My 20-Sided-Diet, or , Supersize Me (on my character sheet)

I thought looking for people who willingly play Dungeons and Dragons would be easy. I see kids with long hair wearing Rush shirts all the time. The ones who don’t make eye contact through their Chris Murphy-esque glasses- but no. Television shows depicting ‘geeks’, ‘nerds’, and ‘dweebs’ have developed a vicious misconception about who to trust as DungeonMaster.

Feed Me Back, or, GWOOOOOORRRRRRMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMUH

I’ve haven’t been this hungry since I last lived in a tent for an undetermined length of time. I think its one part phantom pains brought on by a lack of food cooked in a school bus, and one part meth-addict-esque metabolism brought on by drafting behind busses in rush-hour traffic. My tum sounds like My Bloody Valentine.

Offtime Beats, or, Whichever Weigh

These fifty-eight words have been hard to come by, lately. The long and the short of it: I’ve taken to wearing spandex and manufacturing a backup identity in case something goes awry (it very well may). Those two things aren’t entirely unrelated. I can handle grease burns a lot easier than I can handle most conversations these days.

Totally Alert and Incomprehensible, or, Neutered Nougat

This morning, I thought to myself ‘Hey, if I want a kitten so badly, I should just buy one of those chocolate-covered ones! Then I can eat the outside and keep the adorable inside!’

It took me a good five minutes for it to register that those delicious pets don’t actually exist.

I was utterly devastated.

Stupid reality.

I Wanna Start A Fambly!, or, Never, Ever Let Me Start A Family.

I have been compiling a list of kitten names for some time
Avery
Gideon
Goon
Saban
Akimbo
Jehu
Khan
Elvrum
Pemberton
Santos
Epworth
Yoni
Boombox
Pecola
Elkas
Kurosawa
Guthrie
Kidynamite
VanGaalen
Hoosier
Rashomon
Blurton
Koushik
Bannon
Haverty
Negundo
Kylesa
Pecola
Burdock
Penelope
Yndi
Cadeaux
Molina
Guthrie
Kuro
Yoni
Simka
Kinsey
Windom
Sylvie
Gingembre
Olgorki
Ghettoblaster
Onieda
Yoshimi
Bookcase

The first rule of Bitch Gulf is...

Things will change. I will ask myself while I walk to work- I will ask ‘What will happen...what will change in my life if I turn at the next corner and punch the next person I see in the face?’ If the answer is ‘nothing’, it’s time for me to move. I suggest you try the same thing.

What Ikea advertisements have done for me (Lately)

The Brave Little Toaster made me into a pack rat. Seeing what those household items went through to get back to their owner (Whom they loved) made me want to hold onto every blanket and lamp I’ve ever owned. I’m still terrified of running over the Vacuum’s chord ‘cause I’m afraid of being charged with assisting a suicide.

Unsolicited listsededs, or, A Plan Is Just A List of Things That Don't Happen

What I hope to accomplish in 2009:

- Beat Mother 3

- Go to California

- Make my own cheese

- Swanton bomb at least three people

- Get a hilarious tattoo that’s only funny for the last eight minutes before its etched into my behind

- Mail postcards to twenty-seven people

- Eat a zabillion grilled cheeses

Snapping Synapse

I'm fortunate; without the ability to choose how to remember, I can memorize an entire thunderstorm. Bolt for bolt. Against my will. I'll remember how many steps from my front door to yours, long after I have forgotten how to spell your last name or the smell of your apartment. I only remember the easy parts. Lucky me.

Hit The Coast As Hard As You Can.

The way it’s snowing right now, I feel like I brought it with me. People here said "No, it never snows here. It might rain all winter long, but it'll barely ever snow.”

Well, it’s snowed for three days now. Three fucking days. It came through the crack in my window and it felt like pins and needles.

"I don't know about that, I only know that I didn't put it there."

Who thought that the simple job description of building maintenance worker would encompass such tasks as cleaning human feces out of an elevator or scraping three-day old dried Kraft Dinner© brand cheese sauce (sans noodles) from a fire escape stairwell? Did I mention that these things were found in multi-million dollar condos? Did I mention the feces? Yeah.

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.

Arbitrary Numbers! Arbitrary Pictures!

I don’t know what the next ten tattoos I get will be, but I know now that when I hit the big two-oh, they’ll be a Jurassic Park logo waiting to get bzzz’d in to my right buttock. It’s that, or Jeff Goldblum in a marching band outfit with a homicidal grin on my penis. No other choices.

Flashing My Skills behind Tarnished Yellow Grillz, or , How to flail in a four by six kitchen.

I am in the process of choreographing the most complex and confusing dance routine to the sounds of Hella’s Been A Long Time, Cousin. It’s a full-body workout and requires the participation of two other highly experienced dancers whom I have already chosen. Dance moves include ‘The Nine-Stage Kick’, ‘The Belly Presentation’, and ‘The Greasy Scissors’. Look out.

Omit

After dragging them metal shears for hours on end, and endless papercuts and paint-stained nails- I suddenly felt that although I was proud of co-authoring THE most fucked up pieces of art in Hess Village, I’d rather people not know what I’ve done. I’d rather stand back and have people wonder ‘what kind of deranged fucks did this?’

Train of Thought! Woo! Woo!

Do I go here or there do I choose now or wait it out do I sleep sleep sleep my weekdaze away do I fend for myself or do I help out people I don’t know do I love you do I care do I make lunch or breakfast do I rest do I think I. Can’t. Stop.

A Short Reflection On Everything Else, or, Yeah, I Bet A Better Use Of Grammatical Structure Would Help, Too.

This will be the only thing I will continue that will remain light and airy and not dive into some melancholy, booze-tinged, rainy-day sighfest because it’s way too hard to be all cathartic in fifty eight little words. I’m sure if I had a bigger vocabulary I could be all sad in so few words, but I don’t.