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.