Slow, Slow, Quick, Quick... Aw Hell To The No...

I was informed today that... horror of horrors... one of my all time favorite movies from childhood, Girls Just Want to Have Fun, is going to be remade as a freakin' Miley Cyrus vehicle.

I hate life.

I WIN!

Yeah, you just keep on crying, Betty. You know, in public. Girls like you always do.

Just kidding. I actually feel a bit bad for Veronica. She's way too bad ass for a schlub like Archie. Not that I've ever actually read an Archie comic, but I get the gist of it.

What the hell kind of world is this man living in?

Oh good lord. My mind has been BOGGLED. You know, sometimes, I probably set up strawmen in my mind when trying to imagine why people might be against things that I personally believe in. I hope that they don't actually exist, but then I find out that they do, and that they're far worse than I'd ever imagined.

Ladies and Gentlemen... I give you Sam Schulman and his delightful thesis on why gay marriage should not be legal. It is a fact that no one sounds more ridiculous than when trying to explain why they are against gay marriage, but this dude just takes the cake. According to his logic, marriage has very little to do with love, and very much to do with keeping women in line and expanding ones farmland. No, really. Let's take a look at his points here:

The first is the most important: It is that marriage is concerned above all with female sexuality. The very existence of kinship depends on the protection of females from rape, degradation, and concubinage.

Really? Married women don't get raped or degraded, and all single women are hookers? Go know. Apparently, I should be charging.

This most profound aspect of marriage--protecting and controlling the sexuality of the child-bearing sex--is its only true reason for being, and it has no equivalent in same-sex marriage. Virginity until marriage, arranged marriages, the special status of the sexuality of one partner but not the other (and her protection from the other sex)--these motivating forces for marriage do not apply to same-sex lovers.

I don't know what century or country this guy is living in, but we're not so much arranging marriages around here these days. I don't think that "controlling a woman's sexuality" is too much of a motivating factor either, except maybe among some wacky ass Fundamentalists.

Second, kinship modifies marriage by imposing a set of rules that determines not only whom one may marry (someone from the right clan or family, of the right age, with proper abilities, wealth, or an adjoining vineyard), but, more important, whom one may not marry. Incest prohibition and other kinship rules that dictate one's few permissible and many impermissible sweethearts are part of traditional marriage. Gay marriage is blissfully free of these constraints.
There is no particular reason to ban sexual intercourse between brothers, a father and a son of consenting age, or mother and daughter. There are no questions of ritual pollution: Will a hip Rabbi refuse to marry a Jewish man--even a Cohen--to a Gentile man? Do Irish women avoid Italian women? A same-sex marriage fails utterly to create forbidden relationships.

Excuse me? I hate to rock your world, Mr. Schulman, but my dad is Italian and my mom is Irish. They're quite married and have been for some time now. When was the last time that was an issue? Forbidden? I can count at least 50 people I know who are Irish-Italian or whose parents are Jewish and Gentile, but I do not know one single person who has ever married in pursuit of an adjoining vineyard. Do you? Please, I beg you. Find me one.

As far as the incest goes? It's so ridiculous that I shouldn't even bother addressing it- but as far as that point goes, what is preventing a heterosexual from having a relationship with an adopted child/ step-child who happens to be of age. Woody Allen, anyone? I mean, I love him deeply, but there you go. Also, please see that one episode of "Secret Lives of Women" about incestuous couples, all of whom are heterosexual. Also, that Australian guy and his daughter.

Few men would ever bother to enter into a romantic heterosexual marriage--much less three, as I have done--were it not for the iron grip of
necessity that falls upon us when we are unwise enough to fall in love with a woman other than our mom. There would be very few flowerings of domestic ecstasy were it not for the granite underpinnings of marriage. Gay couples who marry are bound to be disappointed in marriage's impotence without these ghosts of past authority. Marriage has a lineage more ancient than any divine revelation, and before any system of law existed, kinship crushed our ancestors with complex and pitiless rules about incest, family, tribe, and totem. Gay marriage, which can
be created by any passel of state supreme court justices with degrees from middling law schools, lacking the authority and majesty of the kinship system, will be a letdown.

Dude has had three marriages? If you ask me, they probably failed, not because of gay people having rights, but because he was clinging on to the idea that he ought to be able to buy himself a woman with a vineyard. Also, if you think it is "unwise" to love any woman but your mother, than I think you're the one who shouldn't be getting married.

He closes with this.

Can gay men and women be as generous as we straight men are? Will you consider us as men who love, just as you do, and not merely as homophobes or Baptists? Every day thousands of ordinary heterosexual men surrender the dream of gratifying our immediate erotic desires. Instead, heroically, resignedly, we march up the aisle with our new brides, starting out upon what that cad poet Shelley called the longest journey, attired in the chains of the kinship system--a system from which you have been spared. Imitate our self-surrender. If gay men and women could see the price that humanity--particularly the women and
children among us--will pay, simply in order that a gay person can say of someone she already loves with perfect competence, "Hey, meet the missus!"--no doubt they will think again. If not, we're about to see how well humanity will do without something as basic to our existence as gravity.

WOW. WOW. WOW. Portnoy's Complaint AHOY. See, this is why I'm forever single. This is the sum and summary of all my worst fears about commitment. I can't handle the idea that a man might think he's doing me some kind of favor by hanging out with me (when it is so clearly the other way around). It actually make me hyperventilate a little. I fear that all men are secretly Sam Schulman.

I die. I cannot believe that this man even exists. Contemplating it is breaking my brain into pieces.

Intervention: How Do These People Always Have Significant Others?

Is it wrong that every time I watch Intervention, the thing that keeps nagging at me is how these people are ALWAYS in a relationship- and usually with like, the nicest person ever. Sometimes they've been married several times, which is totally mind boggling. Like, how can 8 different people marry someone that messed up?

I wouldn't sign up for that, personally. I have zero patience for such things. At the same time, a part of me sometimes goes "Hey, wait a minute- would I do better with the fellas if I had a glaring issue of some kind?" Maybe I could fake it- like the time my mom tried to draw track marks on my arm for that family reunion to freak out the relatives.

Asti Spumante

Darlings. It is a fact that Asti Spumante turns me into Tallulah Bankhead at midnight and a giant pile of mush and pain in the morning. Oy.

Also, it is a fact that the employees of late night dining establishments tend to go all Dr. Huxtable on every gentleman caller of mine they happen to meet, which is kind of hilarious.

Varied and Sundry

• You know what's weird? When you run into a guy you had a crush on a long time ago, but never dated because like, say he was dating someone else at the time and also his friend thought you were his soulmate, and like, for whatever reason he's no longer dishy, but you're still kind of into it.
• I take issue with people for not liking tomatoes. I take an inordinate personal offense to it for some reason. I have no idea why this is. I get all flabbergasted and shocked and all "HOW CAN YOU NOT LIKE TOMATOES! THEY ARE MORE DELICIOUS THAN ANYTHING!" about it. I should probably relax about it.
• Ok, so we were smoking outside the Double Door tonight, and I see a grown ass (but rather short) woman walk by clutching a stuffed dog into her neck. She wasn't crazy. I know crazy when I'm looking at it. You know she thought she was fucking adorable. I hate adults who think they're adorable. It bothers me more than disliking tomatoes, even. I'm convinced that cutesy people are absolutely psychotic on the inside.
• Why do people think I care about whether or not they made it to the gym that day? Like, I realize I work in retail, and that it's a cross I must bear- but really- what is the damn point? Are they bragging about how hot and disciplined they are? Are they apologizing for not being hot and disciplined enough? What in god's name is my response supposed to be other than "Oh."? It's officially the least interesting conversation ever. Seriously, it's like talking about flossing your teeth, or washing the dishes. Unless you fell off a treadmilll, it can't possibly be all that fascinating.
• Another thing I'm bothered by? Ok, so we have this t-shirt at the store, see? :

Why on God's Green earth would anyone want to be referred to as being "Corn-Fed?" Isn't that an insult? According to the Wikipedia, corn-fed means means: an individual who is strong and healthy, but lacks sophistication, typically an overweight girl or woman from the Midwestern United States. The comparison is to cattle or beasts of burden." WHO WOULD SIGN UP FOR THAT DESCRIPTOR? Also, another thing about this shirt- you know who purchases it? Middle aged women, who are clearly not "girls." I have a zero tolerance policy on neoteny, as previously stated in this post. The whole thing is just bizarre. Some people just have shame in all the wrong places.

Point-Counterpoint: Panty Blasters

It's always a good thing to not have the same taste in dudes as your friends. For instance, Roommate tends to dig the super "Nordic God" (as she says) looking types. You know, blonde hair/blue eyes- that sort of deal. I'm not so into that, really. I think it stems from a pathological fear of Nazis. I like my men a bit darker. It totally works out, you know, because we never like the same guys.

So, anyway, as it turns out, my dear friend Jill and I have totally different tastes in the fellas as well. I know this because she totally blogged about it. She has thus inspired me to write my own list of what she has delicately termed "panty blasters"- because I just can't get down with musicians (anymore. I swear to god, I've sworn off.), and while I love puppies and kittens and the like, dudes posing with them doesn't really rock me like it does her. I'm also creeped out by babies. So here we go.

Men in Suits/Sportscoats/Whathaveyou



It is pretty much a fact that any fella is ten times more handsome when properly dressed. I've always had a weakness for men in ties- which, if I am truthful with myself, is the only reason I thought ska was any kind of a good idea in highschool. Oh, also, tweed sportscoats with leather patches? I die.

Barfights



Ok, this is probably really terrible, but whenever a dude tells me he got into a fight... I kinda swoon a little. Maybe a lot. It's not that I care for violence at all. I don't. I mean, I don't want to see it, per say, but I like knowing they can and will hold their own, and that if push comes to shove, they're not going to go cry in a corner by themselves. I also like to know that if someone bothered me that they could possibly end up with a bloody face, or at least the legitimate threat of one. I kind of have a mouth, so this is a distinct possibility.

Dudes Reading Russian Lit on The Bus/Train



It's just about the dreamiest thing ever. I can't explain it- I mean, I love a lot of different kinds of books- but it's just not the same thing. It's not. I don't have to fan myself when I see a boy reading like, Henry James or whatever, even though I totally love Henry James. I think it's that "Oh, you read a lot and you're probably super smart, but non-demure and will totally argue with me." vibe that it gives off.

A quick thing I thought I would share...

So today, our cleaning lady at the store (who by the way, totally hates my guts- and also has a side business in renting "luxury porta-potties" that come with mints or something) gave me like, 87,000 compliments in a row about my shoes, my dress, my hair, the fact that when I sing along with the music she thinks I sound "like that Amy Winehouse" (which I do not) etc. "You dress for fun!" she tells me. Then she compliments me on "that walrus tooth [I] got hangin' round my neck." I tell her it's a cornuto and it's meant to ward off the evil eye, which people can give you when they dispense insincere compliments. It's hardly made of magic, I bought it at Forever 21, and ladies aren't even supposed to wear cornicelli (we've got that fig fist dealie, which, you know, is supposed to protect our fetuses or something.). Still, I thought it was kind of funny.

I have been accused, myriad times, of not being able to take a compliment. Although this does usually come from weird dudes that I don't want complimenting me in the first place. In general, they make me feel horribly awkward. Especially if they continue after I force myself to say "thank you." Maybe it's some weird ethnic consciousness thing where I think they are, in fact, giving me the evil eye. Maybe it's because I dole them out all day long ("Oh my god, I so love your bag!") that they just sound insincere to me.

Also, you should know that I have burned the crap out of my neck. Seriously. See, I did some unknowable and mysterious retarded thing to it last Monday, and I've been in serious pain for a week and a half. It's just ridiculous. I look like I have Tourette's, because like, every five seconds I twitch my neck and yell "Ow!" like I'm being stabbed. It's not terribly attractive. I've been trying to make it stop by spending every night with a heating pad wrapped around it like an ascot, and now the skin on my neck is in a world of hurt. Make it stop.

"Record Collection": Code for "Penis" Since 1976

(Someday I will tell you the story of why I think John Cusack is responsible for the downfall of humanity, but not today.)

Excerpt from a recent conversation:

Dude: Are you going to Lollapalooza this year?

Robyn: Probably only if my roommate can get me in for free. I do kind of feel importantly about the Lou Reed, though- just because I've never seen him and what if he dies before that happens? I'd feel pretty guilty.

Dude: Cool, Cool. (He continues talking about music, some show he went to at the Empty Bottle where the band wasn't as good as the last time he saw them, as I nod my head, fog out and try to not let my face look glazed. The only reason people have conversations about music that go on for more than five minutes is so they can tell you how cool they are. Unless they're talking about Schopenhauer. I can get down with that- at least sometimes you can learn things from overly pretentious people. I cannot bring myself to care about how cool anyone is.). So, you should like, come over and see my record collection.

Robyn: Do you think I'm new?

Dude: Huh?

Robyn: That's such a cliche, I can't believe you actually said that- out loud, in a room full of people.

Dude: What did I say?

Robyn: "(in man voice) So, do you like, wanna come over and see my record collection?" Seriously, why didn't you just check my tag to see if I was made in heaven? Or better yet, ask me if I washed my pants with Windex. Gee, I'm tired, I bet it's because I've been running through your mind all day.

Dude: You're crazy, girl.

Robyn: Sure I am. But I'm not retarded enough to think that "record collection" isn't code for "penis."

You know, it occurs to me that people have been told they're special and unique so much that they don't realize that they're being giant walking cliches. I'm probably not an exception. We are all giant walking cliches to someone. I just hope I don't like, say things that are overly cliched. At least when I'm not at work.

I also think I might hate innuendo sometimes. Just come out with it already. Say what you mean. If you want me to come over and see your penis, then by all means, ask. I'll probably turn you down, but ask the question you mean to ask. Don't pretend like you actually want me to come over and spend an hour going "Oh... that's nice.... haven't heard that before..." or whatever actually looking at your record collection would entail. If that is actually what you want me to do, then you're definitely kind of a weirdo. I have way cooler stuff than you do, I'll bet. I don't invite anyone to look at it though. "Hey dude, do you want to see my collection of mannequin heads?" however, might be kind of an awesome pick up line... and definitely not a cliche.

The mating dance, however, is usually a barrage of cliches- dudes who tell you your eyes look like two limpid pools and shit like that. Ok, maybe not limpid pools- but you know what I'm saying here. It bores me. Compliments bore me. Talking about sports, or music, or other non-stimulating subjects bores the living crap out of me. You might as well talk to me about your favorite color, or what scent of Febreeze you most prefer. I end up being a jerk sometimes just so I can try and get them riled up enough to say something interesting or clever to me. It does not always work out the way I plan. Is that a cliche? Probably. To someone.

In Case You Were Wondering Whether or Not I'm an Asshole...

So, tonight, Roommate and I went to The Kills Show. Now, during a point in the show where she had to go to the ladies room, this gross dude comes up to me and says, and I quote: "Hey pretty lady, why aren't you smiling?"

And thus, I yell at him "You wouldn't say that to me if you saw my huge dick."

Exactly.

Yeah, sorry. Got a thing about people I don't know telling me to smile. Blah.

And now, SLEEP. I will tell you about the cherry flavored condom I stuck in another dude's hoodie tomorrow. Maybe. If you're good.

I am not a visual learner.

It happened again. I actually ran into a guy that I went on a few dates with a while back and was entirely unable to place where I knew him from until he started talking about Princeton and I was like "Ohhh.... guy who mentioned how he went to Princeton every 5 seconds... I remember you!". Ouch. I don't think he noticed... but still. I suck. I have some weird glitch in my head where I can remember anything someone says to me, but it will take me forever until I can pick them out of a line-up. Seriously, you do not want me at a trial. Unless the person who attacked you had a weird mole or something, because that would be something I'd pick up on.

Oh well.

I Am Not The Captain In Charge Of Male Virtue Protection

So, Elizabeth Edwards was on Oprah yesterday talking about John Edwards infidelity- I didn't see it, because I don't watch Oprah- but I saw this clip on Jez, wherein she basically puts all the blame on the woman he cheated on her with.

Isn't that always the way? Now, I can understand that she's pissed- but I'm so not down with this whole idea that women are supposed to be the sacred guardians of men's moral compasses or any shit like that. This totally reminds me of how I used to get in trouble in class for things the boys got away with. Double standards= ick. I'm sorry, but it's up to the person who made the commitment to uphold it, not someone who doesn't know your ass. Really, when the situation is turned around, it's not like people get all "Oh my god, how could he do that to another man! He's so evil! Evil evil evil! He's just scum!" about things- no, they're just like "Yeah, he was a dude. He wanted to get some. Big shocker." And even if he is blamed a little, he's hardly going to be villified to the degree a woman is. It's just not the same level of "evil." Evil in men is violence. In woman it's sexuality.

I think there are a couple reasons for this- things that go back to the Bible and Greek myths and all that other shit. I don't especially feel like going into them at this time- but there are a shit ton of stories involving vaginas being the fall of empires and such.

This is all kind of a sore-ish subject for me, to be honest. I'm pretty much on the verge of becoming a political lesbian- mostly because this whole "Oh, you're evil!"/ "Oh, I feel like such a bad person for liking you!" followed by the inevitable "Wow, hanging out with you has totally helped me find myself, and realize that what I really do want in life is the whole Horatio Alger/Norman Rockwell dream" thing is really starting to piss me the fuck off. Like, it's just not cute anymore. It's the same thing, over and over and over again. Blechh. I'm so not evil. I'm probably more fiercely devoted to my own moral code than anyone you could meet, so there.

I've also always attracted quite a bit of attention from men who are not exactly single. I have no interest in this, not because of any moral compunctions so much as they tend to be really annoying as people. Like, seriously, they tend to be looking for free therapy more often than not. Plus, I have no interest in the tales of your very delicate girlfriend whom you aren't exactly in love with but cannot bear to break the heart of by breaking up with her. Because she'd die without you. Ew. They just tend to think they're way more awesome than I think they are, and I find that irritating.

Funny story though, I'm far less suited for that sort of thing than one would think- mostly because I've got a mouth, balls of steel, and have a tendency towards vendettas. This one time, I'd been seeing this dude- did not know he had a girlfriend, but he did. Of two years. I thought I was probably too good for him to begin with, and I pretty much avoided him after that because he just wasn't worth the drama. Besides, I hate dishonesty. Still, dude wouldn't leave me alone- because he thought we were soulmates, and it was driving me up the damned wall.

SO... one day I see him out at this bar with his now fiancee (yeah, because by then they were totally engaged. Ha!), and I acted all super friendly and pretended I didn't know that they were together, and so I whipped out my cell phone and did this whole "Oh my gosh, you would not believe the messages this guy sends me! Hilarious! But seriously, I'm worried for my pet rabbit!" schtick right in front of him. And I promise you, the messages were rather special. I am hilarious. What else would I do? Protect him? Leave the bar? Go into a corner and feel awkward? Please. I have one rule- if someone in a room has to feel like shit, I'm going to make damn sure it isn't me.

Ok, I'm done kvetching. I leave you with my favorite song about affairs and whatnot:



Seriously, favorite thing ever.

Bacon: No Sir, I Don't Like It

(This is how every library should be. No bacon in the library. Ever.)

Ok, look- it seems as though everyone will not shut the fuck up about bacon these days. I'm starting to feel left out and out of the loop, because bacon is probably my least favorite food product, period. In fact, even thinking of it makes me vaguely nauseous. I absolutely loathe the stuff.

I understand if you don't want to be friends with me anymore. I, for one, find it off-putting when I see an adult avoid the crust on a sandwich. We all have our things.

For many years, bacon was one of those things I just happened not to eat. It was greasy, it had a bitter taste, and I could actually see the fat in it. It tastes like it's not clean. Not my thing, so I just avoided it. I didn't really hate it until I was around 22 or so. See, I was living with this girl who was on the Atkins diet. I was bothered by the Atkins diet to begin with- I couldn't stop asking her if she really thought it was the best diet ever because what sense does it make to be on a diet where you can eat half a cow, but not an apple?

The way everyone feels about bacon these days? Well, that's me and fruit. It's my favorite thing ever. I love all fruit, except for blueberries and bananas. Blueberries because I ate a rotten one once at my Nana's house, and bananas because I od'd on them when I was trying to prove my mother wrong on her theory that eating bananas before bedtime would give you nightmares. I didn't get any nightmares, but I did get kind of sick from it. Otherwise, I am a champion of all fruit. Actually, hold on, I'm going to get some grapes before I finish this.

Ok, I'm back now. I'm pretty sure I took the whole Atkins diet as an affront to everything I considered good and holy in the world. Well, that and I was tired of hearing about it. Everyone was on that fucking diet, I never heard the end of it. Being an oppositional person, I have a tendency, anyway, to develop an aversion to anything that people seem suspiciously enthusiastic about. I never liked the class dreamboat, I was weirded out by Beanie Babies, and I have never seen Dancing with the Stars. Maybe this is an extension of my misanthropy, I don't know. Anyway, I was totally convinced that any diet in which fruit was verboten was downright sacrilegious. It also totally made people smell weird. Swear to god.

So, there I was, living with a girl who was way into this whole Atkins thing. Our refrigerator was filled with my delightful fruits and vegetables from the farmer's market, and our freezer was filled with her various meats. Every morning I would wake up to the oppressive, blanketing smell of bacon coming up from the kitchen. I'd be trying to sleep, but the smell would seep into my throat. I'd cover my head with my blankets, and still, I couldn't escape it. I'd grudgingly get up, and take a shower, and I'd be washing myself with fancy soap that was supposed to smell like chocolate, orange, and almonds (delicious!), but instead now smelled like chocolate, orange, almonds... and bacon (blecch). Everything for the first two hours of my day smelled like bacon. I'd go out into the world worrying that somehow the stench had stuck to me somehow, despite all my scrubbing.

It didn't last that long, only a few months, because I moved to Chicago that August- and otherwise she was a perfectly fine person to live with, but the smell of bacon still makes me want to die. So, no, I cannot share your enthusiasm for this food product. I'm sorry. I am not cool.

Conflict.

To clarify my statements from last night, when I talk about arguing, I'm pretty much talking about politics, ethics and social issues. I have no interest in like, personal arguments. Ever. In fact, that sort of conflict makes me run screaming from the room in horror and disgust. I think that on some level, everyone enjoys some sort of conflict. Some people have drama in their lives- I pretty much never do, because I get my conflict on in other ways. Yes, I pick fights and I bust balls. I totally do- I like to exercise my wits and keep my teeth sharp.

The funny thing is- some people, when debating politics or ethics, will go into ad hominem attacks. And then there's me. When having a personal argument (you know, if I haven't run out of the room), I'll get all "WHELL! According to Kant's categorical imperative...." and basically try and make it all sorts of high school debate team. I pull it away from myself- I don't say things like "you hurt my feelings" because it just doesn't seem like a logical argument to me. I'm in it to win it. I think a lot of this is because if like, I were to engage in a normal sort of argument growing up, my parents probably would have just ignored me.

A funny thing happened on the way to the Thai Spoon...

SO. I was going to the Thai Spoon with some lady friends for the half off maki special (I know, they're confused.)- and parked right in front of the restaurant, we see this:


(not the actual one we saw, just another one on their website)

Super creepy. SUPER creepy- and while I'm standing there, pondering about exactly what sort of nutjobs would drive around in such a thing- I SEE them. A giant, Duggar-like family. It was like a crazypants jesus freak clown car- they just kept pouring out! And all the kids looked just like this:



Except like, way more peaked and inbred looking. Oh, and they were all wearing matching anti-abortion outfits. Now, I don't know about you, but a 9 year old is not going to convince me of anything. Why? Because when I was 9, I thought that the manatee that my class adopted was actually going to show up and I would get to take it home on weekends- and I was supposed to be "gifted," ok? Second of all, a car full of terrifying children looking like some creepy Mengele experiment is not going to do much in the way of convincing anyone to procreate.

But the thing was, I was absolutely aching to find the parents and go pick a fight. Which, you know, you can't really do, because they're clearly bonkers and you can't argue with crazy. I've just been feeling rather contentious lately. However, my friends were hungry, so I had to suck it up and go eat some sushi rather than go ballistic on the "Truth Truck" (that's what it said on the back- truthtruckusa.com).

I need a good argument soon- but not with a crazy. This thought actually occurred to me the other night when this dude was blowing smoke up my ass about how fantastic I am. I was just so bored. I mean, duh, he was just trying to get laid, but frankly, that's so not the way to go with me. Maybe I'm an asshole. I don't know. The fact is, I just prefer to punch my own weight. I would never stand around telling anyone I barely know how wonderful they are. I also get the feeling that not a single dude in this whole damn city could win an argument with me. Seriously, I could be like, 4 drinks in, half asleep and win at the logic game.

--------------------------

Ok, that was going to be like, a totally serious analysis and shit- it was going to be way deep, but then Jill and Melissa suggested we go to Liar's for karaoke, so I scrapped that idea and ended up upside down on a couch singing Peggy Lee. Now I'm eating a bat of pepperoni and watching Daisy of Love. There are two dudes on this show from Chicago. I don't know either of them, as far as I know.

I can scream as loud as your last one, but I can't claim innocence

What does it say about me that I am currently writing a story inspired in part by a Tori Amos song? Isn't that just so highschool-y? I don't know, I just had it stuck in my head all day.



Funny but true story (not the one I'm working on)- When I was in 6th grade, my Uncle asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I said a Tori Amos CD or something. However, he ended up getting me a Laurie Anderson CD. There is a bit of a difference there. Mostly in terms of the fact that it is the rare 11 year old that has an affinity for Laurie Anderson.



And yet, my sister and I did appreciate it. We thought it was explicitly HILARIOUS. Especially because there was some song with a part that went "Coo Coo, it's cold outside! Don't forget your mittens!" We invented dances. We did our own performance art. We were just that way.