mm, the magic that is mrs. beasley's. my mother is wonderful and has surprised me with this perhaps overpriced muffin (pumpkin flavored), though it's totally worth it because it is probably delicious and i wish i could taste it.

aside from ninja-reading my subscriptions and changing my layout every ten seconds, things have been alright. i am alive and well, though the latter remains to be seen. i'm sick again, which sucks, quite frankly. i do believe i am over the hump, though i've been spending the past few days in the fuh-reezing cold jacketless or hoodless or handholdingless.

last night between sets they played "the world has turned and left me here" and i caught a certain dupree mouthing some of the words, and that. that was just so endearing. currently i am trying to figure out where to place this eisley poster. those harmonies..those disarming harmonies were right on. they're all very pretty and very polite and very texan in real life, as i shook sherri's hand "nice to meet you," i could not help but think you've kissed jesse lacey... deeeetails.

in any case, i need to stop saying that. other tidbits of the goingson that have been going on of late:

-"jarhead" was disappointing. nice visually (and i don't mean that in regards to jake gyllanhaal's ass).

-the roots = good. they played an amalgam of songs that weren't theirs...for party purposes, i s'pose, including that one that goes "tat..tat...tat..tat..tat..tat. JUMP ON IT. JUMP ON IT. JUMP ON IT. JUMP ON IT."

-this one boy i've been intrigued with for the past few months. i have figured out who he reminds me of: the forbidden love child of milo ventimiglia (which delights me to no end) aaaand trent. the brother of jane. from daria. yes yes.

-been having the strangest dreams. one in particular starring a boy from elementary school, who i've been seeing around town lately and am quite sure is gay. in the dreams we are in love and he is giving me letters and we are on the swingset on the campus of delevan drive elementary. also: a friend of mine (i don't remember which) has baked a lot of blueberry muffins, and he has offered me some. now i am not one to turn down a muffin, so i take one and remember that it is most delightful.

if only my life were this interesting: i'd be in love with a gay man and also have undying affection towards muffins.

"people are getting krunk in the quad."

"huh? drunk?"
"nooo. krunk. they're getting krunk. you know," ::dances::
"ohh, krunk. i haven't heard that word in ...stop."

where did they come from? no one ever "battled" in my other two years of studentry. sure there were the fucken filipino b-boys --ffbb's-- but they never really gained an audience. just some annoyed looks from passersby trying to get through (points to self). but these kids were really into it. every two seconds they would yell "whoa!...whoa!...whoa!...whoa!.." like a mantra. it was not as annoying as it may seem, but rather entrancing. though i didn't stop to gaze i wanted to. i half-expected lil' kim to pop out from somewhere and yell "biaaatch! you got served." but then i remembered i never saw that movie and also that she's in jail. and that i should never attempt to clown walk ever again.

they've started construction on the tiffany's in old town. oh yes. taking swank to the next level. i shake my head all do doot doot do doot (but not like me and giuliani), recall the movie theatre that used to be, the things i saw there, the people i saw them with. the sun isn't doing its rounds today, but the wind is doing a swell job. chilled bones, stomped feet. i touch the tip of my nose to make sure it's still there. i cross the street, no agenda in  particular, my head all do doot doot do doot (but not like me and giuliani). okay, mind-numbing loneliness; you win this time. i take out the phone. make some goddamn plans. there are rumours and chisme abound, a thousand apologies we're not to your liking anymore.

awaiting the seven eighty, i've a song stuck in my head all do doot doot do doot (this time like me and giuliani) and a charming boy walks past me. and to myself i berate him good-naturedly for wearing that outfit. in my head i am everyone's best friend. in my head i am a keeper. in my head there are a lot of "doot's" going around.

AND having just received the best accidental voice mail everrr, i feel compelled to share. description: squeaky bedsprings. (?) heavy breathing. a girl's voice: "you know you're not even halfway there. is it supposed to be that big??"

to delete this message, press seven. to save it, press ni--
BEEP.
message saved.

too bad she was only referring to the girth of an exercise ball, and the incriminating sounds nothing more than a friend pumping air into it.

someone tell me where i can get a hold of some really good absinthe. if i'm going to be addicted to something, i'd at least like for it to be classy.

Let's with the technicalities.

Maps tell us where we can find ourselves, in thin lines shakier than Grandmother’s hands. They are blue and green and red and brighter and darker depending on how you squint your eyes. Sharp and out of focus, you wonder out loud how that can be so. Nobody taught you how to read, maps or otherwise, it just came naturally; like blinking. And you blink and you blink but they don’t get any clearer as the names of towns you have never been to start to fade away. Soon they are indiscernible letters melted onto paper. They are blurs of ink scattered across colors and pastels.

Maps are going to be the death of you some day.

You fold it once, twice, and take your seat. In your notebook you write: "We are fixed. Right where we stand." You don't remember where you heard it from, nor do you know what compelled you to take it down. Christopher sits in the empty seat in front of you. He turns and a piece of paper lands on your desk. It reads like caramel dripping off a green apple on Halloween.

“A postal man visited me the other day. He had a letter he was meaning to give me. It was from an old friend with the sort of name that belonged to a businessman in Switzerland. The letter entailed things about his life thus far. Small, inconsequential details that have nothing to do with you or me. But he was disappointed in me for not keeping in touch, because we were old friends and because perhaps I should know better.

The only reason why I’m still here is because I know there will always be someone waiting home for me. A concerned girlfriend or family member. But it is getting to the point where not even that seems worth it. It is getting to that point. I am getting to that point.

… my words are beginning to fail me. It is one thing to create something out of nothing, obviously. It is another thing to create something into nothing.”

Christopher turns around again, this time completely. His head rests on the chair. "Hi," is all you can manage to say, because the expression on his face makes your throat heavy.

"Hey. I'm sorry."

Sorry for what, I'll never know. Regardless, it wasn't really the best way to start off the weekend.

i wrote that last december. i switched it to private because i didn't want to deal with the consequences of someone finding it. it doesn't really matter anymore. the irony struck me; i never clarified that this didn't happen. i'm sorry rachel...but this? was all a dream. nothing was embellished, though. in any case, it's good to be reminded of my superb pining-over skills. 

and also that i'll never be able to write like that again.

gah. i am in love.

ps. thanks again, kim.

pps. not to be confused with gunther from the previous post--idea!--ALLISON WE SHOULD TOTALLY BREED THEM THAT WOULD BE WEIRD?