Second City Blog

What's the deal with squash?

2007-09-30T19:22:00.000-05:00

So, just about this time of year . . . when the leaves start turning colors and there's a distinct nip in the air, I start getting hungry for some good ol' winter squash.

So I go to the co-op find a beautiful, medium-sized, organic, locally-produced buttercup squash. I take it home, lovingly hack it in half with an 8 inch chef's knife, and scrape out the seeds and gooey middle parts. Then I put some water in a 9x13 baking dish, put my cleaned squash halves cut side down into the pan and cover it tightly with foil. I put the pan into a 375 degree oven for about forty minutes and then take it out, remove the foil, put the squash on a cutting board, dump out the water, put the squash in the pan, cut side up now, fill the cavities with vegan margarine and brown sugar and baste the tops with the same mixture. I then put it back in the oven for another fifteen minutes to get all delicious and caramelized. When it's done I take one of the squash halves, scrape it out into a bowl, add some extra margarine and a drizzle of maple syrup, and have a taste. It's delicious! I take it back to my room, a whole bowl of hot, sweet, buttery squash all to myself. And then . . . after about four bites . . . I'm done with this whole squash thing.

Seriously . . . What the fuck?

This happens to me every time I make squash, too.

[annoyed face]

Finally Understanding Coffee Cake and how Al Franken stole my Sharpie

2007-09-16T12:53:00.000-05:00

I finally understand coffee cake! I made a big ol' pan of coffee cake yesterday and was a bit disappointed with it. While it tasted really effing fantastic, it was dry and required large amounts of margarine to make it delicious (oh it's sooooo good with like half a pound of earth balance spread on top of it . . . but so bad for me).

Today, however, I went to the co op and bought some coffee. Peace Coffee--Twin Cities Blend . . . organic, shade grown, fair trade . . . you know, expensive, ethical coffee for liberal motherfuckers like me. Anyway. I brewed up a French press full of the stuff when I got home. The aroma was intoxicating . . . the brew, black and opaque, just the way I like my coffee. The roast is a little light for my tastes, but very well balanced. I'm getting off topic again. I filled my (liberal-motherfucker) KAXE mug and started sucking down the ethically grown toxins (tasty, tasty toxins). Then I had a thought . . . "hmm . . . I have coffee . . . and coffee cake . . . let's consume them together, shall we?"

Now . . . when you eat coffee cake by itself, it seems a bit dry. However, when you eat a bite of coffee cake and follow it with a swig of coffee, the liquid counteracts the dryness. Not only that, but the flavors compliment and counterbalance each other! The sweet, cinnamon spiced coffee cake juxtaposed against the bitter, smoky coffee create the perfect taste sensation!

Okay . . . yes . . . I know. I should have figured this out years ago. Seeing as how the stuff is called "coffee cake," it sort of dictates that one should eat it with coffee. But I never realized how PERFECTLY the tastes mesh.

Now. How Al Franken Stole my Sharpie . . .

I go to school at UMD. Right now the labor union for the whole University of Minnesota system, AFSCME, is on strike. It's about a 1% wage increase, or something like that . . . I'm not sure. But they've been picketing the campus for two weeks now.

Al Franken (whom I love) is running for Senate against Norm Coleman (whom I wish would be attacked by a flock of angry pigeons). Franken is a big supporter of labor unions and has a good bit of campaigning to do before next November, so he came out to speak to the strikers last Friday.

It was a frosty morning. I was standing in a group of about fifty people --strikers, students, and supporters-- at the main driveway of the campus. An SUV with two "Al Franken for Senate" bumper stickers pulled up across the street. Out stepped a red-headed handler from the front, and from the back, the grey-haired, glasses-wearing, future savior of the state of Minnesota's good name. He walked through the crowd, shaking hands and giving hugs.

He looked at me strangely . . . I thought. A look of familiarity or curiosity? I wasn't sure. Maybe he looks at everyone that way.

The crowd quieted down to listen to what he had to say. He spoke of labor unions --gave us his union cred, how he belongs to four himslef-- and the importance of higher education and the funding thereof. When he was finished, the crowd gathered around him, taking photos and shaking hands.

There was another girl standing next to me, waiting for our chance to meet Mr. Franken. We started talking and she mentioned that she wished she had a sharpie so she could get him to sign her protest sign: "WE SUPPORT U of M WORKERS." We both had one. I always carry a sharpie with me --at least one-- because you never know when you'll need it. I dug into my bag and pulled it out, handing it to the girl.

Just before Al was about to leave, we approached him. "Hi!" I said, smiling like a three-year old about to be given a cookie, "Can we ask you to do something really dorky and sign our signs?"

She handed him her sign and my marker. "Sign our signs," Al mocked me, giving me that same strange look and then gladly autographing her sign.

I gave him mine, next. As soon as he had written "Stay Strong! Al Franken" on it, a deluge of people crowded around him, handing him anything they could, asking him to sign his name, making their protest gear into souvenirs.

I stepped back, allowing others to have their chance, and distancing myself from the comedian turned politician while thinking" "What have I started . . . Yeah . . . I'm not getting that back, am I?"

I made a quick escape, walking off toward the library building. A strange smile on my face because I had a protest sign autographed by Al Franken . . . and because he had inadvertently stolen my sharpie.

Duluth Number One

2007-09-02T23:52:00.000-05:00

I'm all moved in to my new apartment. I started living here about a week ago. It's nice, about a block away from Lake Superior. We can see the lake out the living room windows. I live with two roommates, Shannon and Brendon. They're nice people. I'm not sure how well we mesh, but we don't not get along. They're not the type of people I would usually hang out with, but they're nice folk.

I've been taking nice long walks almost every day. I've explored the shoreline, downtown, and some of the shadier neighborhoods . . . which, compared to Chicago, are tame.

I have a new friend, his name is Travis and he is also a vegan! YAY!!! He's a raw vegan, though. While I can't cook for him, our relationship does offer me some lovely advantages. He works at the natural food Co-Op, about four blocks away from my house. When we went shopping there yesterday, I got his employee discount! WOOT! That may be a one-time deal because the cashier who was ringing us up was quitting. Still . . . advantageous! And then today, Travis called me after his shift and told me that he was bringing me a bunch of deli food that they couldn't sell after today! WOOT! There were 9 boxes of this roasted tempeh/carrot/leek dish (tasty). A couple packages of a tofu-based dip called Midnight in Morocco (super tasty). And two pieces of blueberry chocolate cake (EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!). I did the math after he left, it was like $50 worth of deli food that I got for free!

Travis is a really sweet boy. He's a philosophy/poli sci major at University of Wisconsin Superior. But he lives in Duluth. He's smart, ambitious, vegan, and he treats me very well. I've only known him for two days and he brought me a giant sack o' food! I don't think anyone's ever been that nice to me. I mean . . . that's the kind of shit I do for people. People who aren't in my family don't do things like that for me . . . ever.

I dunno. Similar ethics I guess.

Also today, my mom and dad came to take me shopping and bring me some things from home. We went to the campus to pick up my textbooks and then to the mall so I could buy a date book at Barnes and Nobel, and so my mom could eat some lunch. Then Target, where I got a bunch of housewares stuff and some cleaning supplies. Finally to Cub Foods so I could stock my section of the pantry. I think I have everything I need to start cooking like I mean it again.

I miss Paul a lot. He's in Minneapolis now. We still talk . . . a lot. Today we had three separate phone conversations. I don't know how well he's dealing with being away from home yet. There's an adjustment period for everyone. I'm sure he'll be fine after a couple weeks, though. He's strong and adaptable.

I hope I am, too.

School starts the day after tomorrow.

Didja Miss Me?

2007-08-20T04:12:00.000-05:00

Yeah . . . I suck at blogging recently. I'm sorry. I've had a summer full of THRILLS AND CHILLS!!! Not really. Actually, I haven't been blogging because I really haven't found a reason to. I'm still in Grand Rapids. I'm still planning on attending UMD in the fall. And I'm still a victim of a crazy little thing called love.

Not really. Crazy little thing called Stockholm Syndrome is more likely. But I don't feel like talking about that.

Anyway. In the next week, I hope to move to Duluth. I found a chick on facebook who needs a roommate so, I figured it was a good a bet as any. I have yet to meet her and the other bloke I may be sharing the apartment with. All I know is that the place is in an awesome location. And for now, that's all I care about. The apartment is a block from lake Superior, the natural foods Co-Op is three blocks away, and the lesbian-owned coffee bar is even closer. That, and the bus I'll take to campus is less than a block away. Very helpful in the winter.

What else is new . . . I quit smoking . . . about a week ago. And no, you whiny little bitches, quitting smoking is not the hardest thing you'll ever do. I just stopped one day. It was like a switch got flipped in my brain and smoking no longer appeals to me. To prove it to myself, while I was out on Friday night with some friends, I lit a cigarette, took one drag . . . and started coughing. I promptly gave the rest to my friend Paul who smoked it down with gay abandon! Smoking's gross to me now . . . which is awesome! I'm going to save like $40-$60 a month! And my sweatshirts won't all smell like tobacco.

I still can't drive . . . I'm still vegan . . . and I'm lonely as ever. But hopefully, that'll change shortly.

Love, Respect, and sorry I kept you waiting,
--Katie

Run little fishie, run.

2007-05-11T23:17:00.000-05:00

I step out on to the porch of my parents' little house just north of Grand Rapids, Minnesota. The air is colder than it should be for this time of the year. The darkness, which is usually comforting, now seems eerie, isolating, and the silence is overwhelming. I light a cigarette and sit down on the concrete steps. I can't put my finger on it just yet, but something seems off.

A truck pulling a fishing boat drives by and I quietly yell "fuckhead!" at the driver . . . he can't hear me, but it makes me feel better.

Suddenly I realize why the darkness scares me tonight and why the silence is deafening. The forest is usually bustling with the activity of all the nocturnal animals at this time of the night. But tonight, all is quiet. The frogs in the swamp across the highway are deathly quiet and even the birds are afraid.

Thirty-nine minutes from now, at 12:01AM, is fishing opener. Legally, any bloodthirsty, red-blooded, person with a licence to kill may drop a line into the water, hoping for the "catch of a lifetime." The frogs are already mourning their aquatic brethren.

There are no stars tonight. No moon. Just black trees silhouetted against the sky, a slightly lighter shade of black. The porch-light from across the road illuminates another murderer driving toward his kill, towing another boat behind another truck filled to the brim with equipment for the slaughter.

"Piece of shit fisherman," I say, flicking the ash from my Camel Turkish Silver.

I sit in a puddle of amber tinted light and reflect.

What has veganism given me? Some would say an over inflated sense of self-importance. Others, would say it has made me an elitist. I say it has given me enlightenment and hope. I know there are more humans out there who know why it's wrong to kill the other inhabitants of this world. I just wonder why everyone else can't see it.

And I wonder why people get a raging boner over taking the life from another sentient being.

Yeah . . . blogging . . . I'm super good at that.

2007-04-26T05:38:00.000-05:00

God damn it's been such a long fucking time since I've posted anything. I feel guilty about this. Truth is . . . nothing's really happening. My life is boring and sucky right now.

I have a lot of hopes and dreams, but no progress toward such things.

Other than going to orientation at University of Minnesota Duluth and registering for classes for next fall, nothing is different in my life.

But something feels off. Something about my current situation feels . . . not right. There are things stressing me out right now for no good reason and I'm incredibly emotional tonight and I don't know why. It wouldn't even make sense for it to be hormonal . . . fucking brain.

First of all, it's 5:41 AM and I'm not asleep. This distresses me. But I'm distressed about other things, and I can't sleep. I can't sleep because I'm stressed out about not being able to get to sleep.

Self-loathing. I guess that's what I'm describing for the most part right now.

I don't even know what to write about to make myself feel better. This is all just post-emo bullshit right now. Maybe it's because I love someone I hate . . . or maybe it's the other way around . . . I hate someone I love. Maybe it's because I'm trying to make this person a part of my life and he seems to not want to have anything to do with it.

I hate everyone right now . . . but all I want to do is talk to someone. I want to be alone . . . but I just want everyone to know how I feel. Conflicted. That's how I feel. I feel fucking conflicted.

And confused.

And I'm bored.

Fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK!!! Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Maybe if I say "fuck" enough, it'll lose all meaning. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK! GRAR.

I'm just ranting now . . . and not making any fucking sense.

I'm gonna stop typing and maybe I'll come back when I have some clairity of thought.

Blindfolded and Suffocating

2007-03-23T18:25:00.000-05:00

That's how I feel in Minnesota, like I can't see and I can't breathe. I'm in Chicago right now, and I don't want to leave.

I wasn't done here. I'm still not done here. For the first time, I feel like I'm able to see and I feel like I can breathe. Everything feels right here. Nothing feels good in Minnesota . . . sex, drinking, smoking . . . it all feels bad. Here, it feels good. Even food tastes better here. The smells are more intense, the coffee is bolder, the fabric of my clothing even feels softer, like there's more texture to it all.

I feel good here.

I don't feel good in Minnesota.

There's only one thing there that I'm going back for . . . well, two. One is a person, one is a cat. They're the only things I need, and I have every intention of getting them to Chicago with me. I have no idea how long it'll take me . . . but I am not done here yet. And the person and the cat need to finish this story with me.

Packed

2007-03-14T03:23:00.000-05:00

A quick note, loves. I am Chicago bound. A last-minute trip means I'll be in the city from the 16th to the 25th . . . just in time for St. Patrick's day, as it were. I'm in the city shooting a film but I'm going to take a lot of time to soak up the culture that I miss so much.

I'll be staying at the lovely Chateau D'Erin in the beautiful neighborhood of Bridgeport. Let's just hope she got my reservation right and reserved the comfortable couch for me in stead of the nasty couch the boys left there . . . well . . . time will tell.

I Needed to Share This

2007-03-01T00:59:00.000-06:00

Best piece of journalism . . . EVAR!!!!

A Cigarette, a Clementine, and Cary Grant

2007-02-21T22:14:00.000-06:00

I looked at the end of my cigarette, smoldering in the breeze. There was only one good drag left in it. I wasn't ready to go inside yet, but it was cold out, and soon, I'd have no reason to be standing out in the mist of the late Minnesota evening. I inhaled the last remnants of the tobacco and buried the butt in the snow.

I watched a Cary Grant movie earlier this evening. It doesn't matter which one . . . Cary Grant movies always end up the same way: United in love, Grant and his leading lady express their true feelings for one another the only way classic Hollywood would allow, a dramatically long, romantic kiss. Long story short: Happy Ending.

While standing in the breezeway between the house and the garage, I was taking off my gloves when I saw a crate of clementines. The bright orange, promisingly sweet citrus fruit appealed to me with the taste of smoke still lingering on my tongue. I grabbed one and headed inside.

I removed my boots and coat and peeled the soft skin from the cloyingly succulent fruit. The skin of this particular clementine was scarred, and mottled a bit. The ugliest little fruit I'd ever seen, in fact. Usually I wouldn't have chosen one so imperfect, but I shrugged this time. I wasn't going to be eating the rind anyhow. I was a bit disappointed with life this evening and beyond caring. Popping the first segment between my lips, it burst with sweet, tangy juice all over the inside of my mouth. The ugliest, maybe, but also one of the sweetest little fruits I've ever had.

Lucky Break, I thought, no seeds in this one yet. Just wait, my dear, I addressed myself, there's always at least one. You always forget about it and nearly chip your tooth every time you eat one of these things.

Biologically, love is nothing more than a chemical reaction. Hormones touching off the little receptors in our brains. Something that makes us feel good, like a drug. Psychiatrists have said that what most people call "love" is just that . . . a drug addiction. And eventually we develop a tolerance to those brain chemicals, phenylethylamine, dopamine, and oxytocin. When we do, love seems less magical, we become less infatuated with whomever it was that triggered the release of those chemicals.

Love is a Hollywood notion. All wrapped up in shiny packaging. We see it on the screen and we want it because someone else has it. Hell, I've heard theories that the notion of "love" was invented, conjured by the first of the romantics. And everyone, everywhere has tried to imitate it ever since. Not to mention all the capitalization off the notion. Cards, flowers, chocolates, movies, television, dating websites . . . fucking Dr. Phil. We're all searching for it. But the truth is, it doesn't exist.

Love does not exist.

Like god, like unicorns, like the perfect french fry. It's something that can't exist. True romantic love is a figment of our imaginations. The way Christians fool themselves into thinking that there is a heaven --if they're decent people during their lives, and have enough faith they'll get in-- is the way every human fools themselves into thinking that love exists. If they're pretty enough, if they're attentive enough, if they wear the right clothes, order the right drinks, and kiss just right, then one day they'll have love, too. Just like all the Cary Grant movies.

I finished the last segment of my clementine . . . no seeds. I didn't chip a tooth, bite my tongue, or suffer any other discomfort from the small, orange fruit. The ugliest little clementine in the box was the best one I'd ever had. It's gone now, and I'll never have it again.

I feel like I'm in a paradox.

2007-02-14T00:09:00.000-06:00

I've been seeing this Paul kid again.

Not like "seeing him" seeing him . . . but we've been going out to Country Kitchen every few nights and drinking coffee and chain smoking for like three hours. The first time I saw him was about a week ago, on the 7th. We'd been having this discussion about the ethics of veganism over myspace messages for two or three days and then he ended one of his messages with "I want coffee, call me."

So I called him.

And we went to Country Kitchen and drank coffee for three hours. Then we went to Wal-Mart to see if they had Kinsey. Which they didn't (surprise, surprise). So we just went back to Paul's house and turned on He Died With a Falafel in His Hand. First we started cuddling a bit . . . and then he started kissing me . . . and so we were making out and I missed the whole effing movie.

The next night I told him I wanted to see him again, so we went to Country Kitchen again. We talked about what happened a little bit and decided it was probably a bad idea for us to be together.

After we were done with smoking and drinking insane amounts of coffee, he brought me home and I hugged him.

I mean, I like the kid. He's friggin awesome. He's smart and funny and adorable. And I think he likes me. But I'm not sure. I'm never sure about anything.

So Sunday rolls around and I call him and ask him if he wants to go get coffee again because I was bored and wanted to be somewhere that wasn't my house. We drink two pots of coffee, smoke cigarettes, draw pictures, and I read a story that he was editing. I also took some photos of him, because I had my digi cam with me, like always, and couldn't resist.

Afterward, we went to Wal-Mart again because we both needed to get anniversary cards for our parents. And then he drove me home.

Paul had mentioned that he had an atheist event thingie coming up at the college this week where they were going to show a couple Richard Dawkins videos. On the way to my house, I asked him if I could come. What he said was essentially like: well you can, but I sort of don't want you there because I'd be distracted. He jokingly mentioned something about me sexually harassing him the whole time. And he would need to "concentrate."

In my driveway, I leaned over to hug him goodnight . . . and then he starts kissing me. I was just going to hug him and kiss him on the forehead, but no. The boy grabs my face and kisses me. I mean . . . what's a girl to do? I kissed him back.

So here's my paradox. I really like this kid. I mean, I really like this kid. But because he hurt me before it's really hard for me to trust him. Also, he says he "doesn't want a relationship" but what that usually means is "I don't want a relationship with you." I also know that he's afriad of hurting me. Which confuses me, frankly.

Fucking hell.

I can't decide if I want to talk to him about it or just let it go. I feel like if I talk to him about how I feel that I'll scare him off. I DO NOT WANT TO SCARE HIM. But I also feel like if I don't talk about it, I'll get really obsessive over the whole situation and end up scaring him off anyway.

And then there's another part of me that's also confused. Part of me doesn't want to have a relationship right now either. But part of me does. The part of me that doesn't just wants to have fun with Paul. I like the affection . . . I like the attention I get from him. The part of me that does want a relationship wants to see where this is going . . . wants to take what I have with him and keep going with it.

Part of me says he's the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. And part of me says "no, he's not that into you, move on."

I'm confused. And the fact that I'm confused probably means I shouldn't get my hopes up with this boy. I don't know if I should push him away or keep him at an arms length.

I fucking hate human relationships. I fucking hate them.

The Lengths I go to for Niccotine

2007-02-04T00:02:00.000-06:00

The only way to describe the winter weather here in Minnesota is polar. To say "it's fucking freezing outside!" is an understatement at best. Allow me to show you the current weather conditions from NOAA's website:

That's right it's -17 degrees Fahrenheit with a wind chill factor of -33. And me, being the daring sort, decided that I needed to have a cigarette in this weather.

Now I knew it was cold. I didn't feed my addiction last night because of the chill. But tonight, I could not resist . . . so I had to prepare.

I put on my tightest pair of jeans, followed by my loosest pair. Then I put another pair of pants over them. I was only wearing a polo shirt on top, and that would never suffice. On top of that I put my fleece hoodie, my grey hoodie, and my army jacket. I put on a thick pair of socks and then my faux shearing boots so my feet wouldn't freeze. I topped it all off with my winter coat and pulled up all three hoods. It was time to go outside.

After covering my hands with two pairs of gloves, I headed out into the night to quell my craving for a Parliament. I stepped out into the Arctic chill and my nasal passages immediately froze . . . oh yeah, it's cold. I pulled out my cigarette and my lighter as if to spite mother nature and began to smoke.

It was probably the best cigarette I've had in my life. There I was, standing in the silence of a Minnesota winter at midnight, defying the elements with an ember of tobacco. Amazingly, under seven layers of clothing, I was fairly warm to begin with. By the end of the cigarette, however, my fingers and toes were telling me it was time to go inside. Not to mention, dry air is much harder to breathe than moderately humidified air and the cigarette wasn't helping matters any . . . so my lungs were protesting a bit, too.

The moment I stepped inside, a rush of calm fulfillment came over me. The warmth from the house coupled with the niccotine high were orgasmic in intensity.

After all that preperation for five minutes outside, I only have two words to say:

"Worth it."

Sex, Love, and Growth . . . in that order.

2007-01-29T01:30:00.000-06:00

I find that my views on relationships are changing. In the past I've considered love to be the ultimate goal of any relationship. With time, experience, growth, and reflection a person's views on everything change.

Currently I believe that "meaningless" relationships are a necessity. It's not feelings for a person that matter, but the experiences you have with them and because of them that make a difference. For instance, if I'd never met Myke the dreadlocked, hardrocking vegan, I may have never been open to adopting a vegan lifestyle. If things had happened differently with my roommate, Caleb, I'd have lost faith in my intuition. Without Darin, I'd probably never have ended up in a church basement in Duluth. Without Arlen . . . well, if I'd never dated Arlen I'd probably still have respect for radical leftist documentary students.

Even little things that happen in a relationship mean something. Like sex. I've always known that I am a very sexual being. I've absorbed every word of information I've ever been taught/read about sex. From sex ed classes in middle school through high school to independent "research" on the topic. I masturbate and I'll freely admit it. The truth is that without those seemingly meaningless relationships that only last a short time you can't practice sexual techniques.

When I finally find that "one person" with whom I'll spend the rest of my life, there had better damned well be some great sex involved. Sex is one of those things that probably shouldn't matter that much, but it does. It's one of the absolutely free pleasures in life. Sex is free. It's better when you love someone, but in the same vein, if you love a person, don't you want to give them the most enjoyment possible? The only way you can get good at sex is literally to practice.

You can hope to have that "one" relationship with every person you date in your lifetime, but even if they aren't "the one," you can still get something out of it.

It's sort of a pragmatic --some would say pessimistic-- approach to love that I've recently adopted. Honestly, I don't know if I'll rescind this decree someday . . . but for now, it works.

"Sweet, I just figured out the meaning of life."

2007-01-24T15:13:00.000-06:00

Is it the way your fingertips sting when they're first warming up from the cold?

Is it the way your nose runs when the dry winter air dries out your nasal passages?

Is it for the taste of Parliament Light 100s, your first cigarette in a week?

If not, then what is life for?

The experience? The hopes, the dreams, the multiple orgasms of a night alone reading dirty stories and watching your favorite porn?

Is it for evolution? The natural progression of events and relationships throughout your life?

I feel like Rip Van Winkle. I've slept heavily and not done much for the past three weeks. That's not completely true. I've slept late for the past two weeks because I can't fall asleep at night. My mind buzzes with activity as I lay alone in the dark. It seems that I can only turn off my brain and shut my eyes after the sun rises. Even then, I sleep fitfully until two or three in the afternoon.

I woke up "early" this morning (10:00 AM) in an effort to get off my ass and do something with my life. Even if it's just to prolong the illusion of popularity or intelligence by going into town and writing this blog.

What am I doing here?

Only experiences can make a person what they are. I've been making nothing of myself recently. Doing nothing makes you nothing. Life is what you make of it. Maybe the meaning of life is creation.

You know what. I'm very comfortable in saying that. The meaning of life is creation. Not necessarily of one particular thing or another. Just creation as a whole. Make something.

We all create things for ourselves, even if they're just an identity. We make things that weren't there before. Animals do it. Plants do it. Microorganisms do it. We take raw materials and make something that wasn't there before.

Hm.

Sweet, I just figured out the meaning of life.

At least I've figured out my own personal meaning of life. And I think it can translate to everyone. I can't really think of anyone or anything it can't apply to.

I feel better now.

I'm trying like all hell to reconnect to people I like. But I'm so afraid that people don't want to know me that sometimes I just spare myself the disappointment and continue the silence between us. Making an effort to be loved is stressful.

Like my cousin Mike. He was such a big influence on me during my formative years. I really loved him. He introduced me to Stephen Malkmus and Elliot Smith, fostered my creativity, he was understanding in all of the ways an older cousin should be, and he even encouraged my participation in politics. We haven't spoken in four or five years. And I really miss him. I want to call him but I'm so afraid that he's grown up, and doesn't want to talk to me. He's in his 30s. I'm 21. Young and stupid. I don't know where I'd begin a conversation with him.

Or like Paul. (The one whom I had a brief "thing" with.) I'm making an effort with him. It's easier with him because he's younger than I am. And the silence between us is of a shorter duration. I sent him a couple myspace messages. He has responded. All is not lost. I just really want to get some face time with him. He's so busy, though. I'm afraid to ask if he's free at any time to hang out. Even rejection of friendship hurts. It stings like all hell these days. Hopefully I can retain him as a comrade. I like him a lot. I'm afraid of pushing him, because he'll just retreat. He'll think I'm still hoping for a relationship . . .

I don't want a relationship right now. I don't want anything that ties me to this part of the country. Not a relationship, not a job, not a school, nothing. I want to be able to run away at a moment's notice and not feel guilty about anything. My fight or flight instinct is telling me to run fast and run far far away from Minnesota. Back to Chicago. Or maybe to San Francisco or New York or to go work for PETA in Virginia. I'm young and I want to be free.

Plus it's effing cold here.

Seriously . . . what the fuck am I doing sitting by this window? I'm SO COLD right now.

Well, my laptop battery is running low and I forgot to bring my adapter with me, so this is where I'll end this post.

I apologize for not writing anything for three weeks. I'll try to do better in the future.

Love,
--Katie

[heart]
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Another afternoon spent "working"

2007-01-03T15:08:00.000-06:00

I figure I should post a blog, even though I honestly have nothing important to say. Of course whenever I say "I have nothing important to say," I end up writing uber posts that cover topics ranging from the sneakers I'm wearing to the sociopolitical status of the world.

I should stop saying things like "I have nothing to say."

I'm "working" today. In my book, "working" means I'm doing something like writing a movie or editing something Edwards sent me. Today, I'm trying to formulate a vaild set of comments for Edwards script: Better Than This.

It's a boxing movie. And I'm not the type to enjoy sports movies, but I like the script. It's got a ton of potential for us to work with . . . or at least for him to work with. I dunno . . . we'll see what happens.

I printed out a hard copy of it so it was easier to write notes in . . . and the way I bound it is really pissing me off. I know how to bind scripts, but I didn't do it right because I couldn't find any washers at the office supply store. So it's just bound wiht brass fasteners, and that's really annoying me.

Anyway . . . I'm at the coffee shop and, as always, there are a couple really hot guys here. And they either didn't notice me . . . or they're ignoring me. I hate the fucking book. DAMN YOU HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU!!!!!! By their estimation, no guy has ever been into me. It's really fucking with my confidence. GRAR! Maybe it's the sweatshirt I'm wearing. It has little rainbows all over it. I'm a big fan of it, but it does look kind of childish. W/e.

Oh, and I would just like to mention that for the second time I have been chosen as Time's person of the year. Lolz. Ok, not me specifically . . . but everyone. The first time "I" was chosen, the people of the year were "bloggers." And now I'm a part of the colective "you" that was chosen as people of the year.

Honestly user/community created content will take over/has taken over the internet. I love it so much. Everything from skinnyCorp's family of websites to effing Newgrounds. (I hardly feel that I need to mention Blogger. I <3 you, Blogger.) Such websites offer such a wonderful opportunity for everyone to be internet famous. Hell, that's why I keep up the blog. I want to be internet famous.

Yeah, I'm a dork like that.

Damn it . . . I should get to work. I've got to read this script again and make some notes before my mother's done with work.

New Year!

2007-01-01T17:51:00.001-06:00

Wooo! Updated Profile.

Happy 2007!

And fuck you, 2006. You sucked for me.

I Blinked a Few Times and Dismissed the Notion

2006-12-26T15:00:00.000-06:00

I stood in front of the mirror this morning asking myself: "How do I want my hair to look when I meet my next ex-boyfriend?" I put some hair sticks in, they have pretty stained-glass-looking flowers on the ends, and then I looked at the girl in the glasses behind the bangs that are a few inches too long. Eyes too strangely green to be real, hair two artificial tones of dark brown, I have become a creation. Not a real person anymore, but a piece of art. Carefully crafted to be interesting, intriguing. The radical leftist, bisexual vegan. Like an exotic tree frog, stunning and bright on the outside but full of poison.

I blinked a few times and dismissed the notion.

I'm sitting at the coffee shop (yes, again). There are three or four attractive guys around. I would attempt to strike up conversation, but "the book" told me not to. (Henceforth, I shall refer to He's Just Not That Into You as "the book.") The book says to wait for them, make them chase you. Boys like a challenge. I'm just supposed to look inviting and friendly, cute and fuckable, and then I'll land myself a boy who is truly "into me."

I'm tempted to blink a few times and dismiss that notion, too.

I've never played "the game." I couldn't ever bring myself to do it. Maybe it's because I have too much of a masculine energy. Maybe it's because I'm young and horny. Maybe it's because I'm just too dumb to recognize the patterns of my failed relationships. I don't even know.

Do I want the control of a relationship . . . yes. Yes, I do. I've always been the one lacking the control, the one at the mercy of the other person. The truth is that the amount of effort one puts into a relationship is directly inverse to the amount of control one has in it. I know this. I discovered this on my own. In fact, I would go as far as to say that I developed this theory.

Okay, self . . . let's attempt this . . . this whole "game" thing. The only problem is, I need someone else to play with.

Dear Santa Claus,

2006-12-24T18:52:00.000-06:00

Today Paul came to return the rest of my stuff that he had. It was strange, he just drove up in my driveway, no notice or anything. Okay, technically, he did call my cell phone before he came, but I didn't get the message until he was actually leaving my house. For the last time . . .

It was also so strange how everything was just so easy with him. Specifically when I was guiding him into my house. I just very casually pulled him in the door by the crook of his elbow. And he didn't resist, didn't hesitate, just let me put him where I wanted him to be.

But he left. And I said goodbye.

And when he was gone, I cried a little. Less than I could have, more than I expected to. But I read the first two chapters of He's Just Not That Into You and felt better.

I know it's a little late to ask for anything, Santa. As it's christmas eve and you've already left the North Pole. But if you could, santa, bring me a boyfriend who loves me . . . and who's attractive to my finicky tastes.

That's all I want for Christmas . . . Love.

Your friend,
Katie

PS: If all else fails, I'll take a Canon GL2.

Sometimes a Crappy Pop Song . . .

2006-12-18T13:11:00.000-06:00

I was watching TV last night . . . some channel on my parents' satellite service called "Reelz." It's a network that basically shows movie trailers 24/7. Anyway, I was watching TV and the trailer for "A Lot Like Love" came on.

Having just fallen out of love --so to speak-- it made me a little sad. And the lyrics to the background music, Avril Lavigne's "Happy Ending," made me even sadder. (Yes, I know it's a crappy pop song. Yes, I know I shouldn't even know the lyrics to the song. Yes, I know that even writing about it damages my credibility as a serious post-hipster. But Calm down! This all comes to a point.) So I was walking into my kitchen, tears forming in the corners of my eyes, singing along to the song . . .

"You were everything, everything that I wanted
We were meant to be, supposed to be, but we lost it
And all of our memories, so close to me, just fade away
All this time you were pretending
So much for my happy ending"

Suddenly, I stopped mid-step, having realized what I just sang, "My happy ending."

"Oh . . . my . . . god," I thought, "that's why things didn't work out with Paul. I would have accepted it as an ending. 'The End' as a matter of fact." I was having a moment of clairity because of an Avril Lavigne song! (That's when you know you're fucked up.)

I would have changed my life around for that boy. I would have given up everything I ever wanted for my life in order to stay with him. Seriously, the "idea of forever" had crossed my mind in the beginning of our relationship (and I use the term in the most loose of definitions). The more I thought about it, the more frightened I was of what could have happened if he still wanted me . . .

I mean, jesus christ, I would have accepted the role of a "professor's wife." Probably living in upstate New York, cooking, cleaning the house (knowing him, he'd want a house, not a condo), having kids (gross!), "raising a family" (extra gross!). Owning an actual house, living in Upstate New York, and having kids are not on the list of "Things I Want to Do With My Life."

To think that I would even consider making babies for ANYONE disturbs me and makes me question my mental status. I hate children! Children are sticky! And smelly! And they break things! Kids are not on the agenda.

The moment of clairity suddenly became a period of eppiffany. I didn't know what was happening to my brain, but for a short period of time, the world made sense. And I began to think: "If I could find deeper meaning in a crappy pop song, does that mean that all commercialized, seemingly meaningless entertainment does, indeed, have deeper meaning than it presents?"

That would mean that everything I hate has some redeaming quality. Everything from Kanye West to Trisha Yearwood . . . everything from Eminem to Travis Tritt . . . everything from Public Enemy to Michael W. Smith has some little nugget of brilliant insight to the human condition. The whole proposition made me dizzy and I had to sit down.

When my brain contracted back into my skull . . . I had another introspective moment. I have always wanted to tell stories . . . it's why I make movies. Most of all, however, I want to tell my story. The problem is that I don't know what that is yet. And every time I sit down to write it, I can't do it. It's because my story doesn't have an ending. And it won't for a long time. I realized this for the first time last night.

Every time I go out looking for love, that's not really what I'm looking for. I'm looking for an ending. But to hell with that, my story is nowhere near finished and my personal "The End" is nowhere in sight.

In short, I'm actually okay with Paul not being interested in me. For a while, I was just telling myself (and everyone else, for that matter) that I was "okay" with it, but now, I actually am okay with it.

Woot!

Ooooh! A thing!

2006-12-17T19:36:00.000-06:00

Just thought I'd point out the new little "Go Vegan" ribbon on the page. You know, in case you can't see it . . . I'm looking at you, Blindy McBlinderson. Click on it to get your own! YAY!

Also: I know I don't normally link to other blogs, but this one deserves some attention. Gawker put out an interesting article on Friday highlighting the most common blog clichés. Most of which I am personally guilty of using . . . multiple times . . . okay, on a daily basis. Frankly, I have no intention of suspending my use of these clichés. I rather like them. In fact, the article turned me on to a couple new ones that I may use more liberally in the future (an example of which is up in the first paragraph). Click here to read the article.

Other than that, friends, nothing happened today.

Well, I made some pad thai, but that's hardly news.

Ta ta!

My Heart is a Victim of CircumstanceOr: How to break in a $93 pair of shoes.

2006-12-14T15:58:00.000-06:00

I started my day with every intention of going into town to get coffee and cigarettes. I woke up at 10:00(ish) and got dressed. My mom called and told me it wasn't exactly a superb day to go into town and take a walk. It was snowing/raining/sleeting and the temperature was dropping.

Honestly, yesterday would have been a lovely day to go into town, it was warm, I hardly would have needed a jacket, and the sun was shining. Originally, I'd planned to go in yesterday. However . . . no one was able to come home durring the day to drive me in. Bah.

I told my mother I'd be going in anyhow. Besides, I like taking walks in moderately inclimate weather. It's one of my favorite things to do. And my dad would be going back into town shortly, anyhow. After I hung up, I went downstairs, to my room, to continue getting ready.

I turned on the iTunes to break the otherwise depressing silence. I always have it set to random, so I just hit the spacebar (the equivilent of pressing "play"). The first song it went to: "Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes" by Beck.

Now . . . I've sort of just gotten over someone who I really really liked. (And I'll tell that story later, as it sucks and I don't feel like talking about it now.) Having that song just play randomly was an eerie coinsidence of sorts. But the next song to play was Blink 182's "I Miss You." This was another eerie coinsidence, as whenever I was alone at night, smoking cigarettes out on the porch and thinking about him, "I Miss You" was always the song that popped into my mind. He was, after all, "the angel from my nightmare" and "the shadow in the background of amore" . . . and "the unsuspecting victim of darkness in the valley." We could have "lived like jack and Sally" if we wanted . . . and had "Halloween on Christmas." (sniffles) I let this one go as a coinsidence as well . . . besides, I'm probably just searching for meaning anyhow.

But then the third song to come on was Queen's "Breakthru."

If I could only reach you/
If I could make you smile/
If I could only reach you/
That would really be a breakthru.

So I was creeped out by this point and couldn't explain it. But it was time to get going, so I didn't have time to think about it.

I got some coffee at the coffeeshop, and wrote a blog while I was there, as you can see.

Then I left. I went to M&H, a little gas station in town, to get cigarettes because they have Lucky Strikes . . . (mmmm . . . Luckies). Then I went to the bookshop in the mall to see if there was anything good there. I almost bought a copy of The Great Gatsby, but decided to wait and spend the $13 after christmas . . . or maybe to order it on Amazon. I'm getting off topic here . . .

After that, I decided to go on a walk. Yes, in the rain. Yes, in the cold. Yes, while wearing a $93 pair of canvas shoes. SHUT UP!

I crossed the bridge on Pokegama Avenue (at least, I think it was Pokegama Avenue). Suddenly, I have this urge to take a left . . . I'd never been down that street, I thought to myself, and my feet are taking me that way, so why not?

I kept walking, I didn't know where I was going, but I like getting lost, anyhow. So I followed the sidewalk just to see where it went. And the whole time I couldn't get that damned Beck song out of my head! I walked about a half a mile and I look to my right and see the YMCA.

"How queer," I said out loud. The boy works at that YMCA. I didn't know where it was before now. My feet dragged me there of their own accord.

My feet are optimists. I suppose by nature they have to be. I mean, they're on the ground all the time, and the only way they see the world is by looking up. If you had to look up all the time, I'm sure you'd be an optimist, too.

I'm not sure if that's a bad joke or a clever little anecdote. Moving on . . .

Not wanting to look like a "total stalker" I walked past the building and took a left at the next corner, crossing the river again. Then I saw this little paved path off to the left of the sidewalk . . . my feet wanted to know where that one went, too. so I walked down into this wooded area that would be super creepy at night time. It led me to a residential dead-end street. I was a bit lost, but decided to keep walking.

Then I saw a hill I recognized and knew the library was down it and to the left. Now part of this rather steep hill is not paved . . . it's dirt . . . and my shoes are new(ish). But they needed to be broken in anyhow . . . so fuck it, right?

So I got to the library, went to the bathroom and shook the rain out of my hair and put it up into a pony tail. And here I am now . . . writing this blog.

Anyway . . . my heart is a victim of circumstance. I've moved on enough to not think about him every minute of every day . . . but my iTunes playlist and my feet are being bitches.

The next thing that will happen is I'll run into him randomly or something. That would be a bitch for my higher brain.

Meh. I'm not in love with him anymore. I'm not even in like with him anymore. But he has a couple of my DVDs . . . and one of my books . . . and a pair of my pants (yeah, don't ask). So, I need to make nice with him and get those back.

That won't be hard though, I'm not mad at him. I just think he's stupid and 19. I should learn not to be interested in younger guys.

Bah.

2006-12-14T13:23:00.000-06:00

A coffee shop, 1:24PM, December 14, 2006

KATIE sits at a table off to the side of the seating area, typing away on a laptop. The din inside the coffee shop is distrubingly loud on this rainy Minnesota afternoon. People, straining to be heard over the sounds of milk being steamed and frothed, scream in deafening Minnesotan dialects.

Katie sips her soy latte while trying to write a screenplay. Ok, not really a screenplay, she's trying to hammer out a treatment for her director before Christmas. It'll be his present if he's nice. She is typing furiously at the keyboard and then suddenly stops, opens her internet browser and attempts to cope with writer's block.

. . . . . . . .

This damned coffee shop. I'd spend every day in here if I could. Well . . . I can . . . but if I could get into town every day, this is were I'd be. It's pitiful how much time and money I spend here trying to write this god damned movie.

Really . . . I'd love to just forget about the movie I started with that mother fucking son of a congressman back in July . . . but I can't. The story is too good and I owe Edwards a movie. I promised him. I'm not going to break another promise to my director. I refuse.

So . . . let's see if I can remember treatment format.

Serious and Responsible Or: Another Decision that Effects the Rest of My Life

2006-12-08T18:42:00.000-06:00

Ok. So I decided it's time for me to start being serious and responsible. Let's face it, I've basically been slacking off for the last two years because I didn't want to be an adult yet. I still don't want to be an adult. But I turn 21 in 17 days. Soon, I'm not going to have a choice anymore and people are going to start calling me a "loser." I can't have that, now can I?

So, I made a decision yesterday afternoon. I applied to a college in Minnesota.

Life is funny like that, you know. If someone had told me two years ago that I'd go back to Minnesota for school, I probably would have slapped them. If someone had told me I'd come back to this state at all, I wouldn't have believed them. When I was younger, I was so set on being in Chicago and staying there that I wouldn't listen when people told me that it might be better for me to be somewhere else. I'm not saying I should have stayed here to begin with. (If I had, I certainly wouldn't be the person I am right now.) I'm saying that things happen for a reason. Everything happens for a reason, and everything that happens has some effect on everything else.

Here I am, on the cusp of 21 years old, I've been "on my own" for two years, and I'm just now ready to start being serious and responsible. I'm a strange bird, I guess.

Before now, it felt like everyone was pushing me to grow up faster than I was. My parents have told me since I was young that I needed to make money fast so I could "support them in the manner to which they've become accustom." I hate it when they say shit like that.

And I've always had this strange feeling that I'm not progressing fast enough through adulthood. Like, for some reason, I have to accomplish everything while I'm young, or else nothing's going to get done. I guess I've always had the fear that I'll die early and forgotten. Lord knows that's the last thing I want.

I have to be famous. I've known since I was very young that I would grow up to be famous and respected. I won't dismiss this inclination as a hopeful dream. I know shit. Sometimes, I predict shit that scares the hell out of me.

When I was about 8 years old, for example, I knew I would live in Chicago. I completely forgot about it until I was about to leave for Columbia, I found some drawings and things I did when I was a kid, there was a whole stack of Chicago stuff!

I also predicted Paul Wellstone's death, the White Sox's World Series sweep in 2005, and Bill Clinton's election in 1992.

But I didn't see this part of my life coming, not in a million years would I have ever predicted the situation I'm in now.

Back to the point . . .

I'm absolutely terrified of the next year of my life. Seriously, when I think of all the things I have to do in the coming months, I just want to go down to my room and have a panic attack. I have to learn how to drive, acquire a car, find a college that will accept me, get an apartment in whatever city said college is in (as there is no way in hell I'm living in dorms again), possibly find roommates, figure out which credits will transfer, find out what gen-ed thingies I'll still have to take, register for classes, buy books, probably find a job (eeew), and get back into that student-mode that I've been out of for so long now.

One step at a time, kiddo, one step at a time.

But I have some irresponsibility left in me, you know. Damn it . . . I wish I'd gone to Burning Man this year, I'm probably not going to be able to go next year because of school. Grar. Oh well. At this rate, though, I'm not going to get to go for another five years . . .

Oh that's right . . . I have a "Five-Year Plan" now. I know, weird isn't it . . . I've never had one before. For the next three years, I'll be finishing my BA with a Sociology major. Technically, I have three and a half years left, but I'm going to do some cramming. (We'll see if it kills me or not.) Then after I graduate from college, I'm going to spend two years in the Peace Corps. Ta Da! Instant Five-Year Plan!

Post-Peace Corps, the sketch in my mind is that I return to Columbia to get my MFA in Film/Video. But that would turn my "Five-Year Plan" into a "Nine to Eleven-Year Plan." That would just be ridiculous at this point. Planning more than five years into the future is a waste of time. Hell, usually planning more than 24 hours into my future is a waste of time.

So where are we now? I've applied to a college I'd never foreseen myself going to. I've decided that school is more important than Chicago. And I've surrendered to the fact that . . .

"You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes, you might find
You get what you need."
--Rolling Stones

(PS: No, I'm not a Stones fan, I just found the lyrics poignant . . . GET OFF MY BACK!)

Another reason to love Sweden: The Yule Goat

2006-12-03T13:59:00.000-06:00

Okay, that's it. Sweden is now my favorite European country.

Not only does the country boast my favorite European musician --Mats Söderlund (aka: Günther)-- as one of it's inhabitants, but it is also home to my new favorite Christmas tradition: The Yule Goat.

As far as I understand it, up until about 1900, the legend in Sweden was that a gift-giving goat would visit all the houses on Christmas eve to distribute holiday goodies. This was eventually replaced by the modern idea of "Santa Claus," however the Julbocken ("Yule Goat" in Swedish!) still remains as a symbol of the Scandinavian Christmas celebration.

Mostly, little goat figurines made out of straw are used as ornaments or given as gifts. An old Yule Goat tradition involved playing a prank on one's neighbors. A Yule Goat figure would be secretly placed in a neighboring family's house. The family on the receiving end of the prank would have to get rid of the goat in the same way.

It's a lovely and enchanting custom. But specifically, the Gävle Goat, located in the Castle Square in Gävle, Sweden, has sparked my interest in the subject. It's a Goat figure, also made out of straw, just like the ones used to symbolize Christmas for Swedes pre 1900s, only it's HUGE! This year's rendition of the Goat is 43 feet tall.

The first Gävle Goat was built in 1966. It stood in the square all the way through the Christmas holiday. But on December 31st, 1966 just before midnight, an arsonist set the goat aflame!

My favorite part about the traditional building of the Gävle Goat: In it's 40-year history, it has been burnt down 22 times by arsonists. After the first destruction, it became a tradition for the unfortunate sculpture. Not only has the goat been burned to the ground, it has been beaten, torn to pieces, and run over by a car in the past. Since only 10 of the goat sculptures have survived, the "Goat Committee," whom are responsible for the construction and design of the goat, order enough extra straw so that if the Goat is burned down (or otherwise destroyed) before December 13th, they can rebuild it in time for Christmas.

I was surfing FARK this afternoon when I came across this article: Swedes guard Christmas goat from vandals. According to the posting, this year's goat has been fireproofed. And although vandals may be able to singe its feet, "not even napalm can set fire to the goat now," said Freddy Klassmo, the Goat Committee's spokesperson.

I find this all very entertaining and plan to be following the fate of the goat. The Gävle Goat has an official website . . . with a live web cam! It's in Swedish, but it's easy enough to figure out: Gävlebocken Live!

What to do?

2006-11-30T19:58:00.000-06:00

So now I'm asking myself a very important question . . . one I thought I wouldn't actually have to make a decision about:

What's more important: Finishing college or going back to Chicago?

I have finally surrendered to the fact that I can't afford to get my bachelor's degree at Columbia. Which fucking sucks. I hate being poor.

I know what you're thinking. No, I can't get enough financial aid or scholarships because my parents look richer on paper than they are in reality . . . and also because I've tended to be a mediocre student in the past. The truth is that going to college where I want to go costs twice as much as if I stay in the state. And no matter what college I pick in Chicago, the price is pretty much the same.

I could blame this on our capitalist society, forcing people to pay for education. But at this point it isn't worth it.

Technically, one can educate oneself for free by reading enough books, doing enough independent research, et cetera. But educating yourself means almost nothing without the piece of paper that says you paid someone else to teach it to you. Education means nothing without quantified proof. Employers don't want to see your knowledge, they want to see numbers and fancy Latin names. Cum laude, magna cum laude, summa cum laude. Graduated 8th in a class of 260. Graduated 50th in a class of 500. Graduated with a 3.886 grade point average . . . et cetera, et cetera. They don't want you to demonstrate your knowledge, they want to see that you've paid a lot of money to demonstrate it to someone else.

Of course there is the option of living outside the established system. Which, college or no, has been my plan all along. I'm a bohemian, an artist-type. I'm a writer/filmmaker who dabbles in sculpture, painting, cooking, and cartooning. I'm not a lawyer. I'm not a doctor. I'm not an accountant. Nor would I want to be any of those things. Living outside the system means you don't need a fucking degree to get work.

But then there's all that "in the meantime" crap. You know . . . the stuff the creative-types do between gigs. The part time job at Starbucks, the temporary office work, the "real jobs" that your parents are so insistent upon you obtaining. The only thing a college degree can do for a Bohemian/creative type is make getting a "real job" easier and/or more lucrative.

I see job postings all the time for things I could TOTALLY DO. But I'm not qualified because I don't have a fucking BA. Like being a personal assistant. I would have no trouble doing that. In fact, I would enjoy doing something like that. But they always want the candidates to have a Bachelor's degree at the minimum. I don't see how having a Bachelor's degree helps you with getting coffee, answering/making phone calls, arranging travel, or delivering documents to clients!

Getting back to my previous point: Creative-types don't need college. You don't need film school to tell you how to make movies. You don't need writing classes to tell you how to write a novel. If you want to make movies for the rest of your life: Awesome! Start making movies. If you want to write novels for the rest of your life: Great! Start writing stories. Really, that's ALL you're going to do in college anyway. Sure, there will be professors there to critique your work, but criticism is free . . . just put your soul on the line and submit your work to various publishers/distributors. If it's good, it'll get produced/published. If it's not . . . try again. Best of all, a lot of people will tell you what's wrong with your work and why they don't want to have anything to do with it . . . and there's your free criticism.

Despite the expense and investment of time . . . also despite how I just argued that I don't need college . . . there are two things that drive me to get my Bachelors degree . . .

One: I want to Join the Peace Corps. I've wanted to join the Peace Corps since I was fourteen. No, you don't necessarily have to graduate from college to join the Peace Corps, but it helps. I mean . . . I really doubt that I have any useful skills that would get me accepted into the program. Graduate from college and learn a language while you're at it, though . . . and you've got a much better chance.

Two: I want to be a member of "academia." Yeah, that's right. I want to be so smart, so fucking over-educated that I can rub it in the stupid little face of most Americans. Is that a bad thing? I just want knowledge . . . and the intellectual high ground. I've always hated it when I felt stupid or felt like I didn't know enough about a subject to carry on an intelligent conversation about it. I also hate it when someone knows more about a subject than I do. I hateitsomuch! (Exceptions: sports, music, diet/exercise, books by Dan Brown, and automotive thingies. . . I wouldn't waste my time with any of that shit). Alright, so this reason for wanting to finish college is really, really shallow. I'll admit to that. And I'm okay with it.

So with all of that in mind . . . I've got to make a tough decision: College or Chicago.

If I go back to college here in Minnesota, it means I'll be going against everything I said I'd never do. For the most part, I hate it here. I said I'd never go to school in this state, I said I'd never come back here, and I said I'd never go to any school other than Columbia. I also said I'd never be anything other than a film major. If I go back to school here, I plan on changing my major: from Film/Video, to Sociology with a Psychology minor.

Here's what I said to my mom the other night: "Is it wrong to get your degree in something that you don't plan on ever doing anything with?" I want to study Sociology not because I want to be a criminologist or something like that, but because sociology fascinates me. Seriously, I pick up sociology books and I can't put them down. I'm absolutely intrigued by the societies humans form and rules within them. If you follow my blogs at all, you had to have read my rants about Myspace and how it's defining the social interactions of a generation and restructuring how people communicate, becoming a society of its own (albeit a virtual one). Also, when I was in the city I couldn't stop thinking about how different social groups interacted in the urban setting. Gangstas, Nerds, Scensters, Trixies, Hipsters, Trixters for Christ sake! It's all so interesting, so horribly fascinating. When I was reading the sociological analysis of pop culture in Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs by Chuck Klosterman, it felt like he was speaking to me . . . he was explaining and analyzing stuff that I had always wondered about.

After getting my Bachelors in sociology . . . I'd still want to go back to film. Honestly, I want to get my MFA in film/video back at Columbia. Ha . . . if I get myself a "real job" in the interem, I could almost afford it. But no . . . no . . . I want to join the Peace Corps. "Real jobs" are for pussies.

But then there's Chicago. Sweet, sweet Chicago. My life is there. My friends are there. My story is there. I miss the streets, the stores, the people. I miss the CTA, and the ability to go anywhere whenever I want. I'm sad I'm not going to get to see the Holiday display windows at Macy's. I didn't want to put an end to my Chicago chapter yet . . . my story wasn't done. It wasn't fucking done, god damn it! I just wanted it to be a "to be continued . . ." sort of deal. I could go back, I know. But I wasn't ready to start another part to my story. Fucking hell, I'm supposed to be Edwards' AD. Now he's going to find someone else to assistant direct his films. I want to be his AD! Thinking about it puts a knot in my stomach.

So . . . What to do? What to do? What to do?

Musings of a Post-Hipster Wannabe

2006-11-27T13:56:00.000-06:00

"I'm not a skateboarder, I just wear the shoes."

This was something I said to myself quietly as I passed the Sk8 board shop in town. I've worn boarder's shoes but never ridden a skateboard. The things scare the hell out of me. I used to wear Vans exclusively . . . not because I wanted to look the part of a punk in a small town, but because they're comfy. Skate shoes are the most comfortable shoes I've ever worn! The little shop I walked past --I think it was called "Sk8 Shack" or something-- boasted that they had "20 Styles of shoes!" I thought about walking in and shopping a bit, but then I realized what I was wearing . . . and decided it wasn't a good idea.

Today I'm dressed in my demi-Mia Wallace outfit. Black pants, white tuxedo shirt, (awesome) black jacket, and metallic ballet flats. The outfit is reminiscent of Uma Thurman's during the date scene in Pulp Fiction. I've always considered the Mia Wallace character as the epitome of sex. So confident, and cool, and hot.

I just happened to catch the aforementioned scene on TV last night. Pulp Fiction was playing on the AMC network (American Movie Classics, for those of you unfamiliar). My first thought was "Hells yes I will watch some Pulp Fiction while waiting for my laundry to dry!" This would have been the perfect scenario: Late night, bored and alone, watching some good Tarantino. However, AMC, being of a seemingly altruistic attitude, decided to air the "censored" version of the film. (I DIDN'T EVEN KNOW THERE WAS A CENSORED VERSION!) They replaced the word "fucking" with the word "fricken" most of the time, and edited out the part where Mia does blow in the ladies' room (including my favorite Mia line: "I said god damn! God damn . . ."). This was really distracting and took me out of the film.

The main issue I have with censorship is that it destroys the meaning of whatever manner of art is being censored. Pulp Fiction, for example, is a film about organized crime, including illegal drugs, gambling, murder, and so on. And I don't know if you've ever noticed this yourself, but "gangsters" swear! They swear a lot! It's not only a stance of realism that am I arguing from, but this movie, in particular, is destroyed by such editing. You can't make a film like Pulp Fiction "safe" for family audiences. The film is --if anything-- a cautionary tale. People get killed senselessly, Mia nearly dies of a drug overdose, the crime boss gets raped, et cetera. No one comes out ahead in the end, except maybe for Jules, the one person who decides to leave "the life," all of the characters grow, but none of them end up in a better place than they were before (except Jules). They're all stuck muddling through the lives that they've chosen. The overall meaning of the film can be interpreted as: "Crime doesn't pay" or other associated, similar sentiments. Tarantino's message is nowhere near as powerful as it would be if all the examples of bad decisions and taboo behavior hadn't been edited out.

I didn't even stick around to see how AMC handled the part where Marvin gets shot in the face. I was aggravated enough to just go back down to my room and rock out to some Presidents of the United States of America for a few hours while I finished washing clothes. I can't stand to see a moral allegory turned into light entertainment for the American public.

I'm beginning to wonder if most people in this country prefer their entertainment lightened and brightened like this. If they prefer to see a cleaner version of reality. The truth is that life is rated "R" (if not "NC-17"). I find that the closer a movie is to reality, the more restricted the "rating" becomes. Granted, the Motion Picture Association of America's rating system is completely voluntary, but a lot of movie theaters refuse to show "unrated" pictures, for fear of their content. And the truth is that a lot of the "Restricted" films are only rated that way for language, not violent content (Hell, violent content usually only receives a "PG-13" rating).

Little Miss Sunshine (my pick for best movie of the year/century/all time), is a delightful little film. Filled with hope and positive messages about body image, family, and society as a whole. It's about a little girl who is entered in a beauty pageant. The film follows her family's cross-country road trip to travel to the competition and, eventually, the competition itself. The little girl, who wants nothing but to fit in with her peers, ends up finding out that it's better to be yourself than to seek approval from those around you. (That's a very brief synopsis, go get your hands on a copy on the 16th of December and see what I'm talking about. It's excellent and you won't regret it.)

Anyway, this beautiful little film, a very positive movie, with the happiest of endings, received an "R" rating. Why on Earth would something this beautiful and seemingly innocuous be restricted to children? The eternal answer of the MPAA: language. The word "fuck" is used fairly liberally throughout the film. While there are some sexual themes and mild drug-usage throughout the movie, they're understated and essential to the development of the characters (and frankly, would be way above most youngsters' heads). There's no overt sex, and the drug-usage in the film is construed as a very, very bad thing. Language, the stupidest of stupid reasons to restrict a film, limited the release of this very good picture.

Language, you must realize, is the great divider of society. It separates cultures from one another. Even if members of a society technically speak the same "language" --English, for instance-- subcultures and countercultures are delineated by the words they use, the way they use them.

Slang is a great example of what I'm talking about. Think about it. (Here is a very very generalized example, and I apologize for it in advance.) "Youth Culture" uses a completely different vernacular than that of "adult society" types. The word "cool" in Youth Culture is a good thing. To be cool, is good. While the literal meaning of the term from the Miriam Webster website is "moderately cold : lacking in warmth." It takes a complete turn in the hands of young people (she writes, as though an outside observer).

The truth is, the subject of language is a horribly deep topic, and I haven't the time, nor the energy to delve into it completely right now. Books with multiple volumes have been written on the subject. Frankly, I can't condense that knowledge into one blog post where I am trying to interrelate all the recent observations of my little life.

Thus, I'll continue on my next topic: The nature of labels and language.

As a matter of course, humans label things. We label geographic regions, we label cultures, other people, we even label ourselves. (I'm not saying it's a good thing, I'm just saying that, by nature, we do it.) Within a language, labels can connote or denote a number of things. Skateboarders, for instance. Some people connote "skateboarders" as being immoral, rude, destructive to property, et cetera. Others think that "skateboarders" are the epitome of awesome: Athletes with superior skills on four wheels.

And skateboarders know when they meet other skateboarders. Even if they don't have their board with them, they can tell, just by looking at a person whether they can do a 50-50 grind or not. (No, I don't know what I'm talking about. I just played a lot of Tony Hawk 3 one summer. But this is coming a point, I promise.) They can tell because of the way they dress, and the language that they use.

(Ah, here it is! The thing you've been waiting for) If I had walked into that skate shop this afternoon and looked at shoes and someone had tried to talk to me about different decks and whatnot, and I'd looked at them, doe-eyed with a giant question mark, invisibly drawn all over my face I would have been non-verbally shunned. As a matter of language, a matter of behavior, and a matter of culture I would have felt uncomfortable shopping for shoes in that store.

This is a roundabout way of saying that I blame AMC, the MPAA, Quentin Tarantino, Miriam, Webster, Skateboarders, and Tony Hawk for not letting me shop for skate shoes.

. . .

Okay, I'm totally lying . . . but Jesus Christ was I on a roll.

My Favorite Curry

2006-11-19T19:14:00.000-06:00

No . . . not Tim Curry (although he comes in a close second).

My very favorite curry in the world is Mutter Paneer. It's a tomato based curry with peas (mutter) and a farmer's cheese (paneer).

It was cold in my house today which gave me a huge craving for a good curry. I wanted nothing more than some Mutter Paneer. However, I don't think there's an Indian restaurant within 50 miles of me. So, I had to make my own. Now, because I'm vegan and no where near an Indian market, finding a recipe I could eat and one for which I had all the ingredients posed a bit of a challenge.

So much of a challenge, in fact, that I eventually gave in and had to write my own.

The first obstacle was paneer cheese. Not only do I not have access to paneer cheese but, I wouldn't eat it anyway. So, I had to come up with a substitute. The first time I had Mutter Paneer was at one of the best Indian restaurants in Chicago. The name of which I can't seem to find (it was up on Devon, and they only had their buffet on certain days, amazing tandori naan). Anyway . . . I thought the paneer was tofu to begin with. So, obviously, the perfect substitute is some firm tofu, pressed and cubed.

The next thing I didn't know how to tackle was the actual curry sauce. From what I remembered, Matter Paneer is based on an amazingly flavorful tomato sauce. I am, by no means, a master of curries. The only curry I'd ever made was a Chana Masala, a chickpea curry in . . . hm, a tomato based sauce. Thinking about this gave me an idea. I pulled out the chana masala recipe and used it as a starting point for my vegan Mutter Paneer . . .

Katie's Vegan Mutter Paneer
(probably not 100% authentic, but effing tasty.)

2 tablespoons vegetable oil
2 cups chopped onion
4 finely chopped garlic cloves
2 teaspoons ground ginger -or- 2 tablespoons fresh ginger, peeled and minced.
2 teaspoons ground cardamom
1 teaspoon ground coriander
1 teaspoon ground turmeric
1 teaspoon curry powder
1/8-1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper (depending on how hot you want it)
1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon salt
8 oz firm or extra firm tofu, drained, pressed, and cut into 1/2-3/4 inch cubes.
1 15 ounce can whole tomatoes in juice
juice of 1/2 a lemon
1 1/2 cups frozen peas
extra salt and pepper to taste

Heat oil in a large saucepan over medium high heat. Add the onion and saute for three minutes, stirring often. Add garlic (and fresh ginger, if using that in stead of dried) saute another 3 minutes, stirring often. Turn heat down to medium. Add ground ginger (if using that in stead of fresh), cardamom, coriander, turmeric, curry powder, cayenne pepper, black pepper and salt. Stir constantly for 2 minutes. Remove onions from pan, but leave as much of the spices in as possible. Put the onions into a blender with the tomatoes and puree. Meanwhile, add the tofu to the pan and fry until there's a nice coating on the outside of the tofu. Usually 3 or 4 minutes. Add the tomato and onion mixture back to the pan with the lemon juice. Bring that up to a simmer. Meanwhile, run the peas under some cold water to get the ice crystals off of them. It's okay if they're still frozen. Add the peas to the sauce and return the pan to a simmer. Allow it to simmer for 15 to 20 minutes (Which is just long enough to make some basmati rice!), covered, stirring occasionally. If the sauce gets a little too thick, feel free to add some water if you like it a bit saucier. (I added about 1/2 cup during the simmering because I don't like my Mutter Paneer too thick. It all depends on how much water evaporates from the pan while you're cooking it.) Serve over rice or with some naan.

Yeah . . . I'm a foodie.

It All Started With Commander Riker . . .

2006-11-17T16:11:00.000-06:00

I'm attracted to men with beards. I've come to realize this just in the past year. There's something about that rugged, woodsman look that I like. Something about it that just makes me melt.

The attraction to beards has roots in my childhood. It began with my obsession with Star Trek . . . it wasn't about the space exploration, or the encounters with aliens, or even the neat-o holodecks. Oh no, my obsession was about Commander William Thomas Riker.

I mean, just look at him. That unruly hair, those ice blue eyes, that mischievous grin . . . and that beard. That well maintained, nicely trimmed, full beard . . . which is, was, and will always be the sexiest thing about him. How can you not fall in love with that sexy slab of man meat?

I was about eight years old when I fell in love with Jonahtan Frakes' portrayal of the second in command of Starfleet's Enterprise-D. From then until now, my attraction to facial hair remained dormant . . .

Until the premier of Little Miss Sunshine (My personal pick for best movie of the year). It was then that I saw a man with whom I immediately fell in love: Steve Carell. Although I've been aware of Mr. Carell's work for years, there was something different about him in this movie . . . Observe:

Steve Carell circa The Office:

Steve Carell circa Little Miss Sunshine:

I think we all know which version of the former Daily Show correspondent is sexier. There's just something so attractive about the bearded, suicidal uncle from Little Miss Sunshine that isn't there in the character Carell plays in The Office. Some would say it's his tragic intelligence, his unquenchable thirst for love, or his wisdom and clarity of thought . . . but I know why "Frank" is sexier than "Michael Scott." It's the beard.

Celebrities aren't the only bearded fellows who have gotten my attention in the past year. Oh no! For instance . . .

Mother's day, 2006: I was supposed to go to work at 10:00AM. I was supposed to call my mom early in the day. I was supposed to do a lot of things . . . but what was I doing? I was lying in bed with a tragically intelligent, suicidal bearded 24-year-old man that I'd just met the night before.

Virginity Lost to: Ex roommate, bearded, son of a congressman . . .

Broke up with boyfriend in Grand Rapids for: The most interesting bearded boy in the general vicinity.

THE LIST GOES ON!

If I see a man with a nice, trimmed beard, I'm almost immediately attracted to them. Maybe I'm just looking for someone to be the Commander Riker to my Counselor Troy. Maybe I see it as a sign of strength, like the woodsman who'll save me from the Big Bad Wolf. I don't know what it is. But to me:

Beards = Sexy

Alright, alright, alright . . . jeeze . . .

2006-11-14T16:41:00.000-06:00

Hey kids! I passed my permit test . . . and the examiner was impressed with my score for some reason. I'd forgotten how easy that thing was.

So now, legally, I can drive . . . as long as I have "a licenced driver over the age of 18" in the front seat with me.

Next obstacle . . . car. My parents only have an SUV and a pickup truck. Neither of which I want to drive. Eeew. They're huge, I can't be trusted to drive something like that, I'LL RUN OVER THINGS!!! . . . and I remember taking a vow to never drive an SUV at one point. (It was probably during one of those fits of anit-suburbia I have occasionally.) I can't really ask them to buy me a car. Yet, they keep telling me that they'll get me one. And I have no idea how they plan on doing that.

They'd better not be planning to get me one for my birthday . . . I'd rather have an iPod. They're cheaper anyhow . . .

Oh . . . oh hell . . . I just re-read those two paragraphs and wanted to strangle myself. Those are the words of privilege. That, my dear friends, sounds like a spoiled brat. Here I am talking about how I don't want to drive my parents' cars because they're huge and because I have idealistic differences with them, when there are families who only have one car . . . or families that don't have a car at all. And then I start talking about iPods . . . Where did I go wrong? Someone please slap me before I become more of a consumer.

Sigh . . .

And yet I choose not to edit those paragraphs because that would be self-censorship. And there is nothing more crippling than self-censorship.

Whatever . . . I should probably just drive the fucking SUV. Eugh! I HATE SUVs . . . I told my mother that when she bought it. Oh well . . . it's here. I kinda have to drive it.

Cars? Driving? What?

2006-11-13T18:18:00.000-06:00

So my mom has a day off tomorrow . . . thus I have an opportunity to go and fail my Driver's Permit test. The last time I took it, I only got one wrong. But I haven't even looked at that Minnesota driver's manual thing in like five years. I haven't been behind the wheel of a car in nearly 3 years. I am so going to fail.

This is what I get for not wanting to take the "behind the wheel" classes. Well . . . at least I don't have to wait six months.

I found out that since I'm 20 years old there is no waiting period between getting my permit and being able to get my license. It's not six months like I thought it would be, that only applies to drivers under 18.

Ok . . . so all I have to do is: get my permit, figure out how to drive, and then go take a behind the wheel test . . .

That sounds easy . . .

So why am I hyperventilating?

Maybe it's the "figure out how to drive" part . . . but it's probably that whole "behind the wheel test" part, too. Arrrr . . . this is so stressful. I have more stress in Minnesota than I did in Chicago. THIS IS NOT GOOD FOR MY ANXIETY!!!!

Alright . . . calm down. They let absolute losers who can't drive pass that driver's test . . . in theory, I should be able to pass it without difficulty. I'm afriad of failing it, though. Ok . . . so I've never failed a test in my life. Ever. But still.

I shouldn't even worry about that, yet. I just have to pass a written test tomorrow . . . morning . . . yuck, morning. I should go and study or something.

Switch to the "New Blogger"

2006-11-13T17:43:00.000-06:00

Holy effing christ . . . What's all this shit in my blogger?

Seriously, folks, I've switched to that Blogger beta version . . . you know the one with the lables and shit . . . I'm a little scared here, kids. I don't think I know how to use this effectively.

This labeling option at the bottom of the screen here . . . this scares me a little bit. I'm afraid I'll go crazy with it and tag every entry with something completely irrelevent to the post.

Oh thank god, I just figured out that I can put this in HTML mode so I don't have to use all these graphic tools. Those bother me, after all. I don't want to see my text in italics, I want to be able to type the codes in! (I had to rephrase that, because I couldn't make it not work the way it's supposed to.) Besides, how would I learn all them interesting HTML codes otherwise?

The Loneliest Little Girl in the World

2006-11-10T15:59:00.000-06:00

I'm beginning to believe that I have no friends.

And it's not in that emo high school way either.

I haven't spent time with anyone outside of my family for a month. I hate this fucking town.

I need to make new friends.

The friends I thought I had here are turning into assholes . . . they haven't done anything outright . . . well . . . except this whole ignoring me thing.

Ok, maybe this is that annoying, emo, whiney high school voice I was trying to avoid. But fuck it.

This is all hitting me right now because my parents are gone for the weekend. I can't even leave the house now. So what am I gonna do? I'm gonna cook . . . all fucking night . . .

Yay.

I know, normally this makes me excited. But right now it just sort of sucks. I'm so afraid of getting fat again . . . and all I do, all day, every day is watch food network and veganize recipies and cook them. I've always had a food obsession, but before I've had things to distract me from it most of the time. I'd either cook at night when I got home or I'd cook on weekends or days off . . . but I've NEVER had so much time to fucking cook.

I don't even have friends right now, so I'm spending ALL of my time at home.

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!

Fucking Paul . . . makes so many fucking excuses to never see me. I wish he would just tell me that he hates me. You know . . . I broke up with Darin for him. I broke up with Darin because I didn't think I could ever love him. I liked him a lot, but I never saw myself loving him. When I met Paul, though . . . he was the one I wanted . . . I wanted to love him. We're simmilar enough to get along and different enough to be interesting. That, and we make sense . . . we just make sense together. I mean, he's even the right size for me. He's taller than I am. He's bigger than I am. Not fat . . . not really muscular either . . . I don't know. Perfect. Just perfect. He's the first boy I've looked at and thought: I don't want to change one single thing about him. Everyone else, I've wanted to change somehow. Not Paul, though.

But that ship has sailed . . . I've already lost my chance with that one.

I'm such a fucking moron. If there's anything I've perfected in my lifetime, it's the art of fucking up relationships. And I don't even mean to do it. I just do. I scare people off, I get clingy, I get needy, I go insane temporarily . . . I do all this shit that scares away perfectly decent boys. I know that I do it. For some reason, I can't stop it. When I'm attracted to someone, it's like my brain gets shut off . . . and I do all this stupid shit.

Fucking Brain.

And why is being "distant" attractive to people? Why is it that whenever I start to act the slightest bit affectionate people get turned off? WHAT THE FUCK??? I hate it when people act distant. And so sue me, I'm affectionate . . . I like touching and cuddling and all that mushy shit. Why does that automatically condemn me to a life of being single?

I don't get it.

I've said it before. I've said it a million times. I REALLY NEED TO START DATING GIRLS! Unfortunately, the selection of bi/les/pomo girls up here is . . . um . . . slim. At best. Unless they're all too pussy to post that in their MySpace profiles. (Ha . . . lesbians . . . pussy . . . get it?)

Maybe I'll just go listen to some Ani and read lesbian erotica for a few hours. Maybe that'll make everything better.

And maybe money will start falling from the sky while we're at it . . .

Dear Grand Rapids, Minnesota,

2006-11-07T19:21:00.000-06:00

You win. I don't fit in here. I realize this now. You and your denizens have proven to me that there is nothing I can really do to change this.

Perhaps I approached you the wrong way. I waked into this town expecting to take it over in a matter of days (at least socially). You didn't expect that, you didn't like it, and I'm sorry. However, you must realize that theorhetically, I am cooler than you, and theorhetically, you should be honored to have me here.

I'll freely admit that I am condescending when I talk about you. I can't really decide if I want to appologize for this or not. Because appology means that I recognize what I'm doing as "wrong." Most of the time, I don't consider my condiscention incorrect. I'm used to my life being of a different quality in Chicago. And by "different" I mean better. And by life, I mean I had one.

I can't seem to befrend you or any of your citizens. I'm sure the patronizing attitude doesn't help. But even when I'm just being nice you treat me like an outsider. Why is that? I'm sweet as pie when someone's nice to me. But you just don't seem to want to be nice.

Is it jealousy? Sure, I arrived here with better hair, better clothes, a more interesting DVD collection, more talent, and volumes of experiences beyond that of most people my age. That doesn't mean I won't associate with you. That doesn't mean we can't be friends. But if we are to be, you have to make just as many concessions as I do.

I can learn to drive. But you have to realize that public transportation is the way of the future. It is environmentally responsible and fiscally responsible to have a decent transportation system within your city and to places outside your city. Your rail lines need to be passanger-accessable. People should be able to get on a train and go to Minneapolis and beyond. And I KNOW you used to have a rail station. But this is a moot point at the moment.

I can get a job. But you have to create employment in this city. Is it your fault that businesses constantly fail in this town? No. Well, not completely. But honestly . . . compared to the places I've lived, the local economy here appears to be failing . . . miserably. I'm no economist, so I'm not qualified to comment on this. However, I can comment on the status of this town as a casual observer. Whenever I go "downtown" (or whatever you call it here), I find it depressing. Everything looks like it was vomited up from the bowels of 1974, wiped off, and opened up with the promise of being "new and improved." The exceptions are Brewed Awakenings, and the Public Library. The coffee shop is very decent, even by my standards, and the Library is one of the nicer ones I've seen. It's a hell of a lot nicer than some of the libraries in Chicago (this obviously does not include the Harold Washington Library). The selection is a little stale, but that can be improved. I suggest renovating the whole city from top to bottom. Give everything on Highway 2 a good hosing down at least, and give the central school a good dusting . . . and a paint job.

There are a few things that I am absolutely not willing to do in order for you to tolerate me.

I refuse to indulge in your local "cuisine." I'm vegan, and I have standards.

Hunting/fishing/trapping and all related activities are on my personal list of deplorable acts. The more support I see you supporting these activities, the less I want to tolerate you. "Hunters Welcome!" signs really bother me. I don't welcome hunters, I refuse to . . . I think hunting is a savage and disgusting practice (ESPECIALLY trophy hunting). But this is annother issue altogether. It has more to do with your citizens than you yourself.

I also refuse to sit politely and let my veganism, post modern sexuality, social liberalism, and general good taste be critisized by the people who live here. I shouldn't have to defend my veganism. I shouldn't have to defend my sexulity. I shouldn't have to defend my support of gay marrige, abortion rights, et cetera. And I shouldn't have argue with people as to why you NEVER spend less than $8 on a bottle of extra virgin olive oil, why you NEVER buy coffee you don't know the roasting date on, or why designer clothing actually is better than the shit at Wal*Mart. (I also shouldn't have to defend myself for not wanting to shop at Wal*Mart.)

I guess what I'm trying to say, Grand Rapids, is that you need to be nicer to me. I'll be nicer to you. When I get enough money to support myself for a considerable period of time, I'll leave you. You can go on your merry way, and we'll never have to see each other again. However, for the time being, please try to stop sucking.

Love,
Katie

Dreams, Psychology, Sociology, and the Daily Show

2006-11-06T16:52:00.000-06:00

It all started a couple days ago. I had just woken up . . . and I could remember that I had a good dream where I felt happy and safe. It was one of those afterglow dreams, where you wake up refreshed, with a warm feeling. As I laid in my bed, becoming more and more lucid, I started to remember what I had been dreaming about. Little flashes of the dream came back to me. Then suddenly I realized what the dream had been about . . .

"I just dreamt that I was dating Stephen Colbert." I said to no one in particular.

This sort of thing makes no sense. First of all, Stephen Colbert is twice my age, married, and a celebrity. I've never drempt about dating celebrities before. And usually when I dream about cuddling/dating someone, it's someone I know.

I dismissed the dream as a fluke . . .

Then today, I woke up with the same warm, happy feeling. As I thought about it more, I realized that I'd had another cuddle dream. However, this time I was snuggling with Mo Rocca.

For some reason, my subconscious mind is obsessed with former Daily Show correspondents. Who's next? Will I find myself in a dream where I'm making out with Steve Carell? If I do, I hope it's bearded Steve Carell from Little Miss Sunshine. And not clean-shaven Steve Carell from The 40 Year Old Virgin. What? I have a thing for beards, so sue me.

I suppose these dreams make sense on a very shallow level. I've been "in love" with Colbert ever since the White House correspondents dinner speech (but who hasn't?). And recently I've found myself tuning in to Comedy Central at 10:30 PM to get my fix.

Dreaming about Mo Rocca makes slightly less sense. The only time I've seen him working recently is as a judge on Iron Chef America. Granted, he is (/was/will always be) the sexiest reporter to ever grace the same screen as Jon Stewart.

On a deeper level, these could be representations of my need for human contact. Maybe I need to be cuddled, held, carressed, kissed . . . and since I can't count on reality to provide that for me, I'm escaping into my dreams.

TV celebrities can provide us with the social relationships we don't have. Children who don't have parents, have the television. They learn how to behave from sitcoms and cartoons on Nickelodeon and PBS.

Even for most, "normal" American families, TV Shows have been adopted as a members of the family, so to speak. We watch programs, involve ourselves in the characters made-up lives for about an hour a week. Then, when the series is over, we feel sad, empty, like some major part of our lives has been taken away from us.

Series finales are like funerals without the element of surprise. We spend time with the show throughout its life. We may miss a few episodes here and there because we have a party to go to or we have to work late. But then, for that last episode, everyone watches. At funerals, everyone shows up to "pay their last respects." More people will attend a person's funeral than their last birthday party.

Just look at the Neilsen ratings of the last episode of Seinfeld. Seventy-Five million people watched it. On average, only about 8.2 million people watched it every week. Everyone comes out of the woodwork for that last hurrah.

I guess the conclusion I've drawn from all of this is that somehow I've made Stephen Colbert and Mo Rocca a part of my circle of boys I would date. We'll call that "the dating circle" from now on. Not that they actually belong there . . . at all . . . but through television, they have become friends of mine. I would feel comfortable inviting either of them to meet my parents and then letting them feel me up in the back of their cars . . . Why? Because that's the way television makes you feel about the people on it. You love them . . . you don't mean to, but you get used to having them in your lives . . . and then it just happens, you fall in love with a Celebrity.

Hm . . .

One of these days I'll organize this into a sensible argument and write up a proper thesis.

On Sex

2006-10-31T12:47:00.000-06:00

"It's 2:00 AM. Everyone else in the house is alseep. I have four books to read, a corset to finish sewing, emails to return . . . and what am I doing? I'm sitting in the living room watching porn. This is pathetic." I said to myself on Monday evening.

Bliss was on. I don't know how many of you are familliar with it. It's a show on late at night on the Oxygen Network. It's not really porn. It's erotica at best. Erotica made in Canada. Tonight's episode: "The Piano Tuner"

It was about a sexually frustrated housewife in a failing marrige, a blind piano tuner, and a hot day . . . which just kept getting hotter. Lol. Anyway . . . So, I'm watching this fourty-something chick get felt up by a blind guy. He was fumbling around and stuff . . . and for some reason, for some fucked-up reason, this was making me horny.

And all he did was go down on her.

I think I'm sexually frustrated. I also think that "Sexually frustrated" is an understatement in this case.

So I'm in the middle of sewing a corset out of black, patent pleather. Seriously, kids, I'm going to look like a porn star when it's done. And I keep imagining wearing it for someone . . . BUT I DON'T HAVE ANYONE TO WEAR IT FOR!!! AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!

I could totally pull off a dominatrix routine in it, too. If I were in Chicago, I could make a phone call and have someone at my apartment in an hour. And I wouldn't even have to pay them!

I guess I'm trying to say that I'm horny. I mean, watching a blind guy go down on a soon-to-be-divorcee was doing it for me last night. What's next? Watching dogs mating? Furniture Porn? Dick Cheney? WHEN DOES IT END?!?!?

Radio Silence.

2006-10-29T18:01:00.000-06:00

How to explain this?

How much to explain this?

How to tactfully explain this?

Argh . . . um . . . okay . . .

So I'm distracted. I can't concentrate on anything lately. And the cause is: (surprise, surprise) a boy. I hate it when I get like this. I really really want to write about this problem . . . but I feel like I can't. So I'm going to keep this as general as possible.

So this guy and I kind of had a "thing." I guess. And then I got clingy and he got scared and I don't know what happened . . . I guess then we just kind of weren't. My problem is I don't know how he feels about me. And it's bugging the HELL out of me.

So here's what happened: I called him on Wednesday(ish) and told him I could either hang out with him this weekend or go to my sister's. I haven't seen him for about two weeks now and I really really wanted to see him. When he told me he didn't have time for me this weekend, I kinda got upset.

Okay, that's and understatement . . . I got really upset. I freaked out.

I have a whole ton of abandonment issues. Especially after the Caleb thing. And I get really scared that people I hang out with actually hate me, but they pity me so they still talk to me. I know . . . it's a stupid paranoia, but it's happened to me too many times. So I don't really get comfortable with people right away.

So . . . later, I had a fucking panic attack (Yay me!) and in the middle of it, I decided it was a "good" idea to call him again. I think I screamed at him. I remember that I wanted to. And I wanted to talk about shit, but he wouldn't . . . and hung up on me. Then --being as net-savvy as an obese, one-eyebrowed WoW nerd-- I went to they Myspace and sent him a message. It was disjointed and screamy and whiney and all those personality traits that I hate about myself when I'm angry. And I guess I was trying to explain to him why I was upset. It sort of worked . . .

After that, I spent approximately 18 hours in bed. So yeah, depressed would be a good word to describe my mood at that point. I just laid there a lot of that time. When you're that depressed, the only thing you want to do is sleep . . . and the only thing you can't do is sleep. When I did manage to fall into a dream-state, it never lasted long . . . and I kept having nightmares.

After a while, he did reply to my message. He explained himself. And then he said that we shouldn't talk anymore. That normal conversation would be impossible.

I wrote him back. I was a hell of a lot calmer when I did. (I was actually thinking clearly. Oh em gee.) And I told him I was sorry . . . over and over again.

This was . . . Thursday that I wrote him back. He hasn't said a word to me since. Either he's keeping his promise not to talk to me anymore, which would kill me inside. Or he doesn't know what to say. It's also possible that he hasn't had time.

I feel that there's some hope, though. Something he wrote in a blog entry makes me think I shouldn't give up. I really like this kid. I really want things to work out with him . . . even being just friends.

When I met him, I felt something weird . . . like . . . some switch got flicked in my brain. Like he was different than everyone else. I don't know.

So . . . that's why I can't concentrate. I need to know weather I've got a chance to mend this relationship or if I should just forget about him.

I really don't want to forget about him . . . but I've had to forget about people before. I hate doing it so much.

From Podunk to Podunk to Buy a Warm Coat

2006-10-29T12:57:00.000-06:00

Alright . . . so I wrote a really good post on my Myspace blog (of all places). And I know I've done this type of thing once this month, already. However, I really really like this post . . . so . . . Um . . . sorry, but I'm double posting it here, too.

XoXo
--Kt

As we neared the edge of the cloud bank, I saw the sun for the first time in four days. It was literal and metaphorical, the way the glare hit the windshield and the way everything seemed a little brighter. This was Friday afternoon, I was in my mom's SUV on my way to Bemidji to stay with my sister for the weekend.

That's where I am now, sitting at my sister's computer desk and trying like all hell to sound elitist and stuck-up . . . I should really quit that.

My weekend started off with a shopping trip courtsey of my dad. I needed a coat. I've shrunk out of all of my old winter coats and won't wear them now anyway because they're wool. So my mother refused to leave me in Bemidji without a suitable winter coat. We pulled up to the Paul Bunyan mall somewhere on the outskirts of town. The first thing I noticed about the mall was a sign stating that the owner "does not permit firearms on the premisis."

This struck me. I'm not quite sure I can pinpoint the emotion that this sign stirred in my soul . . . it was somewhere between horror, surprise, and disgust. I pointed out the sign to my mother and she reminded me that the state of Minnesota has a "conceal and carry" law. Meaning that any hick in this backwater, podunk of a state can get a permit to hide a LOADED FUCKING GUN in their pants and bring it around with them wherever they want! Sure . . . there are certain criteria to attaining this permit, but honestly, there isn't any way to convince me that this is a good idea.

Where I'm from, the only people allowed to even carry guns are police officers (and CIA/FBI types). Let alone conceal them. Frankly: WHAT THE FUCK, MINNESOTA?!?! Why are civilian gun nuts allowed to threaten my safety by bringing their guns all over town in a "willy nilly" fashion? What if one of them goes off their medication and decides that it's a "good" idea to shoot up the local Planned Parenthood? What then, Minnesota? What then?

Of course, I am making sweeping generalizations about the right and their politics . . . let's get on with the story . . .

The second thing I noticed about the mall was the distinct "Mall Smell." It wasn't like chlorinated-fountain smell or too-many-perfume-samples-available-in-one-section smell or new-leather smell or any of the other Chicago mall smells that I'm used to. It was more like a this-hell-hole-has-nothing-to-offer-you-turn-back-now-before-your-IQ-is-lowered-by-a-good-75-points kinda smell. In other words: It smelled a little like teenagers wasting their young lives and divorcees who have nowhere else to go. Maybe desperation is the kind of smell I'm trying to describe. The fact that Herberger's is the highest-end retailer in the entire place worries me. The fact that there is a K-Mart inside this mall also worries me.

Anyway . . . I was dragged around through Herberger's trying to find a coat . . . nothing. Then my mom took me to the JCPenny's . . . also nothing. It was like aisles and aisles of clothing and nothing to wear. All the winter coats were either a) ugly 2)wool/leather c)or faux shearling . . . which really fits into the first category . . . but somtimes, I think that faux shearling is enough of a fashion atrocity to deserve it's own brand of ugliness.

I'd given up. My mom had given up on me a long time ago. My dad . . . was just indifferent to the whole situation.

Now, in the parking lot of this particular mall in Northern Minnesota, there is a store called "Gander Mountain." I'm not sure how many of you are familliar with this type of retailer. It's what they call an "outdoors store." So basically, if you've got a personal vendetta against any type of fuzzy woodland animal, you can find a way to kill it, it's family, and it's entire species there.

What I'm trying to say is that Gander Mountain is "not my type of store."

But I was desperate. And I wanted to apease the parents and just get a friggin coat. So I say to my mom, "Okay, we'll go to Gander Mountain. I don't expect to find anything there, but I'll look."

I walk into the store and suddenly, my eyes are assaulted by BLAZE FUCKING ORANGE! Everything in the store is BLAZE FUCKING ORANGE! Even the signage! I say "BLAZE FUCKING ORANGE" because that's really the only way I can type the name of that color and give you the appropriate visual effect.

Whatever isn't . . . that color . . . is a pattern called "woodland camoflauge." (Which, I feel the need to mention, is nowhere near as stylish as standard 1960s jungle camo.) I can't say I've ever felt so alienated by clothing in my life. Not even when I was fat . . .

Even though the store's target market seems to have a penchant for BLAZE FUCKING ORANGE and woodland camo, there is one (ONE, 1, singular) rack of women's coats made by The North Face. Not only that . . . but they had the kind that have a shell and a liner . . . so it's really three jackets in one! (Ok, sorry, I am a consumer whore.) This, honestly, has been the only kind of coat I've been interested in since I realized I'd have to buy a completely synthetic one.

So here, in this podunk, in a hunter's paradise of a store . . . the lone vegan found a cute, yuppy-style coat. I found the situation so ironic, that I couldn't resist buying my completely animal-friendly coat there. (And it was a hell of a lot cheaper than it would be in Chicago . . . no sales tax on non-luxury clothing in Minnesota! Wheee!)

Alright . . . so it's kind of against my morals to get a coat at Gander Mountain. But my sense of irony forgives me.

Learning how to Suffocate

2006-10-24T17:11:00.000-05:00

I can't stay here.

More importantly, if I stay in this town any longer, I may die. At least that's what I fear right now. It's a completely rational fear . . . Alright, I'm lying. There's nothing in this town that will kill me outright. But still . . .

I haven't been able to relax for about two weeks now. And I haven't been happy since September 5th. I've discovered that I don't have the skill set to survive in a small town. Some people don't have the skill set to survive in a city. It's just the way people are.

I don't drive. This is a problem here. My parents' house is 7 miles out of town. I can't walk that far every day, I can't even bike that far every day. So, if I were to get a job in this town, I would have to have my parents drive me into work every day which would be impractical sometimes because of their schedules. If I were to bite the bullet and get my driver's license, it would be six months before I could drive anyhow. And I have no idea how I'd get any practice in again because of my parents' schedule. That . . . and I don't have any friends here over the age of 21. Other than Darin, I'm the oldest person I know . . . and it sucks . . . I mean, jesus, I can't even get booze here.

I don't have a lot of friends here, now that I think about it. I have one close friend . . . while that's supposed to be enough, I feel so bad, I feel like I'm a burden on him. He's sweet and wonderful about everything . . . and I'd marry him tomorrow if he asked . . . but I need to not depend on him so much. I could be close to Darin . . . but really, in a manner of speaking, I picked him out of a catalog.

That's all that social networking sites on the internet are, mail-order catalogs full of potential friends/mates. Seriously, now, how many times have you browsed profiles on Myspace looking for people who "might be cool" or "might be hott?" (Yes, with two Ts.) I do it ALL THE FRIGGIN TIME! My favorite people catalog is OkCupid. I've said it before: OkC is full of sluts! It's a slut catalog . . . looking for a noncommittal fuck for tonight? Look no further than OkCupid! Damn it . . . I <3 OkC.

Getting back to my point . . . I'm suffocating in this town. I've decided that the only way I'm going to be happy is to go back to the only life I know: Chicago.

Hell, I bet I could even figure New York out if I had to . . . but I'm not ready for New York City yet. Chi-town is a really good city to learn how about city life. Great public transit, great diversity, there's a large body of water, a huge tourist industry, awesome shopping, and best of all . . . GREAT FUCKING FOOD!

I need to find someone to live with in Chicago as soon and as cheaply as possible. I wonder if any of my friends would be willing to let me sleep on their couch rent-free for a month (or two). Because, in Chicago, I have a job . . . I have friends . . . I sort of have a life. (Or at least I can pretend I do.) I came home to try to build some resources to return to Chicago with. But this town is a) too hard to get a decent job in, b) too hard to get around in, and c) really fucking boring. I really just need to fall into some money . . . like $2000 . . . and my life could stop sucking.

So, lets be honest . . . here was my dream about Grand Rapids:

I would come here and get a job at the cafe (which I am currently sitting in). I would make some friends and endear myself to them so deeply that they would do anything for me. One of them would fall in love with me . . . and I would fall in love with them. (It wouldn't matter which gender . . . I'm pomosexual . . . thus, not picky.)

It would be someone who'd always dreamed of leaving this small town behind, someone who'd always regarded Grand Rapids as a personal hell.

We would take a short trip to Chicago one week, so I could show them around, show them what my life was like. Not only would they fall more in love with me, they would fall in love with my city.

After we returned to Grand Rapids, all we would do is work and save our money. Once we had enough, we would run away together. Run away to Chicago and get a one-bedroom apartment with a nice kitchen in either Wicker Park or Lakeview or Rogers Park . . . some nice neighborhood near CTA trains and a natural grocery store.

They would get a job they liked, somewhere cool. I would go back to working at Bed Bath & Beyond. (I like it there, so sue me.) I'd probably get a second job at a cafe or as a cocktail waitress when I turned 21.

And we would have a perfect little Chicago life together, perfectly domestic. I'd cook a whole hell of a lot and we'd throw dinner parties for all of our post hipster/post modern friends.

So that was my dream . . . and it's not working. I wanted to save someone from this life. And I picked the person I want to save . . . he just isn't cooperating. Grar!

Well . . . this has been a long, rambling experience. Enough to make me feel better at least.

Sigh . . .

Think . . . stop . . . think again.

2006-10-17T16:51:00.000-05:00

Writer's block . . .

Writer's block is what happens when you've run out of ideas. Writer's block is also what happens when you have too many ideas trying to get out at once and you have no idea how to organize them into a coherent story. Writer's block is also what happens when you have too many things running through your mind other than the story you're trying to write. Writer's block is also what happens when . . . you really run out of ideas and can't even finish the sentence you were trying to write with a poignant and meaningful ending.

Story of my life.

So I'm trying to write a half truth/half fiction story. The half truth part is about me moving from Chicago and my life in Grand Rapids . . . the half fiction part is about running back into Caleb when I return to Chicago. The half truth part is from my perspective . . . and the half fiction part is from Caleb's perspective. The story could be absolutely excellent, well formatted, and interesting. I think my problem is that I haven't got the stomach to write it.

The level of anger I have toward him is unhealthy. Why am I angry at him? That's a long story. It takes me an hour to tell it, at least. And I try not to tell it to too many people who didn't know me in Chicago. A lot of them wouldn't understand. I've only told the full story to one of my Grand Rapids friends.

So I'm sitting in the little cafe again. I really do love it in here. Good coffee, interesting music, the customers lack the pizzaz I was used to from people in the city by the lake . . . but at least they don't bother me.

What I should probably do is just work on one of my other writing projects. I suppose that's what I'm doing now by updating the blog that I've been ignoring for a month.

(Sorry, blog. I love you, honey.)

After all, I've got a feature-length movie to finish, a lovely little farcical one-act to write, two maybe three short story/novel ideas . . .

I love that I start writing projects and almost never finish them. I was poking around on my parents' computer the other day and I discovered some of my writing projects from high school. I was amazed, they were finished short stories. And although a little bit angsty (okay, a lot angsty) they were actually fairly good. There was a nice little number about a gothy kid who cut the break line on a car full of prissy high school girls which ended in a beautiful Palahniuk-esque description of a car crash. And this was before I read Palahnikuk, mind you. (AND this was a story I turned in for credit . . . I got an A, duh . . . it's me. But sometimes I'm surprised what I got away with in high school.)

I should be productive again . . . and quit blogging for today.

Grar.

I hate being productive.

A Soy Milk Latte and Wi Fi in the Land of the Frozen Tundra

2006-09-20T15:44:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting here, in Grand Rapids, MN at a little coffee shop called Brewed Awakenings. The first question I asked the barista was whether or not they had soy milk. To my delight . . . they do. Mmmmm . . . yummy soy milk. Then I pulled out my laptop and logged on to their free WiFi network. YAY!

Let me try to explain how/why I got here. I'm still trying to process it . . . so the story will be disjointed and make little sense.

So . . . here's what's happened to me 2 weeks ago:

•I went back to Columbia
•I found out that one of my roommates bounced some checks to the landlord
•I panicked . . . called my mom, told her to bring me home.
•I dropped out of Columbia . . . again.
•I got drunk and let Erin cut my hair . . . now it's super indie cute.
•I went in to quit my job . . . they wouldn't let me. I still have a job when I get back to Chicago.
•I packed my life into little boxes . . . again.
•I went vegan
•I got drunk and lost my virginity to my roommate . . .
•I moved back to Minnesota . . .

That second to last one was a bit . . . uh . . . interesting to say the least. Awkward and weird to say even more. But somehow . . . I don't regret it. Even though, apparently, that bastard never wants to speak to me again. Meh . . . I guess Caleb thought I was in love with him the whole time I lived there, and that made him uncomfortable. The thing is I NEVER had a crush on him . . . at all. I was talking to one of my other roommates, and she thought I had a HUUUUUUGE crush on him, too.

I guess that means I'm too affectionate? Or I'm too, loving? I don't know . . . If I'm close to someone, I treat them like I treated Caleb. Sigh . . .

Oh well.

So I sit here . . . in this cute mock-retro, hippie-owned, vegan-friendly, little oasis of the radical leftists in this greater-american rural town. I sip my soy milk latte and miss the city. I miss the city more than I have ever missed anything else in my life.

I may be single, but I'm not immune to cuteness.

2006-09-06T01:05:00.000-05:00

I stole this from an old friend's blog on MySpace.

Men, take all this to heart. We love things like this, in fact, we eat it up like cupcakes!

*Notes for a boyfriend*

1 . Tell her she is beautiful, not hot

2 . Hold her hand at any moment even if it just for a second.

3 . Kiss her on the forehead.

4 . Leave her voice messages to wake up to.

5 . Always tell her how beautiful she is, no matter what she's wearing.

6 . When she is upset hold her tight and tell her how much she means to you.

7 . Recognize the small things . . . THEY USUALLY MEAN THE MOST!

8 . Call her nicknames.

9 . Sing to her no matter how horrible your voice is.

10 . Pick her over all the other girls you hang out with.

11 . Write her notes. {she loves them}

12 . Introduce her to family and friends as your girlfriend.

13 . Play with her hair.

14 . Pick her up, tickle her and play-wrestle with her.

15 . Sit in the park and just talk to her.

16 . Tell her funny jokes, tell her stupid jokes, just tell her jokes.

17 . Throw pebbles at her window in the middle of the night just because you missed her.

18 . Let her fall asleep in your arms.

19 . Carve your names into a Tree.

20 . If she's mad at you, apologize because SHE is always right.

21 . CUDDLE

22 . Bring her Flowers just because.

23 . Treat her the same around your friends as you do when you're alone.

24 . Look her in the eyes and smile.

25 . Let her take as many pictures of you as she wants.

26 . Slow dance with her, even if there isn't any music playing.

27 . Kiss her in the rain.

28 . If your in love with her . . . tell her

Back to Columbia, Day One?

2006-09-05T10:32:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting at the underground Cafe with my Caribou espresso beverage and my laptop. I have an appointment with financial aid in 12 minutes and my first class in a little more than three and a half hours.

Erin called me. Her professor didn't even show up for the first class.

To tell you the truth, I'm nervous. I'm scared I won't be able to get any more financial aid, and I'll have to work all semester again. Anything but that. For the love of god, not that.

Come on, SFS, find me more money so I can go to school.

I should head upstairs soon.

No more writing when I'm drunk.

2006-09-01T14:00:00.000-05:00

Ok . . . I apologize for that previous post.

I promise I will NEVER blog when I am drunk again.

Seriously.

Drunk Blogging!

2006-09-01T02:38:00.000-05:00

Wheee . . . I'm so fucking durnk . . . from this point forward, I will not backspace, nomatter how bad the mistakes.

I decided gettinddrunk tonight was a good idea. So now, so i don't waiste this drunkenness . . . I shall blog. In facet, I'm totally writing with my eyes' shut now. I have no I dea what Is being writtten. I could probably make a cohereating post, but I chose nott to. The room . . . it spinns . . . my ears ar rignign too. Caleb went to sleep before i idid . . .t hat worries me. And I don't really know how badly this looks. I can't talk when I'm drunk and I dooooo . . . retarded THINGS!!!! argh . . . I'll read this in the bmorning and be like "WHAT THE FICL. KATIE?!?!?!?!? . / // oh well..

I look like Audrey Tautou!

2006-08-30T11:48:00.000-05:00

I hate it when OkCupid tests are creepy right

2006-08-27T05:10:00.000-05:00

the Questioner

Thanks for taking the test !

you chose CY - your Enneagram type is SIX.

"I am affectionate and skeptical"

Questioners are responsible, trustworthy, and value loyalty to family,
friends, groups, and causes. Their personalities range broadly from reserved
and timid to outspoken and confrontative.

How to Get Along with Me

Be direct and clear.

Listen to me carefully.

Don't judge me for my anxiety.

Work things through with me.

Reassure me that everything is OK between us.

Laugh and make jokes with me.

Gently push me toward new experiences.

Try not to overreact to my overreacting.

What I Like About Being a Six

being committed and faithful to family and friends

being responsible and hardworking

being compassionate toward others

having intellect and wit

being a nonconformist

confronting danger bravely

being direct and assertive

What's Hard About Being a Six

the constant push and pull involved in trying to make up my mind

procrastinating because of fear of failure; having little confidence
in myself

fearing being abandoned or taken advantage of

exhausting myself by worrying and scanning for danger

wishing I had a rule book at work so I could do everything right

being too critical of myself when I haven't lived up to my expectations

Sixes as Children Often

are friendly, likable, and dependable, and/or sarcastic, bossy, and
stubborn

are anxious and hypervigilant; anticipate danger

form a team of "us against them" with a best friend or parent

look to groups or authorities to protect them and/or question authority
and rebel

are neglected or abused, come from unpredictable or alcoholic families,
and/or take on the fearfulness of an overly anxious parent

Sixes as Parents

are often loving, nurturing, and have a strong sense of duty

are sometimes reluctant to give their children independence

worry more than most that their children will get hurt

sometimes have trouble saying no and setting boundaries

Renee Baron & Elizabeth Wagele

The Enneagram Made Easy

Discover the 9 Types of People

Harper
SanFrancisco, 1994, 161 pages

You liked the test? so please don't forget to RATE it...

but remember! it had only two questions!!! ;-)

you wanna know MORE?

so check out, what Wikipedia says about your type...

...even more you'll find in Google

or do you prefer to

You are not completely happy with the result?!

You chose CY

Would you rather have chosen:

AY (EIGHT)

BY (FOUR)

CX (TWO)

CZ (ONE)

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 0% on ABC
You scored higher than 45% on XYZ

Link: The Quick & Painless ENNEAGRAM Test written by felk on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

The familiar taste of Drum rolling tobacco

2006-08-21T02:54:00.000-05:00

Like thai iced tea and bad decisions.

Caleb's home. I missed him. I don't know why, either . . . he's an asshole. I'm glad he's back anyway.

He walked in at around 11, just as a rerun of Alias was ending. Everyone else in the apartment was in bed. I was sitting on the sofa, typing away on the PowerBook, wearing my new supercute brown jacket and "Edith" top, and eating a frozen chocolate covered banana. Last week, I had a vision that this was exactly how the scene would be set when he came back. I was amazed that I was right . . .

I heard keys jingling at the door, and sat straight up. Everyone else was here, so the only person left to jingle keys at the door would be Caleb. When he walked in carrying a new computer tower, I smiled. He brought three or four loads of his crap into the entryway and sat down to show me his first guitar which he'd schlepped from Michigan.

"I love this guitar" he said, plucking out a riff that I'd heard a million times before and I'm still not tired of, "it sounds almost like an electric . . . it's so beefy." To me, it just sounded like any other guitar and the riff kept on going as if without any knowledge of my indifference.

He left shortly afterward to go to Town Hall. Coming back a little after 2, he walked in, threw a cigarette at me and asked for $2 to take the train in the morning. Then he sauntered off to his room to read and sleep.

I climbed out the window to the balcony, sat on the porch swing and lit the hand-rolled cigarette. The first drag brought me a sense of calm . . . and not because of the nicotine. My most convenient friend is home . . . I'll sleep better tonight than I have in two weeks.

I no longer trust myself at Jewel.

2006-08-18T13:39:00.000-05:00

So . . . today I went grocery shopping before work, figuring I'd pick up some things to finish making my lunch with. I was doing fairly well, I got a bottle of Bolthouse farms juice to drink, and a few peaches to eat. I picked up some organic spinach to make a sandwich with and some nuts to snack on later because they were still on sale. They were the nuts that are just almonds, cashews, and pecans . . . you know . . . the ones that usually cost $8 a can . . . but they were on sale for $4, so I couldn't pass that up.

Anyhow . . . I thought I was doing very well, sticking to my organic/good for you routine. But then, there they were. That familiar, pudgy white face on a cardboard and aluminum can of five "homestyle" "buttermilk" biscuits. I remember the thought that went through my head . . . Oh, these are only $1.74. Sweet! I can totally afford that for some biscuits.

I wasn't thinking about what was in them. Or even their nutrition content. I was thinking about the fact that I was gonna eat 5 biscuits for $1.74. I'd gotten them home and put them in the oven before I realized what the fuck I was doing. I looked at the label and wanted to slap myself.

Not only was there bleached flour in them . . . but there was corn syrup. CORN SYRUP! And saturated fat . . . and 190 calories per biscuit . . . it was a food disaster!

I'm still going to eat them. No sense in wasting food. And they taste good . . .

BUT NO MORE!

From henceforth, if I want biscuits, I'm going to make biscuits the old fashioned way. They way they were meant to be made . . . with buttermilk and shortening . . . mmmm . . . shortening.

Waking Up to the Sound of Fighter Jets

2006-08-17T12:19:00.000-05:00

It was about noon, I suppose. I felt someone crawling into my bed next to me. I looked over and saw Bowie Dog. He curled up behind my knees and I went back to sleep. A few moments later, I heard a low rumble in the sky. The low rumble got very loud very quickly. It was a foreign sound . . . something I used to hear occasionally back in Minnesota, but nothing I've heard since I'd moved to the city.

Fighter jets? I thought, Why the fuck are there fighter jets in Chicago? I thought about it for a minute . . . Maybe the Air Force got lost. Then I went back to sleep.

About five minutes later, I heard the same troubling sound.

WHAT THE FUCK??? Did someone bring down the Sears Tower or something? But then I realized that my mom hadn't called me. If something had happened like that in Chicago, she'd run to a phone and call me. In tearful anticipation she'd wait for me to answer. And if I didn't, she'd call back six times. If I didn't answer then, she'd call all the friends whose phone numbers I'd given her.

A few moments later, another jet, approaching mach 1 by the sound of it, flew overhead. I covered the dog's poor sensitive ears as it broke the sound barrier.

I went out into the living room and grabbed my computer from the coffee table. Google news said nothing about terrorists this morning. Nor did Fark. So I looked up the Chicago Air Show . . .

CHICAGO AIR AND WATER SHOW!
August 17th, 2006

Teh sigh . . .

Ok, Hair's Dark Again . . . or . . . Why My Bathroom Smells Like a Meth Lab

2006-08-15T20:46:00.000-05:00

Alright . . . after not dying my hair for a year, I've dyed it dark brown once more.

I figure I'll dye it dark this one last time and then go back to red. Ooooh . . . maybe superdark red.

A good way to describe the texture of my hair right now is crispy. Even wet, it still feels crispy. That's not good. I'm sorry hair! Will you forgive me? I'll be nice to you and condition you every day. I promise. I won't shampoo you for a week if it'll make you feel better. That's a lie . . . yes I will . . . that's gross.

Perhaps I shall post a photo of my newly darkened hair once it dries out.

Unless, of course, I'm lazy like usual.

Lessthanthree,
Kt

Did I quit smoking?

2006-08-10T13:52:00.000-05:00

So I didn't smoke on Tuesday . . .

And I didn't smoke yesterday . . .

If I don't smoke today, all the nicotine will be out of my system. I don't really want a cigarette. I don't really have any plans for purchasing cigarettes. I may have quit smoking without my own permission.

Yes, yes, yes . . . smoking is bad and I shouldn't do it . . . I know this. But I like the act of smoking a cigarette. Not to mention I'm an addict.

On Tuesday night, I was searching all over the house for rolling papers. Caleb has tons and tons of rolling tobacco strewn throughout the house . . . but no friggin rolling papers. It was like 2:00AM and all I wanted was a cigarette, and I wasn't about to leave the apartment to go buy some. And I can roll a cigarette if I have to, but I suck at it. However at that point, I would have smoked the ugliest cigarette in the world, I was craving nicotine so bad.

After a while, I gave up and went to bed.

Since then, I haven't really been craving my sweet sweet cancer sticks. Not even now, as I write about them.

Maybe I'll quit smoking for a while . . . see how long I can hold off.

A day in bed . . .

2006-08-09T01:18:00.000-05:00

The only productive thing I did today was sleep.

I slept, read a lot of the internet, and ate food.

Real good, right kids?

This is what happens when girls are all hormonal. They lie in bed and fantasize about a life they don't have while eating Nilla Wafers and half a white chocolate bunny leftover from Easter . . . surprisingly, a good combination.

And the most pathetic thing I've ever written.

I woke up at 6:15 to the sound of Caleb's alarm clock. He had a train to catch at 7:50 AM. The boy can never wake up to his alarm clock. Vaguely remembering our fight from last night, I thought of not going in to wake him up. I thought of letting him sleep through it . . . but I couldn't.

It was after 2AM when he got home from open mic at Town Hall. He was drunk. Drunker than he'd like to admit. "Katie! Come and have a cigarette with me!"

I was rolling around my bed, giggling because a cute boy was internet flirting with me. "In a minute! He's about to go to bed!"

Caleb was leaning against my door frame, "Man I have to be up in like . . . four hours," he said, "You know it's all an illusion, that boy doesn't really want you."

"I know . . . this is bad . . . I'm falling in love over the internet . . . again."

"Yeah, that's real bad."

"Do you want me to wake you up in the morning?"

"If you did, I wouldn't mind."

He walked away, toward the balcony as I broke out in another fit of giggles when the boy on the internet wished me goodnight.

"COME ON, WOMAN, GET OUT HERE!" he paused and changed his demeanor, "hey, can I steal a clove?"

I climbed out the window to the balcony. Caleb smoking one of my Djarum Blacks, began telling me about his evening, flirting with a 20 year old girl named Genevive. However, by the end of the cigarette, somehow we'd gotten on to the topic of religion.

This was a mistake.

It began simply by him attacking theories of Evolution and expecting me to defend them.

"Caleb, I really don't want to have this conversation right now."

But he rolled me another cigarette, and didn't give me a choice.

By the end of our hour long argument, He was screaming at me for being pro choice, calling me a murderer. He was drunk, I know this . . . I know he didn't mean half of what he said. He crawled in the window, in a fit of anger.

"Do you still want me to wake you up?" I called after him.

"No, you might try to kill me because I'm not an established life." he said, slamming the door behind him.

"Oh Caleb," I said to myself, "you are so drunk."

It was 6:25AM when I dragged myself out from under my blanket to walk to Caleb's door. His alarm was making a terrible racket, but he was sleeping right through it. I knocked on his door, sharply and saw him jump up.

I walked back to my room before he would know it was me.

He left for Michigan without saying much this morning. And without letting me know when he'd be back.

WOO HOO!!!!

2006-08-07T11:40:00.000-05:00

I totally got a mention on Tom Brazelton's blog under comic 589! Hee hee hee . . . I was the friend who was stuck at work. YAY!

"I mean, I had someone come up to me with their cell phone so I could say "Hi" to their friend who was stuck at work. I'm more than happy to do it and it was a really fun conversation, but who the hell am I? I'm just some guy that does a web comic! Who wants to talk to me on their break?"

Read the comic for today and the blog entry here.

I talked to Tom Brazelton . . .

2006-08-07T01:50:00.000-05:00

I talked to Tom Brazelton! I had a nice little telephone chat with him before I had to go to work.

:-D

Edwards was at Wizard World Chicago this weekend. I was just about to go to work on Saturday, when I get a text message "I'm talking to to guy who writes Theater Hopper"

So I text him back, "OMG! That's one of my favorite web comics!"

A few seconds later, I called him . . . and Edward's said "hey, you wanna talk to him?"

So a bit dazed, I said, "ok, uh . . . sure"

And then I had a nice little chat with Mr. Brazelton. And it made me smile all day while I was at work!

YAYXORZ!

I love it, I'm all starstruck by someone who's internet famous. Tee hee.

Yep . . . I need a boyfriend.

2006-08-05T00:50:00.000-05:00

I need to get myself into a relationship before I let girlish daydreams and proximal love get the best of me. I need to find myself someone who is a) attractive to my somewhat picky tastes . . . and 2) not going to annoy the shit out of me.

Also, finding someone who is intelligent enough to carry on a conversation with and who isn't an asshole would be nice. And I don't really want to find someone who is as fucking liberal as I am . . . seriously, now. What would we talk about? The weather? How much we both hate the president? How fucking boring . . .

My biggest problem is finding someone who I am attracted to and who is attracted to me. What can I say? I like 'em skinny. I like my boys tall and lanky. I just need to find one that likes fat girls . . . which is fucking difficult!

Okay, I'm not that fat anymore . . . but still, I'm no supermodel. I did however get to say "fuck you, obesity!" recently . . . it was nice.

A couple weeks ago, I was at work, being a Beyondonaut, when I saw this couple doing their bridal registry. It was this short, chubby, girl with a very average face and a tall, lanky very attractive looking guy. They were in their early to mid 20s and very much in love. I kept looking at that girl, thinking "You're so lucky. You're so lucky. I hope you know how lucky you are." I'm not sure if I was happy for her or if I was jealous of her. I hope she treats him well. I hope he treats her well. I really hope they treasure what they have.

I want to be in love.

Really, truly, I want to be married. I don't want to get married, I want to be married. I want to have that stable, comfortable relationship already established in my life. I don't want kids, or a house in the suburbs, or an SUV . . . I just want to be able to share a one-bedroom and my bed with someone . . . and have someone to come home to, someone to cook dinner for, someone to throw swanky parties with.

That, and I want to cuddle. My need for physical contact is starting to get the best of me . . . and, apparently, that's why I got a black eye on Sunday night. Long story . . . don't ask.

Thus, my need for affection has driven me back to that old, slutty standby . . . OkCupid. Oy vey . . . what am I doing? Everyone on OkC is such a slut! Even me! I'm a makeout slut/cuddle whore . . . but jesus christ, MySpace isn't good for finding a date so what am I supposed to do? Actually go out in public and meet people? Who does that!?

Grar . . .

I hate being lonely. I hate being alone.

I hate not having someone to make out with.

I haven't gotten any decent makeouts since Mother's day!

Ok, that's a lie . . . Matthew and I made out in the rain a little bit on Pride Day . . . which is slightly ironic. If only Matthew were interested in me, my life would be fine. He's tall, skinny, attractive, and a killer guitarist . . . only problem is, he's ugly when he eats. But I can get over that. Oh, and he's over at our apartment on Caleb's account all the time. I'd totally date him! WHY CAN'T MY LIFE BE EASY!!?!?!?

Now I'm just rambling . . . and bitching. Rambliching?

Point is, I need myself a sexxy boy toy to cuddle and makeout with. Perhaps to get drunk with and smoke cigarettes while drinking coffee with.

Urban Anthropology 101: The Trixsters

2006-07-12T23:18:00.000-05:00

So the Caleb, Matthew Daniel, and I were smoking some free cigarettes on the veranda this evening when pouring out of our building came the people who live above us.

I looked at the girls for a moment . . . they had distinct Trixie qualities but they weren't quite trixies. They also had some hipster characteristics . . . but they surely weren't hipsters. Looking at the guys, I noted their distinct hipster and chad qualities.

"Holy shit," I said after a moment, "they're Trixsters."

Trixsters are a cross between Hipsters and Trixies/Chads. (We would have called the males "Chipsters" . . . but gross.) It may be what happens to Hipsters when they get sick of trying to be bohemian cool. Or maybe it's what happens to Trixies when they get sick of acting retarded all the time. Or maybe, somewhere, some trixies and some hipsters ended up at a party together and shared some ideas, traded some phone numbers, and had some cheap dirty sex.

Who knows?

With the discovery of this new social group, research must be done. But look out . . . Trixsters are multiplying.

For clarification purposes:
• "Trixster" is a genderless term. A Trixster can be either male or female.
• Trixsters are a definite cross between Trixies/Chads and Hipsters.

Visual Orgasm

2006-06-17T11:44:00.000-05:00

So . . . a while ago, I bought myself a movie as a treat for when I moved. Last night I dug it out . . .

Everything is Illuminated.

It was about 2 AM when Caleb and I put it in the DVD player. It was a "last movie before we go to bed" sort of thing. We'd been sitting in the temperature controlled living room watching movies all day. Either that or stepping out on "the veranda" to smoke. Which was a very decent way to spend my day off, in my opinion.

I purchased the movie "Everything is Illuminated" after seeing one preview for it. The trailer for the film was enough to make me cry . . . because it was so beautiful.

Sitting on the sofa, I found myself enraptured by the first few scenes of the film. There was so much beauty. So much visual richness. The story was so real . . . the characters had growth and change and it was just a gorgeous spectacle.

After it was over Caleb and I had to smoke . . . and we sat out on the Veranda for another two hours just . . . decompressing . . . after the movie. It was so heavy . . . and so dense . . . and so real . . . and so so so so so beautiful.

Everything is Illuminated is two hours of visual orgasm combined with a beautiful story and capped off with characters that are just so real and so human.

Best Idea I've had in a Long Time . . .

2006-06-15T20:27:00.000-05:00

Two words: Giardiniera Omlette

Three more words: With Munster Cheese

One word: Awesome.

Man . . . this here's a damn good egg dish.

I love living here

2006-06-03T23:29:00.000-05:00

My new apartment is the best thing ever.

I live in a great neighborhood, I can walk to all my favorite cool places. There are hardwood floors, high ceilings, and lots of space. But my favorite part about the new apartment is my roommate.

His name is Caleb . . . he's in a band/is the sound engineer for said band. And I am absolutely blown away by his music. It's actually . . . good.

I went out shopping today . . . towing this whiney emo John kid along with me. John's another story. But anyway, before I left, the singer, Miles came over to work on some stuff. When we got back, a good 6 or 7 hours later, they were still hard at work. John and I retreated to my room, as not to disturb the recording. From the other side of the door, I could hear Miles singing . . . just an amazing song.

Later, after Miles and John left, Caleb poked his head into my room and handed me a CD full of MP3s of tracks recorded at the apartment. I'm sitting here listening to them and being thoroughly impressed.

Damn it . . . they're just . . . awesome.

Free association in order to de-stress

2006-05-31T22:02:00.000-05:00

Moving
Packing
Found roommates
too much stuff
Old clothes
Mice
Mattresses = heavy
Box-springs = heavier
Whitesnake and I are gonna do this all
I'm still not done packing
I need to sleep
I left work early
I think I scared the hell out of them.
So much stress
When will it be over?
I miss my mom
She won't come see me.
I'm afraid no one cares
I need a boyfriend
I need to be able to fall in love again
I'm sore
I'm sick
I'm tired
I wanna go home
I'm so sick and tired of the taste of tears, the sting of pain, the smell of fear, the sounds of crying
I'm moving in with musicians . . . WTF???
At least Caleb's friends are cute
At least Caleb's cute
I'm starting to feel ok
Lucky number 9 . . . hooray
Some people deserve to be stabbed in the face
Some people don't deserve what happens to them
I just want to fix the world
At least it's not hot tonight
Heh . . . yeah . . . the people at work must think I'm insane
Maybe I am.
But I can only take so much, you know
I'm human, and I'm young
I wish I could buy back the woman you stole
I don't know how to disassemble my bed frame
I don't know how to assemble it either, so that's probably for the best.
I wish my parents were here to help me
It's really annoying that they didn't come out here
I don't know how to do this.
How'd I ever get out of the dorms without exploding?
Wrigleyville! YAY!
Soon, I shall hate Cubs fans just as much as I hate Sox fans.
I don't feel up to writing prose tonight.
Making sense is beyond me.
You have no idea how much espresso I've had.
No idea.
Woo . . . caffeine!
Wood Dabers!
I've got pine cones, I've got peanut butter, I've got everything we need
David Duchovny, why won't you love me?
Bah.
I need to pack.

Never thought I'd see the day . . .

2006-05-13T01:06:00.000-05:00

I have been involved in the production of a rap video.

That's right kids . . . all my morals and good judgment have been thrown out the window.

Go . . . go look!

I have no soul.

One Perfect Moment

2006-05-04T19:44:00.000-05:00

I was walking home from the Aberdeen and 35th street bus stop. I was about 2/3 of the way to my apartment when I heard the ice cream truck. The music it was playing was sadly sweet, in it's rinky-dink, carnival piano style. It wasn't long before I recognized the melody it was playing.

You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take my sunshine away.

I was suddenly reminded of the very beginning of last summer. When I had nothing but hope and good intentions. When everything was new.

Then as I was walking by a tree covered with pale green blossoms, a stiff breeze blew the hair out of my face and those flowers showered down on me.

If I am allowed only one perfect moment every day, that was it.

Lyle Rockwell, Letter Carrier

2006-05-04T11:38:00.000-05:00

I received this post card in my mailbox yesterday.

I would just like to say, right now, that I am a fan of the gentleman on the left there. Not only is he doing his best to Stamp Out Hunger in the United States, but his name is "Lyle Rockwell."

What an awesome name!

That's not the name of a normal human being. That's a movie star name. Not even a modern-day movie star name. It's a serious Golden-Age-of-Hollywood name, like Rock Hudson or Humphrey Bogart.

Not only is he "Lyle Rockwell", but he's "Lyle Rockwell, Letter Carrier."

That's a comic book waiting to happen.

Lyle Rockwell, I salute you.

Ok . . . slight omg.

2006-04-29T00:52:00.000-05:00

So I had my first "date" with this kid I met on OkCupid.

His name is Myke and he's a guitarist for three different bands . . . or something like that. He's vegan . . . and his hair is in dreadlocks and he's just . . . cute.

I really like him. I mean . . . I really . . . really like him.

First we went to Karyn's Cooked . . . which is a really good vegan restaurant in River North. And then we went and watched X files for a few hours with his friend Liz. Which is so teh uber dorky . . . but I love X Files so much . . . so very very much. It was . . . somehow . . . very fitting and really quite fun.

I dunno . . . this feels different. This feels . . . easy. I still feel slightly awkward because I've only met him once. But I feel less awkward than I've felt around other people I've just met.

It felt so weird when I kissed him on the cheek as I was getting out of the car. So . . . friggin weird . . . good weird . . . but weird!!!

Akk! I don't even know what that was!

Whee! Internet fame!

2006-04-27T18:15:00.000-05:00

So I suggested a subject for a comic . . . and they posted it!

Go Look! Wheee!

I'm internet famous!

Ok . . . not really . . . but still.

Let's play.

2006-04-16T00:46:00.000-05:00

From a Friend's livejournal:

Have some fun... Apr. 14th, 2006 @ 06:02 pm
Post 2 Lies and a true secret. No one is going to try and guess which one is which. Just get creative and get something off your back.

1: I lost my virginity at 15 to a guy who was 19 at the time. I never spoke to him agian. I was so ashamed of it, I tell everyone I'm still a virgin. Maybe it's why I'm afraid of sex with men.

2: I buy underwear that reminds me of the men I love. Not their underwear . . . but something about them. You'd be surprised at how much personality my panties have.

3: The first woman I made love to had an obsession with Bettie Page. Ever since then, I've tried to be exactly like Bettie in her porn days. So much so that I've dyed my hair dark, grown it long, and purchased several interesting sets of black lace lingerie. Garter belts = uncomfortable.

The Most Important Decision

2006-04-12T23:48:00.000-05:00

In the last two days, I've made a lot of progress as far as my life goes. This is on top of progress I've already made this year to recover from 2005.

It's no secret that last year was not a good year for me. I started off 2005 by spending three weeks in Big Lake. During which time I had some major fights with my mother. Then I came back to Chicago with good intentions and hope for the new semester. Shortly after that, my roommate went berserk on me and I finally got her kicked out of my room. Then in March, my cat died. After that, I had the worst panic attack I've ever had. Those two things, in rapid succession like that, damaged me. They really affected me. It takes a long time to recover from shit like that. I ended up failing one of my classes and withdrawing from another. By the end of the semester, I'd decided not to go home for the summer, and in stead stay in Chicago with Erin. I took a job with a rather new company. I decided not to go back to school because the company basically gave me a better offer. That "better offer" cost me a lot of my sanity. I couldn't decide what I was supposed to do with my life from that point on. Was I meant for culinary school or business in stead of film? The whole thing confused me to a point where I didn't know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.

Then came December. Then came Arlen.

Despite the fact that our relationship was short . . . it was fast and it was intense. It was what I needed. Having him reminded me that there was more to life than work. Having him gave me the strength to quit my old job.

And that was January. Arlen and a new job. The day he broke up with me was three days before I started at Bed Bath & Beyond. Which turned out to be okay. I survived and I got over it. And now I have a job that I don't care about.

That sounds bad. I do care about my job. I care about my job when I'm working, but I don't take my work home with me. When I leave the store, I don't think about it again until I come in the next day. When I'm working though, I care more about that job than almost anything else. That wasn't the case with the job I had before. I thought about the old store twenty-four hours a day. I mean it. I dreamt about that job. On nights before important catering orders, I would wake up every half hour or so thinking about what could go wrong. I had anxiety attacks about it. I don't obsess about my job anymore . . . it's nice.

Then I made a movie. It made me remember. It awakened all the hopes and dreams in me that had been put to sleep. It made me want to be famous again. I wanted to be an artist again, and I knew what I was good at. I knew how I could make it happen.

Yesterday, I stopped by Columbia and filled out a re-enrollment form. Today I did my FAFSA. I'm going back to Columbia next year.

I'm going to be a filmmaker.

Which leads me to tonight. As I was walking home from the bus this evening. I made a decision . . . a decision I thought I'd made a long time ago. Only tonight I knew . . . I knew how I was going to make it happen.

I made the decision to be happy.

To do that, I have to acknowledge my wants, and I have to acknowledge the fact that they are just that, wants. I can strive for the ones I can achieve. But I have to let go of the ones that are impossible. I should probably let go of the irrational ones, while I'm at it. I should consider getting the selfish ones out of my head, too.

I don't want to suffer anymore because I want things that I can't have.

This all kind of falls in line with the Buddhist philosophy.

I really hope I can continue this recent spurt of progress. I think I'm ready to go on with my life now. I think I'm ready to go somewhere with it all.

My Relationship Theory and possible improvements.

2006-04-10T21:22:00.000-05:00

The more I think about my theory . . . the more I realize it has room for improvement.

Consider that perhaps relationships, in stead of being just one specific point can have a whole three-dimensional shape.

Depending on moods/situations, relationships can range from place to place.

Damn . . . the more I think about this theory, the more I need to find myself a decent 3-d rendering program.

I have gotten complaints about my theory. These complaints all came from one source, my friend Edwards. His main issue was that I didn't explain what the numbers meant. When I told him that you were supposed to assign these things yourself, he told me that that was bullshit. That the numbers are supposed to mean something concrete. He also complained that I should have something about how healthy a relationship is built into my theory.

Perhaps if I find a decent psychologist to work with, I could develop a multiple choice test and a solid algorithm to create these relationship grids.

But then . . . this is still very much a developing theory.

Dear Sweden,

2006-04-10T18:18:00.000-05:00

I love you.

Sincerely,
Katie

Oh sweet nicotine, take me away.

2006-04-06T22:34:00.000-05:00

I sit here tonight . . . smoking one of Erin's cigarettes and considering the modification of my theories on love and relationships.

My previous theory: Relationships as a three-dimensional grid. Consider platonic love to be the x axis, romantic love to be the y axis, and sex to be axis z. For the sake of simplicity this grid goes from -10 to 10 on all three axis. Point (0,0,0) is complete indifference. The emotional energy spent on any relationship can be measured by calculating the distance from (0,0,0) to the point on the grid which represents the relationship.

Relationships between any two people can be plotted out on this grid.

This theory started out with me thinking of relationships on a straight line from 0 to 10. It was a juvenile theory at the time before love and sex were issues.

Then that theory changed the first time I heard the phrase "Love is not the opposite of hate, it is indifference." This got me thinking that relationships should be judged in more of a 2 dimensional way, and using a parabola as opposed to a straight line, where the open end of the parabola was perpendicular to the x axis and the y axis was the line of symmetry. This graph extended from (-1,infinity) to (1,infinity). And it was impossible to reach absolute hate (-1, infinity) or absolute love (1, infinity), it being impossible to reach infinity. Feelings for a person were determined on the x axis and the energy spent on the relationship was determined by the y axis.

Then I got older . . . and friendship, love, and sex got thrown into the mix.

I was in 8th grade when I learned there was a z axis. I had my first laptop computer . . . my loyal, old, tangerine iBook with OS9. (I miss Clementine sometimes . . . ) Anyhow . . . that computer had a 3 dimensional graphing calculator included on it . . . I was messing around with it one day and discovered that there was a z axis. It made sense . . . there being x and y axis. However, by that time I'd almost forgotten about my theories on relationships . . . so the evolution of my theory would remain dormant until college.

Which is when I formulated my previous theory, of all relationships being able to be represented by a three-dimensional grid.

Tonight the modification that I have decided to make is that not only can the actual relationship be represented on this grid, but the desired relationship as well. Also, it is not the distance from (0,0,0) to the point of the actual relationship that determines the energy spent by a person on the relationship, but the distance from (0,0,0) to the point of the desired relationship that determines this.

And of course, these points can change over time.

There I go reducing love to geometry/trigonometry.

More on emotional energy:

To determine how much emotional energy is spent on a relationship, simply take the point of the desired relationship and do some basic trig to figure out how far that point is from (0,0,0). Luckily, in a universe made of points on a grid, everything can be calculated using right triangles.

"The sum of the squares of the legs of a right triangle is equal to the square of the hypotenuse," so sayeth Pythagorus.

For example let's say that a person's current desired relationship with someone else is:

Platonic: 8
Romantic: 5
Sex: 2

The point (8,5,2) represents the current status of the desired relationship. (Duh, for anyone who's following along.)

To determine the emotional energy spent on this relationship, we must first determine the legs of the right triangle. There are actually two triangles we are going to have to calculate. The first will determine the length of the legs of the second. (There's probably an easier way to do this, but I'm doing this the way I know how. Ask a math teacher.)

The first will be the triangle made by points (0,0,0), (8,0,0), and (0,5,0). We'll call this triangle IPR (indifference, platonic, romantic). The length of leg IP=8. The length of leg IR=5. All we need to find is the length of the hypotenuse, line PR. For that all you need to do is refer to our good buddy Pythagorus.

8²=64
5²=25
64+25=89
√89=9.434

The length of line PR=9.434.

Cool . . . Math is fun, kids!

Alright, now that we know the length of the hypotenuse, we can determine the second triangle, which I will call triangle ISM (Indifference, Sex, Math . . . that's right the 'M' is for math). This triangle is at points I (0,0,0), S (8,5,2), and M (8,5,0)

The length of line PR is the same as the lengths of one of the lines of the triangle, line IM. The other leg of the triangle is line SM (tee hee). The hypotenuse is line IS . . . time for more math.

9.434²=89
2²=4
89+4=93
√93=9.644

The length of line IS is 9.644.

Thus, the emotional energy spent on this relationship is 9.644.

According to this theory, the maximum amount of emotional energy one can spend on a relationship is 17.321. This is the distance from point (0,0,0) to point (10,10,10).

So, relationship (8,5,2) expends about 55.7% of the maximum.

Omg . . . I can't believe how much HTML I just learned from trying to explain all that.

May I reiterate, math is fun.

I'm still formulating theories about the difference between the actual point of the relationship and the desired point of the relationship . . . maybe something about effort.

I dunno.

But my brain is tired now.

Hope y'all enjoyed that.

Frankenfinger!!! Grar!!

2006-04-03T02:34:00.000-05:00

Well . . . I know how curious you all are . . . so here it is . . .

A high resolution photo of my finger with stitches!!! YAY!

Well . . . at least 6 is my lucky number.

Four Hours, Six Stitches, and a lot of Abandonment

2006-04-01T05:24:00.000-06:00

To everyone I tried to get in touch with last night except Brian: Fuck you.

So I've had a difficult week . . . with various anniversaries and some other issues plaguing my fragile psyche. To make this the worst week thus far . . . today at work, we were closing the store and just as we finished, I managed to slice my finger open on a toaster.

Yes . . . a toaster.

Let's not get into it.

Anyhow . . . the cut was bleeding badly enough for my manager to make me go to the emergency room. A wonderful girl from work, Monique, was kind enough to drive me there. The first thing she asked me was if there was someone I could call to be there with me while I waited.

My first thought was: Why would I do that? My second thought was: Oh god . . . that's what normal people do. My third thought was: Brian.

So I called him. He said he would have . . . but extenuating circumstances prevented him from getting to me. I completely understand and I don't hold it against him.

Next I called my roommate . . . who didn't care. Fuck you, Erin.

Then I called Edwards . . . who is my go to guy . . . when the world fails me, I go to him. Well world . . . I guess you win this round. Edwards was too busy going to a show last night to come sit with me in the emergency room . . . thanks man, thanks.

So Monique sat with me for the four hours I waited to have my finger looked at. Yeah . . . Four hours.

When all was said and done, I had six stitches in the middle finger on my right hand. It was 3am, so Monique needed to leave . . . which I completely understand. So I had to find another way home.

Because my bus doesn't run at 3 in the god damned morning . . . I walked around Belmont and Clark for half an hour with the trannies and the whores until I got on the redline. Then when I finally got to Sox 35th, I had to wait for 20 minutes before my bus came.

It took all I had not to start sobbing on the way home.

Fuck this week.

Fuck it madcore.

Anniversaries

2006-03-30T22:04:00.000-06:00

I'm trying not to focus on what today is.

I've been trying not to focus on it all day.

I'm also trying not to focus on the fact that it's going to storm tonight.

I've been trying not to focus on that all day too.

Monday was the first anniversary of the death of my cat. It's not at all fair the day he died on. Because of that, he'll have two anniversaries every year. March 27th and Easter. It's not at all fair that a creature so innocent had to die. It's not at all fair that any creature has to die. But we can't all go on living forever . . . it'd just get boring after a while.

Today is the anniversary of . . . well . . . March 30th. March 30th 2005 was the day . . . well . . . it's still hard for me to describe. The only way I can really even refer to it is March 30th. If you are unaware of what happened on that day, go ahead and read The Saga of March 30th from a year ago.

I guess it was the most serious panic attack I ever had. A bit of a mental breakdown, really.

. . . Heh . . . Brian found me crying in the fetal position . . .

It's kinda funny now that I think about it . . .

Oh christ . . . is that laughter genuine or just out of desperation? I'm not even sure.

Suddenly, I don't know.

2006-03-26T01:59:00.000-06:00

A rather intense IM conversation with my friend and director, Edwards, led me into an interesting opportunity.

The new improv group, Filthy Tickle, is ready to put up a show. Having worked with the group in the past, Edwards has entrusted me to fulfill what is basically a producer role. I agreed to run the organization side of the project, more or less.

I have a penchant for organization and I love improv comedy . . .

Only thing is . . .

I DON'T KNOW HOW TO PRODUCE!

I realized this only after agreeing that I would help out with the show.

After having a small panic attack . . . I knew what I had to do: Learn how to produce theatre/improv and FAST.

Give me a film project and I could produce that, no problem. But theater? I don't even know the first thing. I was an actor, not a producer when it came to theatre projects.

So, I went to a place where I thought I was guaranteed to find help, Borders! Whenever I've needed to learn how to do something, I've turned to books.

What I was looking for was an all inclusive guide to producing for theatre. What I found were hundreds of books on theatre acting, dozens of books on theatre direction . . . and one book on producing. ONE!

So I snapped up the last copy on the shelf and started reading.

The book is good, but I'm not so sure it's going to be as all-inclusive as it could be. What I need is some professional advice from someone who has done this sort of thing before.

I know two people who I can turn to.

I just don't know if either of them is willing to help.

Veggie Gravy Open Face

2006-03-20T23:10:00.000-06:00

I believe I just made the best sandwich . . . ever.

Ever!

EVAR!!!!

Earlier, I made some vegetable stock . . . just simple stock, 2 onions, 4 carrots, 3 stalks of celery, 2 cloves of garlic, and a teaspoon of peppercorns . . . plus salt. A lot of salt . . . probably about a tablespoon total. I'm not sure . . . but anyway.

With that stock, I made some vegetable gravy. I made a roux first, by cooking 2 tablespoons of flour in 2 teaspoons of butter and cooking that until it was light colored and delicious . . . And then I pored in some vegetable stock . . . maybe about a cup . . . to make a savory, delicious gravy. And then I added some frozen vegetables. I was at Trader Joe's earlier, and they had some kind of harvest mix that had a bunch of fun vegetables in it. I can't remember what it was called . . . something like Harvest Hullabaloo or . . . whatever. Anyway . . . half a bag of that. Lastly, I toasted a piece of soft 10 grain bread and slathered it in half the gravy . . . I dusted it with some pepper and devoured it.

Heavenly!

26c

2006-03-19T19:22:00.000-06:00

Ok, yall . . . here's the movie from the 24-hour competition I told y'all about.

26c

GO WATCH IT!

NOW!

SHARE IT WITH YOUR FRIENDS!!!

My Google PageRank . . .

2006-03-16T22:44:00.000-06:00

I am pleasantly surprised to discover that the Second City Blog has a Google PageRank of 3.

Huh.

Look!

Huh . . . that's kinda cool.

A New Sandwich

2006-03-16T21:26:00.002-06:00

White bread.
Cream Cheese.
Green olives stuffed with pimentos.

Simple.

Delicious.

Eat.

Yeah . . . let's not talk about how much food I just ate.

2006-03-12T19:50:00.000-06:00

Ok . . . so I went to Whole Foods after work to get some groceries so I wouldn't starve for a while. (Whole Foods is expensive, don't shop there.) I'd also gone for lunch because they have a "hot bar" full of nummy things to eat. (Whole Foods is expensive, stop shopping there.) I got some BIG SOUP bowls, some cans of Annie's ravioli, and some frozen stuff to bring to work for lunch. (Whole Foods = expensive.) And then I saw the hot bar again . . . and there were mashed potatoes . . . and sietan catccitore . . . and broccoli cheese casserole . . . and rosemary garlic tofu . . . and . . . and and . . . other delicousnesses. And I was hungry . . . So I ended up with like two pounds of food! And I just ate most of it . . .

I feel like a pig.

Blergh . . .

But it's so tasty.

Where have I been?

2006-03-07T23:00:00.000-06:00

God . . . Damn.

That's all I have to say.

It's 11:00 PM on a Tuesday and I am still getting over last weekend.

On Thursday afternoon, Edwards IMed me asking if I was free Friday and Saturday. There was a 24 hour film race and I was penciled in as his Assistant Director and Editor. I gleefully accepted and started packing a suit case full of clothes and equipment for the challenge.

The story of the movie is entirely too long to tell.

And it's kind of embarrassing.

So for now, let me just say, we had a riot and the movie is in it's second edit now. We're getting ready to post it online so everyone can see.

The Most Important Meal of the Day

2006-02-28T10:20:00.000-06:00

Really, there is nothing that can trump the satisfaction of homemade french toast with real butter and actual Canadian maple syrup on a chilly morning. I am convinced that french toast is the ideal breakfast food. It has protein, whole grains, you can make and eat it in less than half an hour, and you get to drizzle luscious maple syrup on top. Accompanied by nothing but green tea, it's one of the most satisfying breakfasts I've had in a while.

There's still a little of the grade B dark amber syrup sitting next to me, in the measuring cup of it that I warmed in the microwave, here on the kitchen table. I would like nothing more than to guzzle it down straight. But that's not good for me . . .

On the subject of breakfast: I hear that today is national pancake day. At least according to IHOP it is. The national chain of restaurants is offering free pancakes to anyone who is willing to make a donation to First Book, an organization that provides free books to youngsters of disadvantaged families.

I, myself, have never been to an IHOP . . . I think there were like 2 in Minnesota while I was growing up. However . . . what the company is doing for First Book is great. I like it when large companies, such as the International House of Pancakes, help a small, underfunded nonprofit. (Most nonprofits are underfunded, mind you.)

I fell as though I have to end this post a bit early . . . while I'm trying to concentrate on writing, I'm being a bit distracted by my roommate's music. She's blasting "Fuck the Pain Away" by Peaches. Which, if you've never heard the song, makes it difficult to focus on anything other than the music.

An Update to the Update to the Blogroll . . . AKA: "Why I read the blogs I do."

2006-02-25T17:10:00.000-06:00

As promised, my darlings, here are reviews of the blogs I read . . .

The Long and Winding Road AKA: My sister's blog.
This is my sister's blog. I read it because I am required to by my Contract of Sisterly Expectations. She's a fiction writing major, so her blog is very well written. Go check it out.

The Daily Background AKA: My Ex Boyfriend's Newsblog
Arlen Parsa: Film student, progressivist, activist, newsie, blogger, Katie's ex. Let my ex boyfriend give you his opinions on current events and political goings-on. He will thrill you, chill you, shock you, and mock you (if you're a conservative). His slightly radical but usually sensical approach to politics is refreshing in this day in age. Did I mention he's my ex?

Post Secret
Post Secret is the one blog I look forward to every week. It's a community art project. People send in post cards with their original artwork and a secret on them. Some of the postcards are serious, some are more light-hearted, and some are downright hilarious. The curators (for lack of a better word) have also published a book. And I recall reading about them donating a sizable amount to the National Hopeline Network, a suicide hotline. In short . . . Amazing website.

QC Livejournal
The artist/writer of my very favorite webcomic, Jeph Jacques, also sporadically publishes journal entries. The topics range from the comic and the pressures associated with writing it to thoughts and concerns about his own messy life. I love QC and I love Jeph . . . therefore . . . I read his blog.

Jephdraw.com
More from Jeph Jacques. It's an art journal where he publishes sketches/random drawings. Some of it QC related, some of it not. Just more of me loving Jeph.

Anonymous Lawyer
Anonymous Lawyer is "Stories from the trenches, by a fictional hiring partner at a large law firm in a major city." It's a blog about a high-powered lawyer being an enormous asshole, basically. And I love it. If you are a fan of satire, you'll love it, too.

WWdN: In Exile
Ok, what female nerd didn't have a crush on young Wil Wheaton/Wesley Crusher from TV's Star Trek: The Next Generation. I know I did! His usual normal blog: www.wilwheaton.net is a bit out of commission at the moment. So for the past 6 months or so, he's been posting at WWdN: In Exile. He's a very wise, humorous, and talented guy. I admire his work, Star Trek related or not.

Fredryk's Notebook
Oh dear christ. I have had such an internet crush on this guy ever since I saw him in this video on eBaum's World . For a while, I was just curious about this strange fellow. Now, I am a slight bit obsessed. I've been blogstalking him since around Thanksgiving. I remember I got SO excited when I found his blog. Tee hee . . .

GregProops.com
Greg Proops . . . Fuckin' Greg Proops. Awesome, god damn, mutha fucka. Now he is a comedian that I can really appreciate.

FOODBlog
I love this blog. This is my favorite food blog. Although the author is not a vegetarian, this can be forgiven. A) He lives in Chicago. 2) He's an amazing writer who's absolutely passionate about food.

journal | moby.com
Yes, I do still read Moby's journal. Yes, I do agree with him most of the time. Yes, I do think he's a cutie. No, I'm not about to move to New York to go stalk him.

Blogger Buzz
This is how I find out what's going on in the Blogger Universe! It's a good tip off to new celebrity bloggers. Also, they provide necessary information . . . like the definitions of terms like "simultaneous blogasm" and "blogerati."

Anderson Cooper 360
Ok . . . confession time . . . I LOVE Anderson Cooper. Ever since The Mole debuted on ABC, I've been enamored with his calm, cool charisma. When I found out he was working for CNN, I was thrilled for his success. Ever since Peter Jennings died, I've been searching for a new Journalist to admire. I do believe that Anderson Cooper is it.

SARGEWORLD
Martin Sargent, former host of "Unscrewed With Martin Sargent" on, the now defunct, Tech TV, currently spends his days in Los Angeles blogging and podcasting his life away. Although the blog is really just an extension of his podcast, "Infected by Martin Sargent," it is still just as amusing as the man himself. Another master of satire, Sargent shares his . . . unique . . . views on technology and the internet with occasional intellectual jaunts into entertainment topics and other elements that compose the complex scene of what the internet is today. With his companions, Joey the intern and "The Gator," Sargent makes a mockery of the most influential technology of the last decade . . . Thank you, Martin. Thank you.

Vegan Lunch Box
This food blog is so inspirational to a young vegetarian like myself. To see what one woman does with food while completely eliminating all animal products is amazing. Her dishes look just as delicious as they sound and I can't wait to try her recipes.

David Duchovny's Blog
Defunct.
But still.
David Duchovny, why won't you love me?

An Update to the Blogroll

2006-02-24T23:08:00.000-06:00

Quick note before I head off to bed:

I've updated all my blog links on the sidebar.

I'd originally intended to write a nice, long post reviewing each one . . . but considering I have to be awake in six hours, I'll finish this little project tomorrow.

So check out the blogs to the left and I'll see you then.

Love,
Katie

What? Since when am I allowed to write music?

2006-02-21T00:46:00.000-06:00

So I was digging through some stuff in my closet . . . and I found this notebook I've been looking for for about two months now. It was my "Comp I notebook" that graduated to "random ideas notebook" after first semester last year.

The reason I've been looking for this thing is because it contains the words to a song I've been working on since the day I picked up a guitar.

Let me start off by saying that I am NOT a musician. I fuck around with my guitar . . . that's about all.

The first day I got my guitar from the Musician's Friend catalogue, I took it up to my room and started playing chords. What I came up with was a pretty standard sounding chord progression: G Em Am D

For weeks, I just worked on that progression. Then I moved on . . . wrote some other stuff and forgot about it.

Months later . . . after not playing my guitar for a while, I picked it up, tuned it and played that first progression right away, G Em Am D.

Finally, last year, sometime in the middle of second semester, I finally wrote a melody and words to the song I've had in my head.

At the time, I'd written it thinking about two specific boys . . . but I've come to realize that it can be about any two boys. And it will be about all the boys I ever come to love.

Here are the lyrics:

Verse 1:
He is a flesh wound
That gaping hole to fill
And I'm bleeding
Because I love him still

That stab wound
Straight to the heart
Blood's been flowing
Since we were torn apart

And scar tissue
Will someday grow
When I said I loved him
He just said, "I know."

Refrain:
Stay
And listen
To the sound of your heartbeat
To the sound of my soul
And linger
At my doorway
Hover nearer
Put your hand in mine
And stay.

Verse 2:
It's no secret
I've been hurt before
But I know that
You've been hurt even more

You're like a band aid
Covering my pain
Hide it from the world
Till I'm whole again

Don't leave me now.
Don't open that wound
Only time can heal it
And it's too soon

Verse 3:
I'm afraid to say it
I'm afraid to speak
I'm afraid to let you in
To a place so deep

Don't know how you'll take it
How you'll react
When I finally tell you
But I can't hold back

I can't keep this secret
It's something I won't do
I just want you to know
That I love you

So that's my life's work as a songwriter . . . sucktacular, I know . . . I should try to write another verse for it. And the song needs a bridge. But hell . . . I'll figure it out eventually. Well . . . maybe.

Get your moldy cloaca out of my house!

2006-02-20T19:18:00.000-06:00

I really hate the word "cloaca." I think it is the most disgusting word in the English language.

It isn't just the definition of the word that makes my skin crawl. Oh no, despite this word's equally unpleasant definition, that isn't what gets to me. It's the way the word sounds . . . the way the word feels when you say it. Yes, you can feel this word fumble off of your lips and on to the unfortunate ears of whomever may be within auditory range. Go on, say it out loud . . .

. . . clow•ay•ca . . .

Eeeeeugh.

"What is a cloaca?" you may be asking yourself. I'd hate to keep my faithful readers in the dark, (all two of you). According to Merriam-Webster Online Dictionary, a cloaca is "the common chamber into which the intestinal, urinary, and generative canals discharge in birds, reptiles, amphibians, and many fishes; also : a comparable chamber of an invertebrate."

That's right, kids, it's a sparrow vag . . . among other things.

In my opinion, cloaca is the nastiest sounding word to ever leave my lips. It's worse than smegma, far worse than cunnilingus (let's face it ladies, it may be fun, but that's just a nasty sounding word), and dear sweet Jeebus do I hate hearing/saying/reading the word cloaca.

Heating my space . . .

2006-02-19T00:43:00.000-06:00

I woke up this morning curled up in a little ball, under six layers of blankets. I reached out from under my cocoon to turn on my titanium encased PowerBook. When I touched the smooth, metallic surface, I pulled my hand back with a start . . . it was like ice. I partially pushed off the blankets to get a better feel of the ambient temperature in my room. This was a mistake.

The sub zero temperatures the night before had certainly taken a toll on the air temperature inside my house. I went downstairs to check and see if the furnace was working. The thermostat read 50 degrees, even though it had been set at 70. The furnace was working fine . . . it just couldn't keep up with the drafty, poorly insulated apartment and the polar forecast.

So, sick of being cold and freezing my ass off every night because my bedroom barely gets any heat, I decided to buy a space heater. Luckily I work at a very large housewares store . . . which just happens to carry things like space heaters. So, not only did I have a decent selection and expert advice, I also had an employee discount (teh sweetness!).

On my break today, I got a Holmes oscillating ceramic heater. It rawks. For the first time all winter, my room is warm and I don't have to wear three sweatshirts to bed (I did that once.).

So that's my excitement for the day.

I am warm.

Be mine, Valentine?

2006-02-14T20:05:00.000-06:00

So here it is Valentine's day. Two weeks, three days, ten hours, and five minutes after my boyfriend broke up with me. Am I bitter? Naw. Obsessed? No. Would I take him back? Probably not.

The only reason I mention my ex boyfriend is because this was supposed to be the first Valentine's day I wasn't going to spend alone. As it is, It's 8 o'clock and I'm sitting in my kitchen in front of a bowl of freshly-made pad thai alone with my thoughts and my PowerBook.

At least I didn't spend all day alone. David called me at around 1 to let me know that he had two hours between class and rehearsal that he wouldn't mind spending with me. So I met him at the Columbia College theater building at 4. We went to Panera and then took a walk up State Street to the brand spankin' new Urban Outfitters.

Keeping up appearances.

So now I'm all alone and lonely.

Thinking of my fairly cynical post from last year's Valentine's day, I am reminded that love is merely a chemical reaction. However . . . being a hopeless romantic, I can't help but believe there's more to it than phenylethylamine and dopamine.

I still believe in love. No matter how much I have been burned by her relentless attacks on my higher brain. The idea of being in love, of being loved, is the most tempting and pleasurable thing that comes to mind. Love is an abstract concept with the power to bring those in its grasp to their knees. Metaphorically and physically. Love can make a person sick. It can also give a person the power to move mountains.

Katie, you emo fuck.

Sigh . . .

Thoughts on Sandwiches

2006-02-13T23:55:00.000-06:00

I love sandwiches. Really . . . if there were any food I would like to eat a different one of every day for the rest of my life, it would be sandwiches. Granted, they're not my very favorite food, (that title belongs to pizza) the allure of carbohydrate encased goodness is hard to pass up.

Even now, as I type this, I am in the middle of an egg salad sandwich. Traditional style, homemade, with real mayonnaise and american yellow mustard, on 10 grain bread with a leaf of romaine for color. Some will argue that my decision to put egg salad, first of all, on anything other than white bread, and second of all, with lettuce is somewhat questionable. Frankly, the less ass cancer I get the better, and I would probably put lettuce on any sandwich . . . peanut butter and jelly if people would stop giving me strange looks.

Honestly, lettuce is probably my favorite part of any sandwich. Aside from the satisfying crispness it lends to your everyday Dagwood, it shows you put fourth the effort to have something fresh and green in your brown bag lunch/lazy dinner/midnight snack.

Being a vegetarian, sometimes I find it difficult to come up with interesting combinations of fillings to layer between those delectable slabs of ground wheat love. Usually, my sandwiches end up being a couple slices of cheese toped with some pickles and a schmear of mayo for lubrication. However . . . sometimes I invent glorious concoctions that would make any sandwich-lover (vegetarian or not) quiver with delight.

My best to date: I started with a good-sized hunk of Italian ciabatta bread, split it down the middle and toasted it in the oven. Then I took about half of a big yellow onion and sautéed it with some mushrooms and garlic until it was caramelized and a beautiful mahogany color. I spread that deliciousness on the bottom half of the bread, topped it with provolone, and stuck it under the broiler to melt the cheese. When I took it out, I added thinly-sliced cucumbers and sprinkled on some red wine vinegar and seasoning salt. On the cucumbers went slices of dill pickle and a good mound of shredded lettuce. To finish off this true hero of a sandwich, I spread some mayonnaise on the remaining half of the ciabatta and gingerly set it on top of the pile of food in front of me. I knew that when I had to find a large dinner plate to put it on, that I was in for a gloriously long lunch.

Truly, there's no food more diverse than the sandwich. Anything from a couple slices of Wonder bread with a Kraft single between them to a pita pocket stuffed with falafel, lettuce, and cucumbers to a croissant sliced in half and layered with ham and swiss cheese can be called "a sandwich." However simple or complex a sandwich may be, I'll never hesitate to call it "delicious."

Something I felt the need to share.

2006-02-11T14:54:00.000-06:00

During a long, screamy conversation with my mother last night, she gave me a piece of advice which I will try to remember for the rest of my life.

"You have to figure out how to make enough money to support yourself," she said.

"I know . . . I know," I replied, sick of this predictable motherly lecture.

"And you can't do anything illegal, immoral, or fattening."

"What? Fattening?"

"That's what I said," she replied, "Nothing illegal, immoral, or fattening."

Moms give the best advice sometimes.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

2006-02-10T08:22:00.000-06:00

I went to go see Brokeback Mountain last night.

IT WAS SOOOOOOO GOOOOOOD! If Ang Lee doesn't take the Oscar for best direction, I'm boycotting Hollywood.

First of all, watching Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal make out was possibly the Hottest thing ever.

No . . . no. Allow me to rephrase that . . .

Hawtest. Thing. Evar.

Second of all, this film has Ang Lee written all over it. You wanna talk about authorship . . . Brokeback Mountain is to Ang Lee what Pulp Fiction is to Quentin Tarantino.

Ok . . . that's all the raving I have time for this morning. Go see Brokeback. Go. Now.

Are you going?

GO!

Personal Rule #163

2006-02-09T22:47:00.000-06:00

The worst habit I have is cutting people out of my life.

This is something I need to stop doing.

Whenever I haven't seen someone for a while or I haven't talked to them, I think that they don't care about me anymore. A lot of the time, I get too scared to call people, fearing that they don't want to talk to me anymore. Unintentionally, I cut a lot of people out of my life this way. I have the numbers of fifty people stored in my cell phone . . . I routinely call about 4 of them.

I'm trying my best to end this now.

First step, keeping contact with my ex boyfriend.

He may have hurt me, and he may be an indecisive twit sometimes, but he's still valuable as a friend. I mean, seriously, the kid's seen me naked.

Personal rule #163: Never make an enemy out of someone who has seen you naked.

Com•mu•ni•ca•tion

2006-02-08T21:59:00.000-06:00

After reading over that last post, I am convinced that I cannot communicate an idea through the written word.

I already know I can't communicate ideas through spoken word.

Maybe I should just stop trying.

Or maybe I should keep trying in an effort to improve my horrid communication skills.

But that would be self-improvement . . .

Y'all know I'm more of the self-destructive type.

How is it that people meet other people?

2006-02-08T21:17:00.000-06:00

The most challenging part of my social life is the aspect of meeting other people. Not only am I shy . . . but I don't really relate to other people. I never know what to say when I'm with someone I don't know very well. I mean, once I get over that awkward phase I always have with people, I'm fine . . . but that awkward phase seems to last an abnormally long period of time for me.

The only group of people that I find myself comfortable with are gay men. If I meet a gay man, I almost instantly form a bond with them. I DON'T KNOW WHY!!!!!!

For example: My roommate's friend Steven. (Not her boyfriend, her friend from back home.) I went to Kankakee with her to go see her sister's musical. But before the show, we met up with her best buddy Steven. (Or "Gay Steven!" as I'd come to know him through Erin's constant bantering.) After a few hours of shopping and chatting, Steven and I had become close enough that we were already bitching about Erin to one another. Not only that, but I trusted him enough (after about 4 hours, mind you) to tell him that I was bi. And at that point only two other people knew. (However, since then those two people have outed me to everyone else . . . bitches.)

Another example: My friend David Stookey. One day, this cuuuuuuute little theater major gets hired at my work (old work . . . the cereal place). Anyhow . . . I, not knowing that he was gay, formed a bond with him, too. I would always cuddle with him and stuff when I got bored at work.

The way I found out he was gay was a bit awkward . . . for me, at least. I'd grabbed him one morning to help me with a delivery. And since the weather was lovely, we were walking back as opposed to taking a cab. We were talking about relationships and stuff . . . and me, being the idiot I am and not thinking before I spoke, eluded to him being gay. I immediately stopped walking, grabbed his wrist, and said "oh my god, I'm sorry . . . you are gay, right?"

To which he replied, "well yeah . . . of course."

I think I said "okay, good."

Anyhow . . . point is . . . gay men . . . I befriend gay men waaaay to easily.

Don't even get me started on David's boyfriend, Kevin . . . Who, after meeting twice, I've already fallen in love with! (You know, as much as a bisexual girl can fall in love with a gay man.)

Maybe that's my problem. I feel comfortable around gay men but not around straight guys.

Don't even get me started on lesbians. I never feel cool enough to hang out with the lesbians. It's like they radiate this aura that makes me feel inadequate . . . shudder.

The last boyfriend I had was bisexual. We all know how that turned out. But while I was in that relationship, I felt completely comfortable with him. Hmm.

Maybe I just need to date bisexual guys.

BUT HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GO ABOUT MEETING THESE BISEXUAL MEN!?!

Is there some club I'm not aware of? Like a Chicago bisexuals club?

Aww man . . . that'd be sweet. Get enough bisexuals in one room, you never know what'll happen!

That was dirty.

And I'm rambling.

I should probably just stop now and go form that Chicago bisexuals club . . .

Let's face it, kids . . .

2006-02-06T23:03:00.000-06:00

This is a damn good photo.

Eeew . . . there's cheese in my keyboard . . .

2006-02-06T14:36:00.000-06:00

Things that have happened which I have not blogged about:

I got a new job! Since Tuesday the 31st, I've been working at Bed Bath and Beyond at 1800 N. Clybourn. And it's an amazing company to work for. It is working for them that I have realized how amazing they are. Nuff of that . . .

So I'm totally freaking out about my life right now. And not the good kind of freaking out, either. Details later.

I've made the decision to go back to school. Still for film, only for editing now. And I plan on taking a few producing classes as well. It was having a boy break up with me that made me decide to do it, too. I --sort of unconsciously-- rearranged my life for him . . . only to have him leave me. Now, I know that I can't do that sort of thing. I mean, hell . . . I'm pretty sure the only reason I stayed in Chicago originally was for a different boy. (Anyone who's followed the blog since last year will know who I'm talking about.) But, know what, I'm young and I make stupid mistakes sometimes, and I'm finally beginning to learn from them. This is a rather roundabout way of me saying that it's time for me to get my life together. Step one will be returning to Columbia in the fall. (If I can that is . . . you know . . . finances and all that jazz. I may end up going somewhere else, which I don't want to do. But I HAVE to go back to school. And I HAVE to do it now, while I'm still young.)

I want to make it clear that I still love (Love, LOVE!) the company I used to work for. Cereality is a great company, the people at corporate are awesome, and I miss working with them all. They gave me more opportunities than I ever imagined anyone would give a 19-year-old. I still think everyone should go there at least once in their lives . . . I mean, seriously . . . pop rocks . . . on cereal . . . omg, it's brilliant!

On that note, I would like to mention a bit of irony. At my new job, we have a bridal registry service, and the store I work at is one of the busiest for bridal registry in the region. (Cool beans, I say, cool beans.) As an employee, I need to know about all this bridal stuff, so they gave all of us at the orientation the packet they give to the registrants so we could have a look at it and know what the brides know. In this packet, there was a magazine from the Wedding Channel. In this magazine there was a blurb about my old work. Not only just my old work, but the catering program for Cereality. I saw it and could not stop laughing. My new work is advertising my old work and my old job to me. How crazy is that? Omg. Well, good for them.

Alrighty then . . . with all that out of the way. How're you kids? Good to see you've hung with me through all that. Ummm . . . the headline? Well, I was lacking anything good to say, and I saw a piece of cheese in my keyboard from lunch. I felt the need to tell y'all about that.

My house is too quiet.

2006-02-03T19:00:00.000-06:00

Well, it's Friday night . . . I got back from work about 45 minutes ago. I saw my roommate walking down the street toward the bus just as I was getting home. She was going out for the night.

So now, here I am, alone, with no plans for the evening. My house is absolutely silent. I don't like it.

My life is just sad like this, I guess. I always find myself alone on weekends with nothing to do. (Well, I hadn't for the past three weekends, but that golden era is over now.) THIS IS SO FRUSTRATING!

I suppose I could call people and see what's happening tonight. But I've always been the type to wait for people to call me. I suppose this does nothing for my social status, nor my boredom. However, it does eliminate the awkward moment when you realize that the person on the other end of the phone doesn't really want to see you. I hate that moment.

Bored boredboredbored bored.

I could clean my apartment . . . but who does that on a Friday night? Bored, lonely people, that's who! Oh. Oh wait . . .

Fuck.

This is what you call stream of consciousness . . . that quesadilla really hit the spot. I kind of wish I had some cake. I do so love cake. The yellow kind . . . with that decorator icing that's just whipped sugar lard . . . mmmm . . . sugar lard. Well, not actually lard. Lard comes from pigs and that's gross. Pigs are dirty animals. I watched Pulp Fiction last night and that movie never ceases to amaze me. Damn you, Tarantino! DAMN YOU! Hey . . . I spelled that right. Neato.

Kinda wanna call my ex . . . but he told me not to call him till tomorrow. I've kinda wanted to call him every day this week for one reason or another. This week has been really long for some reason. I can't believe he broke up with me less than a week ago, it feels like forever. I miss him.

GAH!

SO BORED!

This emo/piteous entry sucks.

Paycheck . . . or: Anorexic No More!

2006-01-31T14:37:00.000-06:00

I can safely say that my appetite has returned . . . seeing as how I have a sudden craving for all things cheesy.

I ran into my roommate on the way back from picking up my last check from Cereality. I then brought up the idea of going to our favorite little greasy fast food place, Chicago Food Courts. Where I ate a whole order of cheese fries. Yummy. Oh how I love the cheese fries. And I hadn't had them in a good three months.

Oh the satisfying greasy goodness . . .

How to lose a dress size in three days . . .

2006-01-30T21:47:00.000-06:00

I sat downstairs at my kitchen table, defeated by the fact that I couldn't even force myself to eat the tomato soup in front of me. The more I stirred it and inhaled the steamy vapors from the surface, the more it smelled like fruity acidic death. I suppose I choked down a quarter of a cup of it before I poured the rest of it down the sink.

I haven't been able to eat like a normal person for three days. (On Sunday, the only thing I was able to choke down were pop tarts.)

I don't know if it's just because I'm sick or if it's because I'm depressed or if it's a combination of the two.

I measured myself today for the first time in a few months. Since last year, I've lost 12 inches on my hips . . . which amazes me. I still can't believe that I'm smaller today than I was in middle school.

But anyway . . .

I pulled out a pair of pants --which last week were too small for me-- from my closet today. They fit. "Oh . . . good." I said, sarcastically. Not only does this mean I'm going to have to buy a new wardrobe soon, it means that I'm losing weight at an unhealthy rate. Go sickness!! Go depression!!

Oh well . . . being depressed is how I lost the first 45 pounds . . . Why not go for another?

Soooooo Sick . . .

2006-01-29T17:32:00.000-06:00

Oh my god . . . I am so sick. I could hardly breathe yesterday and this morning, I could hardly get out of bed. In actuality . . . I haven't been out of bed for more than 15 minutes. All day.

Oh god, my muscles hurt and I'm so dehydrated. It was all I could do to go downstairs and get some water. Even doing that, I nearly collapsed in the kitchen.

I don't know if I have a really awful chest cold or the flu. I think I have a fever . . . I can't tell, though. And when I stand up I get terribly dizzy. I should probably go to a doctor. But a) I don't know where one is and 2) I would have to put it on my parents' credit card . . . which is something I don't want to do . . . especially if this is just a really bad cold. Then I'd feel like a moron.

I can't believe I've slept all effing day.

I suppose this is what I get for walking around in the rain at 2:00 AM for half an hour before I found a taxi. I can't believe that my roommate's boyfriend absolutely refused to pick me up from the train station and I had to take a cab from south loop.

ARGH!!!!

Long complicated story time . . .

I have no idea how cohesive this will be considering my current health status . . . but here it goes:

Arlen broke up with me yesterday morning . . . which meant a morning full of me screaming and crying into my pillow. Fun, eh? Whitesnake was the first person I called for comfort . . . but all I got was his voicemail. So next I called my lovely friend David. He told me he was at work until 3 and that he would call me back when he got off.

In the meantime, Edwards and I text messaged and IMed back and forth . . . Edwards is lovely, as well. Edwards and I understand each other like no other two people can. I got nothing but love from him . . . which, at the time, was exactly what I needed.

Then Whitesnake called me back. He listened while I talked . . . the sweet boy that he is. Told me not to get drunk, no matter how much it hurt right now, it wasn't worth it.

Then David called me at 3:30 and asked me if I wanted to go to a show, the Cupid Players show, "Cupid Has a Heart On." Which is directed by my old Acting One teacher, Brian Posen. Posen is an amazing instructor and an even better actor, so how could I resist going out and seeing possibly the best musical comedy show in Chicago? The answer is, I couldn't.

I invited Edwards to come to the show, too. He loves Posen's work . . . plus Tim Sozko and Kevin Sciretta are in that show, both of whom Edwards has worked closely with for the past two years. How could he resist?

We met up at IO (formerly Improv Olympic) at 10:00. David, the super sweet kid that he is, bought my ticket for me. I got nothing but love at the show, I sat between Edwards and David, who were nothing but sweet to me all night. And before the show, Brian Posen came up to say hello. It was good to see him again. After all, I miss him, he was my favorite instructor last year.

Afterwards, David, his boyfriend Kevin, a girl from David's improv class . . . I think Jessica was her name, and I went to Clark's to get some food. Now, I hate Clark's. The food is terrible. The service is terrible . . . but for some reason I keep going there. I DON'T KNOW WHY!!!!! The Pick Me Up is like three blocks away and the food is way better. Anyhow . . . while we were eating I suddenly remembered that the bus that goes from the Red Line station to my house stops at 1:30 AM. David put a $20 in my hand and said, "You're taking a cab home, get off the train at Roosevelt and get one there."

So, following his instructions, I got off the train at Roosevelt and attempted to get a cab from there . . . easier said than done. I was standing out in the rain for 20 minutes . . . and there wasn't a cab to be seen. It was 1:30 AM and taxis at that time are scarce, I guess . . .

Soaking wet, sick, and stressed out from the events of the morning . . . I nearly started crying before I remembered I had a cell phone and could call people for help. My first thought was to call Arlen . . . wouldn't that have been classic . . . soaking wet ex girlfriend shows up at his door, tears in her eyes, snot running down her face, at 1:30 in the god damn morning. I quickly dismissed that option and called Whitesnake.

"This is about the saddest thing ever," I said "It's like 2 in the morning . . . I'm out here in the rain, alone . . . my boyfriend dumped me this morning . . . and I can't even get a cab by myself!"

"Okay, Katie, here's what you need to do," his voice was calming and reassuring over the phone, "go to the Hilton, there are always cabs there. It's gonna be $20 max from there to your house."

"Yeah . . . I was hoping I wouldn't have to take a cab."

"Well, you don't really have a choice. I think sleep is the best thing for you right now, so go home and go to bed."

"Alright . . . alright," I sounded defeated, I'm sure of it.

"Call me when you get there."

Fifteen minutes later, I was giving the cabbie $14 and getting out of the taxi.

I took out my contacts and crawled into bed. I called Whitesnake, and let him know I made it home.

When I woke up this morning for the first time at 10AM, I could barely move . . . and my condition hasn't improved much since.

So I'm all alone at my apartment, deathly ill, and there's no one I can call to come over and take care of me.

This sucks.

Blech.

Today's Nugget of Hope

2006-01-25T12:28:00.000-06:00

<3 Katie <3