I want you on me.

... Literally.

There are worst ways to waste a night.

To anyone reading this: please go here immediately. I can't believe I've finally found my people!

Be still my ever beating heart!

In case you can't read that, Sylvester Crawford sent me an email on April 29, 2009. "He" (because it is undoubtedly a real person and not at all a spam-bot sent to herald the robot uprising and subsequent apocalypse) has mistaken me for a man, and not just any man. A man with erectile disfunction.

Being the considerate, thoughtful chap that Sylvester is, he has titled this email "Recharge your love gun".

Recharge. My. Love. Gun?

Don't mind if I do!

Hey, remember that time...?

I think Lacan said something about mirrors once. Anyway, sorry for the random outburst of narcissism. Except not really. Because a blog is, by definition, an exercise in narcissism. Suck on that, motha truckas!

Puzzle!

Where is this beautiful window located?

Hint: It's somewhere on my campus :)

I see skies of blue and clouds of white.

Pretty good weekend. Got silly and drunk on Friday night, fell asleep at 41 Stone (which seems appropriate, somehow, for the last party). Woke up at 8 AM on the dot and ran home to shower, eat and pack before driving into the city. Left the car at my parents' apartment with my dad and wandered around the Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea flea markets for a while before walking uptown to the MoMA for the screening of Stroszek. After Stroszek I found a cafe where I intended to work but instead fell asleep (I always feel a little weird about sleeping in public places but this couldn't really be helped). Returned to the MoMA for the Reverse Shot Screening and then upon attempting to find the 6 walked four blocks in the wrong direction. By the time I backtracked the four blocks and walked another five to get to the subway my feet were blistered and bleeding, yuck. Came home made myself some sandwiches and passed out.

Woke up early this morning to write the review for the Inside Beat, fell back asleep, woke back up to get breakfast with my parents, Ben, and Casey then headed back to New Brunswick. Laid in bed and stared out the window for an hour and a half and then went to work at 5. We had the Gerlanda's Olympics tonight since its our last shift together, including "blind food/drink tasting", "timed tray runs", "the bagel toss", "timed shelf clean", "tray spin/relay race" and "bet on when King Pita starts playing Shaggy's Wasn't Me".

I won the bet. Marie won the Olympics. Much fun was had. But now I am very tired and my feet are very sore and I've got a shower with my name on it.

One more week and then I'm done this awful terrible no good very bad semester.

Senior Thesis Idea

Looking at these films, I'll be comparing/contrasting/making some interesting connections between the teenage American girls being shown and the culture that created them.

Should be good. Hopefully.

Hilarity Is:

Ridiculously high amounts of cargo pockets in men's pants. I saw some guy with pants very similar to these on Douglass the other day and had to stifle my desire to ask him when, and with what, he planned to fill those pockets. I'm very proud of myself, I abstained. Make no mistake, I was laughing at him. On the inside.

Happy Birthday.

There aren't words, you know? She's just my mom.

[edit: Okay, I'm not trying to say that she's just a mom. No way. She's a lot of very interesting things and a very loving, intelligent, creative person. But the best way to describe my emotions towards her is simply to say: she's my mom.]

937*

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind-
As if my brain had split-
I tried to match it-Seam by Seam-
But could not make it fit.

The thought behind, I strove to join
Unto the thought before-
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
Like Balls-upon a Floor.

-Emily Dickinson

(*Happy poetry month!)

Hey! You! Sondre Lerche!

You so pretty.

That goes double for your music.

Please take off that awful shirt and stupid scarf.

And then leave Norway. Move to New Jersey.

And then take me out for coffee.

Anathema.

Things I'm fairly convinced have been brought into existence solely for the purpose of annoying me:

• Eggs-travaganza. As far as ovarian-related puns can go, you can do a lot better.


• Spring weather. Sunny? Rainy? That's fine. JUST PICK ONE.


• The fratboy mentality. Who taught you it was okay to yell at me from your porch? To me, it means one of two things. 1. You're a douchebag. You find me unattractive or annoying or offensive somehow, and the most articulate expression of this feeling you can muster is some unintelligible grunt from the safety of your moldy porch-couch. 2. You're a super douchebag. You think I'm cute and you are so unimpressively unimaginative as to think that yelling at any girl, at any time, is really going to reel in a winner. You know who you will attract? Drunk idiots. So get back to me on Friday nights, and maybe we can chat and I can attempt to mock your belligerently drunk self to your face while drinking your beer. Otherwise, I can't wait until you graduate and begin your slow descent into middle management and male pattern baldness.


• Structurally unsound clothing/shoes. I'm very hard on my shoes and clothes. I give them a lot of abuse, and I expect them to take it and like it.


• Pop quizzes.


• The lack of Daily Show/Colbert Report on Sunday nights.


• On the back of that, the fact that Sundays are never considered weeknights. WHY? Is there not school the next day? Does it not count because it's a Monday and everyone hates that day anyway? Is this just another wonderful bonus of living in a predominantly Judeo-Christian society? Because I will happily give that up if it means I get five episodes of fake news per week instead of four.


• People who don't answer professional emails. I'm a mere student and I hate emailing, talking on the phone, and texting and yet I am still quicker at returning all three types of communication than the majority of Rutgers employees. You people suck. Answer my emails. Do it. Answer them. ANSWER THEM, DAMMIT!


• My mother. In the best-intentioned and most well-meaning way possible. But still.


• Hair. Specifically, hair in that you-obviously-cut-it-off-and-now-are-waiting-for-it-to-get-back-to-normal length that mine seems to stay at for years on end.

What is kind of awesome, however, is taking a massive nap in the middle of the afternoon and effectively sleeping through an entire party. What is actually awesome is Sense & Sensibility, and last but not least, what is completely superduper awesome is getting the okay for my proposal idea.

These carrots are making me gay!

Stop and Shop is selling these for a dollar. Drop everything and go buy them, especially the acai-blueberry-pomegranate one. You can thank me later.

(I'm also eating baby carrots and baba ganoush, thus the Colbert quote.)

The Constitution.

My brother, Justin, made this. I'm exceedingly proud of him. What a gorgeous piece of art. He's grown so much as an artist, it's unreal.

I miss Savannah.

Enough said. Yesterday was so beautiful outside, I was not very good about all the work I have to do. I wrote for a little bit in the morning then went and saw Adventureland and after drove around and enjoyed being both alive and mobile on such a perfect day (is there anything better than driving around in the spring with the windows down and your favorite band blaring? I feed into this car obsessed culture of ours wholeheartedly, I must admit). The movie wasn't really anything new as far as story goes, but it was made really well and I think that the acting was spot-on, it made the relationship between Em and James seem really organic and tender. I liked it. I may even buy it when it comes out.

Alas, neither that nor studying with Jo furthered the development of either of my papers. Yikes. Off to work I go!

To catch up on the past year:

Who I was.

Who I am.

Who I dream of being.

I'm back.

That is all. More to follow.