DON'T BE LATE FOR DINNER

I've become somewhat of a housewife. I'm decoupaging at an alarming rate. My baking skills have reached level five, and my inventory now contains more new human interest piece podcasts than hardcore discographies. I'm going to celebrate my homemakerness by breaking a beer bottle over a jock's head this weekend and knitting him a wool bandage. Alpaca, brah.

This Is Nowhere Near A Hayden Song

It’s raining, but I don’t mind, I’m gonna find a falafel place somewhere in this town that resembles eat-a-pita and eat the shit out of it and then not tip regardless of service ‘cause the service was bad back home and I’m going to pretend the whole time that I’m in Hess on a Friday night oh dear.

I wanna GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO

Pre-show jitters are worse than:

-Christmas Eve
-The last ten seconds of December 31st
- Waking up fifty-eight seconds before your alarm
- Being late for work
-Seinfeld reruns when you’re waiting for something good to happen
-Knowing you’re gonna fall down a flight of stairs
-Bacon fat
-Back pimples
-People you knew in high school
-Zach Frank

Longing Distance, or, Loving Where I Am, Missing Where I Amn't

Six years.

Six years I’ve spent meeting people who weren’t forced into the same room with me. I’ve met and become friends with some of the greatest people this town will ever see, and it kills a part of me knowing I won’t be there for them always, but it’s time for a change.


Vancouver, here I come.