Life, suddenly, has become legitimately hectic. I need to book airplane tickets, I need to start packing up my stuff, I need to find a shipping company, I need to clean up, take pictures, and advertise for people to take over our lease. I also need need NEED, more than anything, to finish up my latest translation. I. need. to. do. so, so, so many things.
True to form, I have responded to this dire state of affairs by developing a whole slew of brand new, remarkably time-consuming hobbies. I’ve taken to roaming the streets of London between three and six a.m., all the while listening to stand-up comedy on my headphones and grinning at hapless strangers. I’ve started writing out elaborate get-rich-eventually schemes involving illustrated books for the ‘tween’ market and ostensibly ironic, decidedly kitsch ‘zines.’ I’ve created a chart detailing the wide variety, growing number, and surprising locations of the empty takeout containers littering my room. The list goes on.
This is not to say, however, that all items on the list were created equal; one activity in particular does definitely rise to the top, both in terms of sheer hours consumed and intrinsically addictive nature. Namely, tracking down and admiring artwork online.
It started out innocently enough. A month ago, a blogger I like wrote about a screenprint she had bought for her daughter’s bedroom. I clicked the link to the artist’s website. It was cute. This artist had links to other artists. Eventually, I ended up on http://www.ai-ap.com. And it was all over.
AI-AP stands for American Illustration-American Photography. Which is kind of a misnomer, really, because a lot of the best stuff on it isn’t… American. Regardless, it’s a crazy resource for finding interesting work by current artists and photographers. The size of the online catalogue is mind boggling — and it’s all work submitted directly by the artists themselves, who range from students and amateurs to industry professionals (ie. New Yorker cartoonists and celebrity photographers). Some of it is pretty bland, but a lot of it, a LOT of it, is cool enough to merit further investigation. (I should take a minute here to note that the site is called American Illustration, not American Fine Art. Much of the content is more editorial than conceptual, something that might turn off a true modern art snob. Funnily enough, it’s actually this very same… ‘accessibility’ that I enjoy most.)
The site is set up in such a way that you can click through representative works of (quite literally) thousands of different artists. The best part (or worst, really, if you happen to be, say, my impatient editor) is that 99.99 percent of the time, if you just google the name of an artist or photographer who strikes your fancy, you can find their online portfolio. I usually just keep two browser windows open side by side, one with AI-AP and one to google artists.
It’s been, overall, a rewarding experience. It is such a pleasure to just click my mouse a couple of times and be able to see original, beautiful work by people all around the world. At the same time, it’s all a bit overwhelming. I mean, there are just so MANY talented people out there.
Ever since I was a kid, any afternoon I spent moseying my way through an art museum inevitably became an afternoon fraught with a great deal of conflict. I always left feeling humbled, exhilarated, depressed, inspired, worthless, challenged, and somehow more… alive. I know that sounds overly dramatic and contrived, but it’s true. I’m usually a master at keeping myself numb and sarcastic, so the smallest hiccup in that arena can get me pretty worked up. Luckily, this psychological rollercoaster never actually comes up very often because, quite simply, I am a lazy pile of poo. I always mean to go to museums and galleries, but just the thought of the crowds and travel are usually more than enough for me to rationalize staying housebound.
In one fell swoop, the discovery of this online community has removed my physical laziness from the equation. Now I can sit at my desk, wandering through a never-ending barrage of images, turning myself into an absolute wreck. Click. ‘I could do that. What am I doing with my life? I should start painting again and set up a portfolio and join my fellow compatriots!’ Click. ‘Oh my god, that is aMAzing. I could never do that. I need to get real and accept my place as a dabbler and just serenely admire the greatness of others.’ Click. ‘That looks just like something I sketched in 1999! This is clearly my true calling.’ Click. ‘Wow.’ Click. ‘I need a drink.’
AGHHHHHHHHHHH.
Right. I’m done now. I should do some actual work and go to bed.
So how was your week?

For those of you who have no desire to sift through thousands of images but do have a passing interest in illustration/photography, I’m going to start a section in my Links page for some of the artist portfolios I like best. To start things off, the image I used for this post (the man-erina on the beach) was poached off the site of a New York based digital photographer named Bob Carey. He’s not actually one of my favorites — you have to dig around a bit to find the better pieces — but I do quite like a couple of his photos.
In my last post I used a collage by Tez Humphreys, a young British dude based in Leeds who is actually very nice — I know this because I emailed him about buying some of his stuff. That whole deconstructed collage look is not for everyone, I know, but I happen to really like it, and I know how hard it is to pull off. I ‘dig’ his use of negative space.
I’m definitely going to start using more images from my adventures in this crazy new world on this blog, and regardless of where I get them, I pledge to start properly referencing image sources from now on. I’ve been very very bad about that.
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1
The highlight of your day is being reminded that one time, Shaquille O’Neal was in a movie called Shazaam where he played a genie who, you are pretty sure, came out of a boombox to grant the wishes of a small, sassy African-American boy. This reaffirms your longstanding conviction that the oft-maligned nineties truly were a golden age.
2
The pure, heady, righteous joy you felt at #1 is crushed to a fine fine dust when you wikipedia it and find out that it was actually Kazaam, not Shazaam. SO not as cool.
3
A friend tells you that Anna Nicole Smith just died and you hear yourself ask, without skipping a beat, “What’s going to happen to the baby? Will the lawyer-turned-pseudo-father get her or will she go to the paparazzo-claiming-biological-paternity?” (In the hours that follow, other people you know text/IM you with the news, assuming, correctly, that you will be interested. You are forced to once again reevaluate your life.)
4
Instead of just going to the grocery store, you order enough sushi for five grown men and gradually graze your way through it over the course of the day. You tell yourself this is okay, because it’s winter and you never did turn on the heat in your room, so the fish will stay fresh. You gleefully congratulate yourself on taking care of all three meals in one fell swoop.
5
It is 4 a.m. You are drunk. It starts to snow. You go upstairs and wake up your flatmate to ask if you can borrow her keys, because you lost your keys ten months ago and never replaced them, and hey, it’s snowing, and you feel like going out. Even though/Because it is 4 a.m. and you are drunk. Your flatmate does not find this to be strange/out of character.
She gives you her keys and you get on a night bus to the city center to wander around aimlessly. You get home three hours later, traveling alongside morning commuters, wet, cold, and fairly sobered up. You go to bed. When your other flatmate brings this up to you later that day, after you wake up in the afternoon, you intelligently reply: “Huh? I went out?”
6
Something is wrong with your “L” key, and for the last two weeks you’ve been thinking about maybe prying it up and investigating the situation. You have yet to act. This is mostly because in your head, you have developed an incredibly complex fantasy scenario where a community of microscopic keyboard gnomes are actually living under your “L,” and you don’t want to face the fact that this is, most likely, not true, that it is actually probably something depressingly mundane like a bit of cigarette ash.
7
As you are lying in bed, about to fall asleep, it suddenly occurs to you that you might never wake up, because that happens sometimes, right? People in their twenties have freak heart attacks and strokes, and it’s not like you live a healthy lifestyle. You actually start to have a mild panic attack and seriously consider getting up and cleaning your room and taking a shower, so that when people discover your corpse they won’t have to deal with anything extra gross. You don’t. You go to sleep. But in the weeks that follow, this thought returns to you with alarming regularity at bedtimes.
8
Your flatmate tells you that it is your turn to buy toilet paper and dishwashing liquid and even though she is right, you are filled with the rage of a thousand fiery suns.
9
You really really really have to pee, and there is absolutely no reason on God’s green earth why you can’t just get up and go pee, in fact, you tell yourself you should, that you should just go and pee, goddammit, this is ridiculous, but instead you hold it, even though you’re at home alone and vaguely worried about urinary tract infections and not actually doing anything time-sensitive. You are that lazy.
10
You spend a lot of time worrying that your newfound attraction to John Krasinski is somehow a betrayal of your fierce, long-standing loyalty to Clive Owen. You go through an intense bargaining period, only to ultimately be overcome by helpless remorse. You consider writing to Clive to make amends, to explain the whole situation, to point out how it would never have worked — the age gap is really too big and you are just at such different points in your lives. Happily, you don’t actually do this, because you are not that far gone yet. Yet.
10.1
The more you stare at the word “yet,” the more absolutely ridiculous it looks. In what is undoubtedly a new low, you come very VERY close to double checking the spelling on dictionary.com.
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Carrie (a close friend from high school) came to visit me this week. We hadn’t seen each other in ages and it could have been completely awkward, but it wasn’t. It was easy. It was like we hadn’t skipped a beat, as if our 12th grade English class had wrapped up weeks ago instead of years. We just slid right back into a sense of… familiarity, of acceptance. It was good to catch up. It was good to see that although we’ve both changed, both ‘grown up’ a bit, we still fundamentally know one another in all the ways that matter.
Which was damned fortunate, actually, because it turned out to be a fairly intense visit: we both took turns falling victim to this monster flu that’s going around here (and possibly the entirety of western europe, since Carrie was already ill when she flew in from Berlin). So the majority of our time was split between running around buying throat lozenges for each other and lying in bed producing phlegm while watching marathon sessions of Project Runway. You know. Good clean fun.
We only really left the apartment once: a mutual friend of ours (who is now in a ludicrously successful band) happened to be playing a show in London, so we went to see it, and him. (Josh Hartnett was there. And let me just say, that man has great skin. I mean, really amazing.)
He was nice and friendly and normal, our now-rockstar friend, especially considering the fact that he and I, at least, really only grazed past each other in high school. A friendly graze, but a graze nonetheless — we weren’t super close. Anyway, he was lovely, and after the show I got to see the inside of a real live dressing room inhabited by real live musicians. Within thirty seconds, I began to very quietly freak out. There was just too much legitimate indie cool in the air. Everyone I met was perfectly, disinterestedly pleasant, but legitimate cool never fails to kick my already hyperactive neuroses into overdrive. All the weird, gross things about myself that I usually manage to find funny somehow lose that edge of humor and become, simply, weird and kinda gross. (Which, in turn, makes my inner monologue all the more ironically, uncomfortably cringe-worthy, a la The Office. Which makes me do extra weird, gross things, like giggle for no outwardly visible reason. Out loud.)
I found myself desperately trying to act natural in a room full of people who… I don’t know. Who had created this remarkable music. Whose album I own. Whose show had sold out in minutes. And all I could think was: “What am I doing here?”
So I did the only thing I could do. I politely said goodbye and ran away.
Luckily, Carrie, my original friend, the one who was visiting me, the one I went to the concert with and abandoned when I ran away, was a really good sport about it. The whole experience forced me to admit to myself how limited my comfort zone actually is. Apparently, I just have a much easier time interacting with weird, I-sit-at-home-alone-and-obsessively-look-things-up-on-wikipedia ‘creative types’ than cool, I-get-up-on-stage-and-make-audiences-physically-swoon-in-the-face-of-my-undeniable-talent ‘creative types.’ Lesson learned.
I’ve spent several days now huddled in bed, hacking up grossness, groaning a lot and feeling sorry for myself, calling people up to demand sympathy and letting the flu take its course. (I never used to get sick this often before I moved to this goddamn country. I blame you, England. You and your imperialist germs.)
I’m finally beginning to feel better. My esophagus no longer feels like an excitable porcupine wandered through it. I also feel kind of drained. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but it’s a good kind of emptiness; things feel simpler. Somewhere along the line, between reminiscing about high school and coughing incessantly and sexing up Josh Hartnett (oh, if only), something in my head seems to have clicked into place.
I really am leaving London soon. I’m happy about it, but also deeply, truly sad. And this moment, this one right now, typing this — this is my life. I need to start living it.
…
*ADDENDUM: I have this really uneasy feeling that the “this moment is your life” thing might be a quote I internalized after seeing it used to great effect in 2002’s Unfaithful. It was the scene where Kylie Minogue’s real life eurotrash (ex?)boyfriend first seduces Diane Lane into having crazy monkey sex with him even though she’s married to Richard Gere.
So, yes. It seems nothing is sacred. Not even my personal epiphanies.
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looks just like the sun
My mom found this blog.
Ooooh, momma.
It’s my own stupid fault. I linked her to the entry about my dental adventures, largely in celebration of the fact that they are finally over – my permanent crown is now in place and I no longer look like a crackwhore. I wanted to share the surreal nature of that whole experience with her, and I didn’t think there was anything in that particular entry that was too incriminating. I had blind faith in her technophobia; I thought she’d never figure out how the site worked, that she’d never find the other entries.
And you know, I wasn’t wrong. SHE didn’t. But she apparently showed the goddamn post to someone else, and that overly helpful human linked her to the main blog page. Luckily (THANK YOU, POWERS THAT BE), she didn’t go into the archives, where the entry she must never see now lives. I don’t think she found the podcasts either. Dodged a bullet there.
I was talking on the phone with her when she revealed that she had read the five posts I made between Jan 1st and Jan 16th. She seemed particularly mystified by my obsession with ninjas and moats. “Why,” she asked me, “would you write something like that?”
Oooooooooooh, momma.
Deep down, despite all the crazy, my mom is a true intellectual. She has a deep love and respect for words, language, literature — she absolutely reveres the act of writing. I tried to explain that this place is just where I dump the detritus that builds up in my brain, that I’m goofing off, that I don’t actually think this is the path to producing great literature. I asked her to please not read this anymore, because the thought of her concern makes me uncomfortable. She said okay. And I know she’ll keep her promise, that she’ll never read anything on this site ever again, because that’s the kind of person she is.
The next day, she emailed me an essay by William Saroyan, one of her favorite authors. I know she probably hasn’t looked at it in over a decade, that she simply remembered it in this, her daughter’s time of need. She tracked down the book, sat down at her computer, and typed it out, word for word, into the body of an email and sent it to me, with no hello or goodbye or anything. Because that’s how she is. It’s a bit long but worth reading, if you have the time. Click here: “Why I Write,” by William Saroyan.
My mom, she’s a wiley one. Anyone who knows anything about me will be able to see the obvious parallels: the loss of my dad and my irrational fear of forgetting moments/things that have been said. It’s why I save every IM conversation, even the useless ones; it’s why I write down funny things friends say on scraps of paper that end up floating around my room for months on end, until they get sucked into the vortex where lone socks go to die.
And honestly, I want to write, too.
It’s just that usually, I want to write about ninjas and moats and Kiefer Sutherland.
Oooooooooooooooh, momma.
Filed under: milestones, waxingnostalic | Leave a Comment
I got me a “Second Life.” And it is trippy as hell.
You see, I have a tendency to go a little Link Crazy. I’ll be on a site that’s pretty routine, one I visit almost every day, or just a random info page on wikipedia (‘Pig eyelashes.’ Are they really white? I must know!), and then BAM, two hours of linking and stream-of-consciousness googling later, I’ll find myself in some bizarre, dusty corner of the internet that has nothing to do with anything, reading about how Ivan the Terrible was married seven times and ended up accidentally killing his own son in a fit of rage. It was, it seems, not so good to be Ivan.
Anyway, earlier this week a friend told me about a surprisingly well written blog run by some people somewhere (I forget the details), so I dutifully went to check it out. Mid-check, I went Link Crazy. Hours later, when I came to, I was reading a finance-section news article about an elaborate virtual world where people actually spend real money to buy virtual land and go virtual shopping to make their virtual selves look all spiffy. I had no choice. I had to follow up.
“Second Life” is… actually, you know, I still don’t really know what to make of it. It’s free to try, so I’ve spent a good ten hours playing it over the last few days and almost as much time reading up on it on various news sites and blogs. A big part of me is absolutely fascinated. A different part of me, just as big, wants to write the whole thing off as geeky and pathetic and more than a little creepy. That part wants me to delete the sucker from my hard drive. There’s a lot of seedy ‘virtual sex’ (which I truly don’t think I will ever understand) and just… weird interactions between people. Within my first half hour of playing, some strange virtual dude with horrendous spelling had asked virtual me out on a virtual “date.” He (I’m assuming he was really a he, but who knows) actually typed out the words: “You wanna go on date wtih me?”
Ew. Just… Ew.
The whole notion of using this manufactured alternate reality to live out one’s repressed fantasies of wealth/sex/power/popularity — it just seems so very sad, and being party to it made me feel, for lack of a better word, gross.
That said, there are facets of “Second Life” that do hold my interest. There are parts of the world where people have really gone all out and created some stunning virtual environments. One island I stumbled across was obviously a true labor of love; it has these fabulous waterfalls and snowscapes — and you can make your avatar (the little animated character you play) fly up above it into the clouds and look down, all across this fantastically detailed 3D landscape straight out of some programmer’s mind. It’s really, really cool. (As long as you stay away from the one big structure on it, a kind of fairy tale castle. Which I wandered into out of curiosity. It turned out to be a virtual S&M dungeon. And I don’t want to talk about it anymore.)
It’s kind of depressing that so much of “Second Life” is sketchy: virtual casinos, nightclubs, outright brothels, etc. And considering that one of the main attractions is how each player can own a bit of ‘land’ and build on it, it’s demoralizing to see endless rows of cookie-cutter virtual houses. It just sucks that even when people are freed from the constraints of reality, a lot of what we come up with is still ugly.
But every now and then, you fly your avatar over a hill or teleport (yes, teleport) it someplace random, and you see that someone has set up a tiny virtual art gallery or designed a truly gorgeous, multi-tiered tree house cascading down the edge of a cliff, and even though it’s just a collection of pixels hosted on a server in San Francisco, you think: “Cooooooooool.”
So maybe there’s hope for us after all.
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a slice o’ life on bayham street
I just watched the new(ish) Pride and Prejudice again. Whenever Kiera Knightley wants to convey emotion, any kind of emotion, she does this thing with her nose — or rather, the strips of flesh along either side of her nose — where she like, flattens it. Kind of like what happens if you’re sucking in really hard and you manually push your nostrils in, and they stay that way for a second. Only all over, and without disrupting her breathing. Like a synchronized swimmer.
Every time she does it, I die a little inside.
I’ve been trying to snap out of it, to get back into the swing of things, to wake up in the morning, go to bed in the evening, etc. I went to the bank and the pub yesterday. It was, in the words of everyone’s favorite hotel heiress, “Hot.”
And now, I offer you a wholly unsolicited recap of the last several days in the life of Me, as seen through a collection of situations/quotes that have taken place in my room.
Rory shows his true imperial colors in a room full of Americans and Australians:
“Criminals and puritans. That’s all you are to me.”
Claire makes a leap of logic that completely justifies my lifelong obsession with her:
“It’s starting to look like I might have to move to Oregon instead of Texas.”
“Sweet. Ramona Quimby lived in Oregon.”
Marina reacts to a wildly inappropriate joke about how Jesus was ‘hung’:
“Even so, I would never fuck Jesus.”
*startled, hysterical laughter* “What!? Why?”
“Because, you know, he is not actually as hot as he looks in the pictures.”
I am finally forced to admit I may have a marijuana dependancy problem:
“I just got this incredibly strong urge to put my mobile phone in my mouth.”
“Any particular reason?”
“Mostly because it’s exactly the size of a biscuit.”
“Do it.”
“Don’t you think it might be dirty? It’s been in my pocket with coins and stuff.”
“Put it in a plastic bag.”
The End.
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little old ladies with lemons
At least four mornings a week, after watching the sun come up, I’ll decide to stay awake an extra couple of hours until the grocery store opens. It’s my way of making the most of a sleepless night; this way, when I wake up around four, five p.m., I won’t have to rush to get the day’s supplies before the shops close. It’s an airtight plan.
So at least four mornings a week, I find myself lumbering through the aisles of M&S, navigating a sea of really well put-together little old ladies. Their baskets are full of things like yogurt and lemons and pork chops and parsley. Weekday mornings belong to little old ladies, I think. They generally ignore my trespass, serenely moving around my bulk as I stand mesmerized by the vast wall of ready-made meals, clutching a two liter bottle of diet soda, half asleep, hair on end and headphones blaring. It’s one of my favorite parts of the day.
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Yesterday’s Guardian had an article in it about blogging and how the role of the ‘critic’ is evolving. The main points were that 1) these days pretty much anyone can make their (informed or otherwise) opinions available for public consumption, and 2) even the more established, respected critics now have to contend with a torrent of immediate, impassioned feedback from the unwashed masses. It was an interesting piece.
I bring this up because the article included the following quote (from a blogger in Tokyo):
Someone I knew likened posting messages on the internet to being drunk, and I can see something in this. There are cheery drunks, funny drunks, idiotic drunks who think they’re clever, unfunny drunks who think they’re amusing, and there are angry drunks. The same goes with people who post messages on the web.
Which is just so very, very true.
ESPECIALLY on Craigslist.
I only recently discovered Craigslist. It started out innocently enough; I just wanted to get a sense of the real estate situation in Austin, to see what kind of used car I might be able to find, etc. You know. Responsible stuff. Of course, apartment listings (even the most titillating ones, complete with keywords like UNIQUE! CHARMING! BRICK! LOFT! HARDWOOD!) can only hold one’s attention for a limited period of time. It wasn’t long before I crumbled in the face of that guiltiest of guilty voyeuristic pleasures: the personals.
Craigslist personals, my friends, are full of InternetDrunks. And I have become addicted to their sheer, unfettered, unapologetic insanity. After two straight weeks of obsessively tracking every single listing in every available category (Rants and Raves, Best of Craigslist, m4w, w4m, m4m, w4w, Strictly Platonic, and yes, even Casual Encounters), I have learned things about the human species that I honestly did not know. Things I may have been better off never knowing. Things that make me physically cringe, the kind of cringe I usually reserve for ugly, inappropriate public drunkenness that leaves witnesses achingly embarrassed yet completely transfixed.
I mean, I suppose I always knew that somewhere out there, ‘Sugar Daddies’ did exist. It’s just that I subconsciously assumed such goings-on only took place in a universe far, far away, in a magical land full of cotton candy where even the grossest old men look like Richard Gere, where the young, red-headed hookers have oodles of integrity and know how to drive a stick shift. But no. No. I was wrong. These people, they live in my world, and they meet through Craigslist via ads with jarringly straightforward titles like “POTENTIAL SUGAR DADDY SEEKS HOT YOUNG MALL SLUT.”
MALL SLUT? I don’t even know what that is! Is the slut supposed to work at the mall? What if the slut simply hangs out at the mall? What if said slut only visits the mall on occasion, driven by the instinct to stock up on the latest fashions from Forever 21? Is that enough mall action to turn SugarPotential into SugarReality?
Sometimes, when the SugarGods are truly smiling, the men even post pictures of their dangly bits. I mean, I am assuming it’s theirs. It could be anyone’s. That’s the beauty of the interweb. I suppose ultimately, it doesn’t really matter. Because stumbling across an unexpected photo of an erect penis? It gets the wimminfolk all hot and bothered. EVERY TIME.
…
I’ve worn myself out for now, but I will say this: It is ON, Craigslist. I, too, am an InternetDrunk in my own right, and I am planning on many, many more awkwardly pointless, cringe-worthy RANT/RAVE-style blog posts detailing my loss of innocence at your hands.
This is far from over.
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ten days in…
…to the new year, to my latest new beginning; to everyone’s latest new beginning, I suppose.
Very little has changed. So far.
I was lying on my couch late last night, staring up at the ceiling, buried in a mountain of cushions, my mind wandering. Gradually, I realized I was making a repetitive, high-pitched noise that might be best transcribed as: BWOoo. BWOoo. BWOoo.
Completely unfazed, the people I had invited into my home just carried on with their conversation, one of them sitting at my computer, the other in an armchair he long ago claimed as his own. And as I carried on ‘BWOoo’ing, stone cold sober, it occurred to me that this, quite possibly, is true friendship.
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year two thousand and seven
As of 2:50 a.m., January the first, year two thousand and seven, these are the things I would like to do before I die.

1) Master a deadly martial art (until able to pass, at will, as mysterious hooded ninja type figure).
2) Become a (part-time?) drummer for an eighties-style synth-oriented band, the lead singer of which must have large, feathered hair.
3) Raise a fiercely loyal, highly dangerous, ridiculously large dog, possibly named something overtly biblical/apocalyptic.
4) Become one of those people who is effortlessly neat and tidy, but not in an assholeish manner.
5) Go back to that Hungarian restaurant I went to that time, the one with the amazing dumplings.
6) Track down Clive Owen and make him understand that no one, No One, will ever love him the way I do, never ever ever ever.
7) Own some sort of property that includes a siege-worthy moat. And a maze. Like in the Shining. (The maze in the Shining, not the moat. There is no moat in the Shining. Fool.)
8) Move to Barcelona for a while and live an aggressively stylish, continental existence involving lots of attractive casual nudity and ironic disenchantment with the world at large.
9) Come up with an honest, year-by-year soundtrack for my life, starting with that first 1989 purchase of WHAM!’s greatest hits and pushing right on through to All 4 One and Boyz II Men.
10) Live in a turret of some sort, or at least a room with charmingly irregular ceilings. And a window seat. Like in Anne of Windy Poplars, or whichever the one was where she went away to teach and lived in that house with the trees and the pushy cleaning lady and wrote Gilbert Blythe all those letters.
11) Survive a large-scale zombie uprising, during which I prove my mettle and save an innocent baby or a bus full of kindergarten children. Or Clive Owen. Yeah. Maybe just Clive.
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Recent Entries
- equal parts inspiration and despair conveniently rolled into one neat little package
- 10 surefire signs that the crazy is finally reaching critical mass
- this moment is my life (at least according to olivier martinez)
- looks just like the sun
- since the first one’s not working out so hot…
- a slice o’ life on bayham street
- little old ladies with lemons
- i surrender: my mind, she is blown
- ten days in…
- year two thousand and seven
- allgrownsup
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