedia has just informed me that they are still together. I wonder how that’s going), but for each crazy topic line, I was only left with a blinking curser.
Truth be told, there were a lot of other things keeping me from the blogosphere. University (yes, I’ve acquired British dialect since I’ve been gone and am far to sophisticated to say “college”) has been working me to the bone (and not in a sexy way)—essay after essay, exam after exam. While I’ve only been working weekends, work has been driving me a little cuckoo, too. Gosh, it’s a good thing that the creative writing degree that I’m so tirelessly working on will provide such a lucrative career. Then I’ll really get out of the service industry, huh? crickets
There’s been a wee bit of fun in there, too. I went to visit my friends, nicknamed A-mos (a lá Bennifer), in Philadelphia. Maybe I’ll do a Philly post in honor of the upcoming primary, complete with photos.
I digress. The fact is I was feeling pretty void of creativity and the little bit that I could muster generally went into dressing up in spring ensembles and narcissistically photographing myself in front of my window. Keep in mind, I really wanted to write, but geez louise was it not going well. What was wrong with me? Usually blogging is a welcomed form of procrastination from my wacky schooly world. Was I sick? Was it time to throw in the towel?
I did a little research, scouring the web for new blogs and carefully reading my old favorites. What do these people have that I didn’t? It hit me. I was trying way too hard. Each entry I tried to write in the last month was so lame because all it was was me trying to show you how clever and awesome I am. Somehow, through the internet, I had reverted back to the Pop Quiz Kid of middle school days, showing up to class in my new sketchers and Jennifer Aniston haircut only to have the popular kids laugh about it later.
So I’ve decided to make the same decision now that I did then (only this time, it won’t involve flared jeans and Blink 182 t-shirts) and stop trying so god damn hard. One thing that all of the bloggers that I like have in common is their sincerity or at least the talents to fake it. So here we go, embarking on a new path with the Pop Quiz Kid… that is if you’ll have me back.
Over the past month, there have been numerous occasions where I have sat down to write entries, like “What would it be like to live with aliens?!” (I sort of know, I live with a Canadian) or “If I was a has-been Backstreet Boy, which one would I be?” (Wikipedia has just informed me that they are still together. I wonder how that’s going), but for each crazy topic line, I was only left with a blinking curser.
Truth be told, there were a lot of other things keeping me from the blogosphere. University (yes, I’ve acquired British dialect since I’ve been gone and am far to sophisticated to say “college”) has been working me to the bone (and not in a sexy way)—essay after essay, exam after exam. While I’ve only been working weekends, work has been driving me a little cuckoo, too. Gosh, it’s a good thing that the creative writing degree that I’m so tirelessly working on will provide such a lucrative career. Then I’ll really get out of the service industry, huh? crickets
There’s been a wee bit of fun in there, too. I went to visit my friends, nicknamed A-mos (a lá Bennifer), in Philadelphia. Maybe I’ll do a Philly post in honor of the upcoming primary, complete with photos.
I digress. The fact is I was feeling pretty void of creativity and the little bit that I could muster generally went into dressing up in spring ensembles and narcissistically photographing myself in front of my window. Keep in mind, I really wanted to write, but geez louise was it not going well. What was wrong with me? Usually blogging is a welcomed form of procrastination from my wacky schooly world. Was I sick? Was it time to throw in the towel?
I did a little research, scouring the web for new blogs and carefully reading my old favorites. What do these people have that I didn’t? It hit me. I was trying way too hard. Each entry I tried to write in the last month was so lame because all it was was me trying to show you how clever and awesome I am. Somehow, through the internet, I had reverted back to the Pop Quiz Kid of middle school days, showing up to class in my new sketchers and Jennifer Aniston haircut only to have the popular kids laugh about it later.
So I’ve decided to make the same decision now that I did then (only this time, it won’t involve flared jeans and Blink 182 t-shirts) and stop trying so god damn hard. One thing that all of the bloggers that I like have in common is their sincerity or at least the talents to fake it. So here we go, embarking on a new path with the Pop Quiz Kid… that is if you’ll have me back.
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