i'm moving

Sam, I'm moving to derabklatsch.tumblr.com!

ich bin wieder da

I pushed my flight back for the third time: now I'm arriving home close to midnight on Friday night.

My brain is completely fried. I feel like a body bag full of jello. I'm working on the last of my academic endeavors--a 12 page paper on Hauerwas and Mouffe--and honestly, it's not even that grand of an undertaking. BUT I've just trudged through a presentation on Thursday, a final on Friday, a research paper on Monday, a final on Tuesday, a final on Wednesday (today), and this paper, due tomorrow, is the last hurdle, and therefore, it's the greatest hurdle. In the two weeks before this, I had three other papers due. All I really wanna do is pack. Or drink tea. Or drink until my lips are numb and roll into my dirty sheets (which haven't been washed for three weeks).

I'm tired.

stressed

So ten more days turned into eleven more days and eleven more days turned twelve. I am so stressed out that I've been suffering from warped vision and fleeting delirium.

Another story:

(17:45:59) adolf: have you told her, you aren't living with her?
(17:46:39) Me: Yeah.
(17:46:43) Me: Okay, so here's the story.
(17:46:57) Me: CZ and I were going to live together, because she didn't want to live off campus.
(17:47:03) Me: So I went looking for housing.
(17:47:34) Me: Found housing, but then I discovered Barbara's apartment had a three-bedroom deal available.
(17:47:37) Me: (Really?)
(17:47:54) Me: And so we looked for a third roommate--and found one, Annie, Liz Morgan, or Lisa.
(17:48:07) Me: But then Jenn changed her mind and said she wanted to live with us.
(17:48:37) Me: But while we were waiting for her decision, we lost the house.
(17:48:44) adolf: Oh NO
(17:49:00) Me: Therefore, now we had Jenn, me, CZ, and Lisa. I had to tell Annie "no" since a) we didn't want to hurt Jenn's feelings, but b) I had to do the dirty deed.
(17:49:05) Me: So we get the lease.
(17:49:10) Me: Originally, Lisa was on the lease.
(17:49:23) Me: But Jenn made me go through the trouble of changing Lisa's name to Jenn so she can sign it too.
(17:49:44) Me: On the day of lease-signing, I tell Jenn to hurry 'cos we have to meet him. Her lame excuse? "I have a headache."
(17:49:46) adolf: this all sounds very annoying to me...
(17:49:51) Me: Like no one else gets headches and deals with them.
(17:50:00) adolf: Hello, you didn't say anything about my williams problem? now the won't fucking change me back
(17:50:36) Me: Okay, so for about the next two months or so, she keeps talking about doing an internship in Korea, which she DOESN'T HAVE. Also, we KNOW for sure that she isn't going, because she always pulls this stupid stunt.
(17:51:04) adolf: wtf/ so were YOU able to sign the lease? and the other kids?
(17:51:11) Me: Finally, two weeks ago, at Ryan's dinner, she publically announces--and mind you, she didn't graciouslly tell Connie and me privately first--at the dinner that "yeah, definitely," she is not living with us.
(17:51:47) Me: (CZ and I signed the lease--they only needed one person to sign it.)
(17:52:08) Me: So we ask Lisa to find a roommate, and she does.
(17:52:23) Me: This is pretty much immediately after Jenn's announcement.
(17:52:48) Me: So we give Jenn a two-week window to change her mind, in which case I would feel bad, but tell Katie she changed her mind.
(17:53:06) adolf: ugh
(17:53:19) Me: Finally, after this two-week window, I sucked in my breath and finally told her, "Hey, we found a new roommate."
(17:53:41) Me: To which she responds: "Oh, sorry--I don't know why I didn't tell you earlier, but I changed my mind. Does that mess up your plans?"
(17:53:50) Me: Connie and I PREDICTED TO A "T" THAT THIS WOULD HAPPEN.
(17:54:02) Me: And WE ALSO PREDICTED THAT SHE WOULD PULL THE PITY CARD.
(17:54:05) adolf: You should have told her its too late
(17:54:23) Me: "My grandmother is dying in Korea. I don't want to be there for that."
(17:54:44) Me: CZ and I are silent. I'm a little miffed with CZ, because she's stressed, but I'm MORE stressed, so she makes me deal with all of it.
(17:55:19) Me: So I bite the bullet and tell her the next day (which is yesterday) calmly that we decided, after a length conversation, that we decided that no, she's not going to live with us.
(17:55:30) Me: AND SHE HAS THE AUDACITY TO BE MAD.
(17:55:38) Me: Fuck that! Who does she think she is?
(17:55:49) Me: And she believes she's in the right this whole time, like she's justified.

And this is why I hate people. Also, I need to add that the grandma thing isn't new; sure, it's sad, but it's not a new consideration considering how her grandma's been in the same state for the last year, before she even considered doing anything in Korea.

Gah.

And there's still so much to rant about.

vomit stains

So it's been a while since I've posted.

I feel I have nothing to write about. I've been sitting on a plateau in the middle of nowhere for the last four months, and I'm more than ready to leave.

The last four months have been dominated by my constant bitching. Favorite topic? A suitemate. A likable enough girl, but GAH do I hate her boyfriend. He's just insipid and annoying. Except I can never just tell her this because: a) she'd be sad and she's already depressed, b) I don't think she'd understand, and c) I have to study abroad with the both of them next semester.

Woe is I. Why does anyone wish to study abroad? To get away, simply. And the one thing I wish to get away from is going to be right there with me, right there while I cry with a warm jug full of cheap American vodka somewhere in Prenzlauer Berg (with Ugg boots on), wondering why I just can't ruin their lives/stop caring about their stupid and irrelevant feelings.

Sympathy is so demode.

It's really sad when someone else's depression turns into a vomit stain, something I really should do something about but would rather just not deal with it. I find it more annoying than anything and I figure if I ignore it enough, if I hold my breath, it really doesn't smell like last week's curdled milk.

I'm really glad to have a three month break in exactly ten days. I miss breathing. It'll be wonderful to be home and cuddle with weird-looking puppies and be around people who aren't exhausting to care about. I miss my neon coral room and I miss my tortoises. On the other hand, once I'm home, I'll miss the people here that make me happy. But I'll see them again next year.

Ten more days.

i'll get you, my pretties

I had to eat dinner with both (and just) my grandparents this evening for the first time in two years. Yes, I do live with them but for the longest time, I've avoided this particular fate. Until today.

My dad threw a fit because I wasn't keeping them company during dinner so I was basically guilt-tripped/conned. I had almost forgotten why I hated eating with my grandparents until we started chowing down. UGH. DENTURES. I wanted to vomit; there is nothing more assaulting and offensive to my peckish state than the sight of my grandfather's disgusting teeth, accented by the squicky sound of dentures... gross!

It seems like such a silly nuisance, but fer rills, lively dentures are right down there with leeches, harlequin babies, and peanut butter on moldy bread--things that are sure to send me spewing.

So I left the table, and when my mom asked why I wasn't eating with my grandparents, I felt too sheepish to not go back and finish dinner. Damn you, you spotted man-crone!

*sigh*
Mein kleiner, runder Kuchen is going to Germany tomorrow. This week is going to pretty much suck, until Sundaaaaaaay!

under pressure

So I passed out (I think?) yesterday morning.

At six-ish in the morning, my aunt came over to drop off her kids (so they can take the bus to school) and asked me to help her translate some things. As I was standing there explaining stuff, my ears got really hot (or maybe cold?) and my head was totally numb... the next thing I knew, my dad--I assumed my grandma had just woken him up--standing in front of me, looking frazzled and my grandma's screaming, "She's blue in the face! Blue!" My aunt was gripping my arm pretty tightly. I tried to shake her off so I could go wash my face in the bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror showed me looking rather corpse-like.

After exiting the bathroom, and having a case of really bad vertigo, I was assaulted by the swirling vision of my two cousins, my aunt, my grandma, and my parents all standing outside the door. Of course, no one would stop bothering me, but I just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep 'til the afternoon. My grandma kept making it worse by telling my mom she thought I had died standing (I clearly didn't) but finally, everyone left me alone to sleep.

Weird how that happens!

When I finally woke up, I felt a) extremely mortified and b) completely embarrassed. Everyone and their mothers called me, but I felt okay. I hate it when people treat me like Tiny Tim. Dad told me to eat steak, as if that'll fix things.

Anyway, we've deduced I've got really low blood pressure, since I've got orthostatic hypotension anyway.

has our kindness gone?

"One day, I'm gonna die from brain cancer and YOU CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT." -my brother

Nothing makes a picture like having sub sandwiches with the local SWAT team at Quizno's... wonder if they always ate on break.

I've been on a Christian Bale craze lately--I even watched the terrible "Little Women" (I hated that book as a kid)--and I've decided "The Prestige" is definitely my favorite Christian Bale movie. However, I haven't seen "American Psycho" so we'll see. (The only thing deterring me is that I remember someone telling me that in the book, there was a scene where the main character traps a rat in some girl's cheese-filled vagina. Eeek!)

Life has been more or less confined to my neon coral asylum, but today, I heard "The World I Know" by Collective Soul... for some weird reason, it reminds me of the first time I heard "End Of The World As We Know It" and fell in love in REM. Of course, these days, I prefer "Drive" and "Nightswimming." But "The World I Know" is still so good, in the way that "Runaway Train" by Soul Asylum is so good.... They're reminiscent of lying in the back of a truck, watching out for the first stars as the sun sets in Oklahoma. Of course, the melodies rocked me asleep before I got to point out my favorite star.

I miss those days, days filled with eight-year old dreams and eating ice cream and riding bikes in the countryside.

Suburban life is tiring & I'm tired.
Liz

resurrection

The nerdiest nerd in me can't help but think...

It must be some cross-universe reassurance to Harry Potter fans when Gary Oldman didn't really die after all in "The Dark Knight."

midsummer night's dream

"Do... crawfish grow up to be lobsters?" -my brother

Just got back from LA and Las Vegas. Was pretty uneventful... it consisted of the usual shopping (mother woke us up at 7 so we could start shopping at 9 until closing hours--"we only have seven days!" she cried) and the usual overeating (we had kangaroo, lobster, rabbit, mangosteen, longans, the most amazing scallop ceviche, et al) and overheating. The weather in Cali was divine, but I've never felt more like a human roast than I did in the middle of the Las Vegas strip. Didn't get the chance to see many people, but I did visit the Getty on the most perfect of days. All-in-all, it was a lovely vacation, mildly-paced and simple.

I'm at a standstill--and I know I'm at a standstill because all my clothes are looking the same. My summer shoes have fallen into the rut of "singular category"--gladiator sandals (god forbid I wear regular flip flops) and all my shirts are crisp and buttoned. I wish it was autumn already; I was never creative/inspired in this humidity. Why care about style when the idea of going outside sounds about as delicious as dill-flavored blood pudding covered in peanuts?

Also, on the note of summer, I've always hated tans, the skin color of choice for plebes. I wonder where the obsession comes from. Most people who tan don't look like they've come back from the Mediterranean; most people who tan look like they've come back from combing over rice paddies. If you wanna go for the total pedestrian look, why not go for calloused hands? So much more character, and less assaulting to the eyes. Not that I'm saying whiter is better, but most people should just stick to their natural coloring.

I really need to update more. All the interesting things never get blogged. In fact, I never blog until I'm dead bored.

Also, I got a haircut!

Love,
Liz

i see you wave your hand and disappear

"I hate that... I hate bespoke because I hate to be touched by strangers. It bores me to death." -Karl Lagerfeld

Three weeks into summer, and I've achieved nothing and have noticed nothing. I've been suspended before a vacuum--and that's how it has always been when I'm in Florida. It's strange how I can never wait to get back... I guess it's an inherent part of my personality to be sadistic, to always want what I can't have, to always be where I hate to be, to always subject my presence to those I despise.

I need to set some goals for myself. At this very moment, I'm completely useless. Maybe I'll put myself to good use. Start a club for atheists or something (note: when I came home, which happened to be at night, I was horrified to find that they have placed a GIANT white glowing cross outside my neighborhood--it's the only thing you can see for miles in this pseudo-countryside). Maybe get fit or learn a new language.

Maybe I'll go to work, even though I hate the idea. I've held ONE real job in my lifetime, and it lasted all of maybe 50 hours.

So, basically this is an update on how boring my life is.

Love,
Liz

"The Seal" - Fool's Garden

happy cinco de mayo!

"... they always try 2 make it seem like everything is about my ego! That joke is getting old." -Kanye West

One more week until I'm hooome! In my not-even-drunken-yet stupor, I had left my over-the-shoulder bag (containing: wallet, keys, two pairs of black pumps, & my phone) at the on-campus eatery Saturday night. I'm so fucking dumb, it's ridiculous. Hopefully, my shit doesn't get stolen... as often as I lose things, I'm glad I've never been robbed (here, anyway).

One paper, one exam, lots of German--here's to one last grueling week before I'm free.

gaolhouse rock

"I didn't take your money when I had ALL your credit cards locked up in my dreams." -Charles Manson

Wow, who knew Mr. Manson had an inner Rimbaud? There's something hauntingly creepy about that sentence, and it's not only because it's from a serial killer to a (theoretical) ten-year-old boy. Point is, Manson and Rimbaud are both fucking NUTS. However, I'm unflaggingly curious; should I play pen-pals with a serial killer? Would he write me prose poems? Because I want prose poems, but maybe permanent solitary reclusion is a weak substitute for absinthe.

And I'm thinking of children-eaters and man-slayers when I should be--

I should be doing laundry. Four piles, consisting of wet towels, old jeans, soiled dresses & other things, lay about on my floor. They've been growing for about two point two weeks and have begun to integrate into each other. I'm out of socks (but it's springtime [but it might rain]). I can't bring myself to move, however; the exhaustion imposed by living in this dump is bereaving me of all energy. But I'm comfortable. I can't be bothered once I'm comfortable.

property rights

What the fuck. Here I am, trying to be studious for once in my college life (can I admit to you this is my second year at Brown and this is the first time that I've ever used the library to do my work?) and the guy who chooses to sit in front of me happens to be the loudest motherfucker on the planet. I mean, there I was, all awkward and insecure about my cowboy boots clacking away on the linoleum tiles when no one's making a sound (you always have to be quiet in a library, right?) and here he comes stomping in. He plays his music without earphones (fucker!) and it's jazz (motherfucker! because I can't concentrate when jazz's playing) and he's eating something hot and meaty-smelling (rawr?) and slopping about like I don't belong here.

moving away from the pulsebeat

I'm so glad that Spring Break begins TOMORROW, although, in my typical foolish fashion, I still have a paper to write. Why so eager for this break? In addition to the fact that I'll get to indulge my lazy side, this will be the long-awaited distancing I needed from the devil herself--my suitemate.

Think of the most annoying person possible. This person is 242,495 times WORSE. She's the most boorish unclassy thing to walk this planet. You'd never know she was a virgin from how wide (and permanently) her legs are spread.

Why did I live with her in the first place? I like to think of myself of a hero and would like to say my only reason was to save her roommate, who happens to be the sweetest girl on earth. But really, I suppose it's because she used to seem pretty. These days, however, the prettiness has dwindled down to beady eyes and a thin upper lip; in other words, I'm finding it mightily difficult to see anything attractive about her. She stands like a chimp: ass out, boobs up, eyes glassy, mouth open. She has a ghetto air about her, but it's less urban and more destitute. She's got all the volume of a Texan drunk, all the swagger of a D-list white rapper, the frugality of a Vietnamese immigrant grandmother, and a vulgarity even Hugh Heffner would shun.

Jordan/Katie Price has a mile of style and class on her; that's how AWFUL she is. Whenever she opens her mouth, my ears bleed from the sheer shrillness of her booming voice. She loves to sing and never relents to bless us with her sweet prickly falsetto. She dresses like a two-cent road slut meets 16 year old pregnant teenager--from Hiawassee Mobile Homes.

Did I also mention she is an awful person? She's a liar, a deceiver, a homewrecker, and just totally stupid. And proud. Basically, a complete and total Philistine. I'm glad 99% of the world doesn't take her seriously.

With love,
Liz

Also, I'm missing my necklace. Uh-oh.
ETA: I found my necklace! Hurrah!

it's one of those days

My suitemate, Cezanne, is off playing piano again, a sure sign that there's "trouble in paradise." We all know it has some sort of sentimental value, but nevertheless I never did understand what part of a person makes it so that music is the best, and sometimes only, therapist. Perhaps it's because I have not a single ounce of musical talent in me, and in some ways, I'm jealous of the obvious ability to cope.

My other roommate seems to just avoid everyone except the boyfriend and the therapist, and it's only an unimportant matter of time that she comes out, happy and toothy again with the usual bitchin' attitude. And lately, more often than not, there have no been no grey skies, so clearly, she must be getting better. And yet others deal by working out, painting, going for a long walk in cold weather. And most seem to just talk it out.

And me? I just think a lot. I keep it in and sometimes, I write myself temporary notes. I hate "talking it out" for every reason possible. I'm afraid of judgement. I'm afraid of having my emotions discredited. I'm afraid of putting a burden on a person who didn't ask for it. I'm afraid of being "that girl." I'm afraid of being misunderstood, and I'm afraid of giving people power over me. I'm afraid of a million things that come with confessing.

And honestly, I don't think I'm a troubled person. I certainly don't want to be seen as a troubled person, but sometimes, I fear I come off that way. It's just that I don't tell people things, and yeah, I see how frustrating I can be. I grew up being taught, "What you are is not as important as who you are." Perhaps I lived by it too literally; lots of people know who I am, and hardly anyone knows what I am.

Why am I thinking about this again? Because I think the aunt I spent an entire summer caring for has died--and I'm not going to prance around, crying my heart out, and "talking about it." It's become such a term, "talking." It's just not my style.

No one's confirmed it, but I feel it. It's the sound in my mom's voice when she talks about Vietnam and the absence of the subject when I call my grandmother. After hearing that she has gone into surgery once again, I woke up feeling a cold weight in my lungs. It's a familiar numbing feeling, a cross between the non-feeling of marijuana and the feeling of salt water from the beach drying on my back. Surgery after surgery, after a near solid year of her suffering, I'm ready to let her go. I'm not mourning, no. Because honestly? We all saw it coming. After years and years of death after death--Robert, grandpa, grandma, baby Frankie, Erica...--I've developed a coping mechanism. No, I'm not a cold person, but yes, I realize that death happens. It just does. Accidents, diseases, old age--I've known them all, these faces of departure.

And it's okay. Because maybe I just don't need to talk it out. Maybe I don't need to cope.

a very long engagement

Lately, I've become obsessed with Gaspard Ulliel, the pouty-lipped French actor with the Doberman wound dimple--for practically no other reason than that I am just. absolutely. bored.

Boredom is a dangerous friend of mine; it's the reason why I...
- decided to take Computer Science (and also the reason why I dropped it),
- never go to German, even though I know it's the singular thing hurting my grade,
- take pleasure in weekends of complete irresponsibility,
- admire hedonists,
- decided to live with someone I hated, a total homewrecker, the ultimate asperser, the bane of my existence (shall I describe in more words?),
- and most importantly, it's the reason why I start shit with people.

Ennui. Such a perfect word for my predicament.

Also, it's the reason why I'm beginning to write in this blog again. From now on, this blog will be put to use--it's going to be a feast, with annoying ramblings for silverware and post-modern (maybe) discourses for consumption.

favorite songs

Well, to start off the new year, I've made a resolution to keep a regular journal of sorts--more of a place to keep random thoughts and things of personal interest.

Another resolution: to forget 2007. I think it was the most disappointing year of my life (I'm only nineteen, so it's no big feat), considering that my expectations have never been so high... and unmet. I thought my outlook was rather realistic, but I can't but say I pigeon-holed myself. I have that terrible habit of exacerbating my own misery.

To start the new year, I got a new haircut, new clothes, and a new outlook.

I don't have much to talk about... but lately, sad songs have been on my mind. Actually, to be entirely honest, my taste is rather "maudlin" as my dear roommate once pointed out, and I'm going to talk about my favorite songs of all time, because why the hell not?

----------

"Hurt" by Johnny Cash
- Clearly, this song is depressing. But it's the one song that will always stop me *every time.* No exaggeration--I don't know what it is... Johnny Cash's age-ladened vocals, the raw, poignant lyrics, the simple instrumentals... this version touches me in a way that Nine Inch Nails never could.

"A Place Called Home" by Kim Richey
- I adore Buffy, and I adore Angel--the show, not the broody character I find exasperating. I first heard this song when Fred died on the show, and, as much as I am loathe to admit how huge my inner Buffy nerd is, this song is loved because of its fantasy-television association. Joss Whedon, the creator of Buffy and Angel, is genius; I always identify with his characters, and I feel this song could not be any more perfect to represent my loyalty to the characters. This folksy tune is nostalgic and reminds me of a simpler time.

"Fields of Gold" by Eva Cassidy
- I love the original by Sting also, but Eva Cassidy's version of anything, I declare, is always going to be better than the original. This is the most heartbreaking song of all time. I think it was by accident that I came across this; I doubt this song ever got airplay (regularly enough for me to listen in on, anyway). The point is, I found it somewhere online shortly after Robert died and promptly broke down. I lost more people after that, but, as cliche as it is, this song helped me through it. Once upon a time, this song used to be The Song To Cry To. Now, I think of fields of gold... I think of people I miss bathing in sunlight. I think of the west wind, and I think of my sick aunt. It's comforting in its pain. If only Cassidy were alive today...

"Lesson Learned" by Ray Lamontagne
- I can't say I can relate to the song in any way, but I figure songs are always up to the listener's interpretation, and anyway, I'm a HUGE sucker for breathy deep male vocals and grumbly songs about heartache.

"Every You Every Me" by Placebo
- I miss my alternative rock/punk days. I remember hearing this for the first time in "Cruel Intentions" (so horribly GOOD, and Jesus, isn't my memory alarming?!) and falling in love immediately. I still don't get why it's "Every You and Every Me" and not "Every Me [and] Every You" as the song goes, but it's just a good, pulse-accelerating song that I feel I could've written in my younger angstier teen days--you know, secretly.

"Ever Fallen in Love?" by the Buzzcocks
- Possibly my favorite song of all time, by my favorite band of all time. Isn't this surprising, given my general taste? I love the melody more than the lyrics, and I don't need to explain why I love this song. It's just plainly amazing. Brilliant, perfectly brilliant.

"Levon" by Elton John
- Elton John is my God. He holds a very special place in my apartment--in the upper right hand corner of my mirror. I LOVE ELTON JOHN. Despite the fact that the impossibly glorious Elton John is more of a love-song/upbeat pop showstopper sort of man, "Levon" is undeniably my favorite song from him. I think it's the country twang of the song that grabs me... or the narration of a man I feel I know. I'm totally serious, too. I'm so overly sentimental.

"Foolish Games" by Jewel
- 'Nough said. This is my ultimately girly-girl I'm-such-a-goddamn-girl song. That being said, Christian, my gay best, loves it also.

"Lay Lady Lay" by Bob Dylan
- My favorite line of all time: "His clothes are dirty, but his hands are clean." That's saying a lot, since I am the hugest sap for meaningful words. So puissant. The first man to sing that to me and mean it will be the man I marry.

"Whiskey Lullaby" by Alison Krauss & Brad Paisley
- I love love-gone-wrong songs. I adore Alison Krauss' clear clear voice. It's so pure, and I hear everything, the whole story. Such a lovely sad song... "and the angels sang a whiskey lullaby..." The angels sang indeed.

"Caravane" by Raphael
- Don't understand a lick of it. But sexy much? SO SEXY. It's kinda whispery, lilting vocals, something persuasive about the tune. Poetic inflections abound.

"Yellow Eyes" by Minnie Driver
- Minnie Driver has the voice I die for. I want to be the girl with the yellow eyes... I wished I had Driver's voice, and I wish I penned this song.

"Rebel Yell" by Billy Idol
- Billy Idol is, pun truly not intended, is my idol. I'm nothing like him. In fact, I'm a rather sensibly dressed, sensible-jewelry wearing Asian with sensible hair. But something about this song makes me want to put on leather and do something crazy, like dance on tables. "Rebel Yell" has been a favorite of mine since the 6th grade and besides, it makes me feel free and alive.

"Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley
- WTF, right? I hate religion, I've been known to be called "a militant atheist"... and I have no idea why this is one of my favorite songs. But it's amazing. I couldn't care less about Jesus and Christianity, but... it's just really, really good.

"Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode
- I am ultra-talkative, usually. I talk so fucking much, I self-exile myself when in the company of nice people who are too polite to shut me up. Talking, for me, is an avoidant activity, ironically. I am a horrific liar, but I can talk myself out of a lot of things. My nature aside, "Enjoy the Silence" is probably the song of my life.

----------

Signed,
Liz

contemplations from an emo viewpoint

Won't lie, am totally drunk as I write this (so excuse the grammar and possibly crude diction). Had a not-so-enlightening talk today... sadly realized some friends didn't love me quite as much as I loved them.

I realized those who are worth caring for and those who aren't worth idealizing.

I need a boyfriend, I've decided. Or someone who listens to me/someone to listen to.

I miss being happy. I miss being delusional and thinking that things were okay. I miss not having this burden, this invisible elephant.

I miss people I wish were still alive to hear me out today.

butter

I just watched Paula Dean... and my god, she had an episode on BUTTER, which was pretty much like every episode, but with more butter.

It made me a little sick, especially when they made the fried butter balls (seriously?!) and I think my throat constricted at the thought of artery blockage. The best part was the cream cheese--whose purpose is to give the butter a bit more consistency. Gross! and yet, completely fascinating.

They even got her a life-sized bust in her likeness out of butter. And she kissed it, which makes Paula Dean pretty fucking badass.

new blog!

I've decided to celebrate nothing in particular by getting a new blog--actually, I'm getting a new blog for the sake of newness. Lately, life has been droning monotony; I can't ever remember a summer when I have felt this restless.

I guess that's what college does to you: the best days of your life will be during school, for a change.

I really do miss the people at Brown. I miss my friends, I miss having a good time, I miss the utter lack of responsibilities.

Anyway, in the words of my petulant teenage self: summer sucks.

At the beginning of the summer, I had this fantastic idea. I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be awesome if I worked at the mall?" After all, after one year of college and verging on 19 years old, I've never had a job. So I got myself one as a sales associate at Ann Taylor LOFT.

And lemme just say that it's way less glamorous than I thought it was--and I thought it was pretty unglamorous to begin with. At first, I was pretty excited. To tell you the truth, I'm pretty vain. And what easier fun job could there be dressing people up and selling clothes?

To be frank, the clothes at the LOFT start to suck majorly after a while. Everything becomes matronly after you see it on 50 overweight middle-aged women and every season, the color palette consists of, say, two colors + neutrals. Not very exciting, you see.

Not to mention, I work with a major sourpuss for one of my managers. He's too serious, moody, frantic, a bit mean-spirited, and he stutters. All my other gay managers are pretty cool, though. The girls I work with are nice enough, but BLAH. Can we say BORING? Mir ist langweilig! (Note: it can't be a true blog of Liz Dang's if there's no degree of pretension.)

They're always saying, "Oh, Liz, you're so quiet." I'm usually very talkative; if I'm quiet, it's either because a) I feel awkward, or b) I am in way off in lalaland because everything just sucks. And there's not really room for awkwardness when all you're doing is folding shirts and hanging pants.

So, I quit.

It's 3.27 in the morning and I feel as restless as ever.

"BE ADEQUITE!" (teehee!)
Liz Dang

PS: my blog's url, sonetoxvii, is from Neruda. Y'all should check it out; it's my second favorite poem of all time (in the English or the Spanish), right after T. S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock."