Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Why You Should Never Say "Panties" And Why Victoria's Secret Is The Best Kept One.

There are a few things in life I like to indulge in: alcohol, shirts, shoes, smoking, driving above the speed limit, cheese, fresh artisan bread, a good latte, women's magazines, lavender soap. And then there are a few things in life I just can't deny myself, no matter how bad it gets or how much it will cost me: books, men, chocolate, the perfect dress, a chance of a lifetime, and underwear. Oh, the underwear.

Usually much to the delight of my men, underwear is basically the crack cocaine of my life. I get flat-out withdrawls if a pair has not been purchased within a month. I would probably be willing to trade my car for a Vickies' credit card with no limit and a floorboard-low APR. I am a staunch Vickie's Girl. I cannot pass a Victoria's Secret without going in and at least scoping out the 'wears. The Semi-Annual Sale is like a religious holiday to me, or Christmas, and it happens TWICE A YEAR. I am on a first-name basis with the staff of all the Vickies in the area and I get frequent tip-offs on the best deals, dates of sales, and new orders. I may or may not have personally funded one of Heidi Klum or Gisele Bundchen's infamously outrageous outfits for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show by now. I also may or may not own over 150 pairs of underwear. (The true number is a closely guarded secret like National Security or Kim Cattrall's real age.)

That is "underwear." Not, excuse me, "underpants." (I wore those when I was three.) Not "undergarments"-- those are like Spanx and the full-coverage deals. Not even "undies," "grunders," "knickers," or "drawers." "Skivvies" is acceptable. What is never, ever acceptable is the cringe-inducing "panties." Saying "panties," especially if you are a man, makes me think of you holding a pair of five-year-old's underwear. The only people who can say "panties" and get away with it is Victoria him/herself and your lady grandmother. (And probably the Queen of England. She strikes me as a "panties" person herself.)

If you want to get technical, than by all means, let me inform you. Women can wear hiphuggers, cheekies, briefs: high-rise briefs, mid-rise briefs, low-rise briefs, boyshorts, thongs, g-strings or v-strings, tangas, bikinis, string bikinis, Brazilians, and garter sets. These all come in cotton, lace, mesh, satin, silk, nylon/spandex, no-show, and every pattern or color imaginable. They can be trimmed with anything from lace, to ruffles, to rhinestones, to sequins, to ribbon. The combination choices are enough to make your head spin. Men out there, right now, I know what you are saying. You are saying "Thank you for the pictures, but What. The. Fuck? A tanga and a bikini look totally the same to me. What are you women thinking?!" Let me tell you, unlike your collection of plaid and striped boxers, out of my collection, no two pairs of underwear are exactly alike-- there is no repeating here. Why would you ever want to, given all these options?

It all seem very extravagant, to a Marie Antoinette-level. I feel as if I should be reclining somewhere on a chaise lounge popping truffles into my mouth and cackling, "Let them wear Hanes!" But let me explain to you the draw of underwear: No other garment can dress your more to fit your mood than underwear can. No one else ever has to know that under your worker-bee required uniform, you are sporting man-eating skivvies. No one needs to know that when you are depressed, you wear black underwear even if the rest of your outfit is bright and cheerful. If lace makes you feel dangerous, great. If ruffles make you feel angelic, wonderful. I personally have a lucky Sunday Football pair that has a helmet print on the ass (this is why you love me). Just knowing that it's there, hidden, has the ability to affect your entire mood. A good pair of deliciously sexy underwear puts a spring in my step, a gleam in my eye, and an agenda in my mind like nothing else can. It's the power of mood, in a tiny scrap of fabric that I probably pay way too much for(average price for a Very Sexy lace hiphugger or cheekie at Vickies: $16), but am willing to, just because I know what the idea means to me: confidence. When you cannot fake it, you dress for it, from your bottom, up. I throughly believe that the most important part of a woman's wardrobe resides in her underwear drawer. (Also, not a good idea to hide things in there, ladies. It's always found.) The good news vis-a-vis price vs. quality of a pair of Vickies undies that is, if treated right, they can last you four YEARS. Legitimately. I've owned numerous pairs since I was 16, including my pair of "lucky underwear", and you better bet your sweet ass I'm still wearing them. Now, that's CPW (Cost Per Wear) for you!

Underwear are a woman's best friend; not dogs, and not diamonds. All you single ladies, go invest in a few pairs that make you feel like you, not Adriana Lima, should be strutting down the catwalk clad in next to nothing, because you, lady, are too hot for clothing to handle. These are the secret Weapons Of Man Destruction for you to wear not only on dates, but whenever you so choose to feel like the cat's lack-of-pajamas. And for those of you lucky gals in relationships-- go buy something your S.O has never seen before; maybe, something a little different then you would normally wear. Variety is the spice of life, and of the boudoir. (I just said "boudoir." I feel as if I should be elegantly smoking a cigarette out of an ivory holder and pouting at my French lover while calling him "mon petit chou." And if there was ever any question, that term of endearment alone is proof the French are flipping crazy. Although, they give us La Perla, so I will cease and desist my complaining.)

And while we're wrapping up the topic, let me lightly touch on men's underwear options. They are significantly shorter, so this will be (haha--) brief. You have briefs (AKA: tightie-whities or tightie-whatever colors), boxers, and boxer-briefs. (If you are European, you may have speedos and trunks and bikinis.) This is what I have to say: Boxer-briefs. Amen. They are like the Wonderbra for the man world-- they lift everything up and put it where it should be, make everything nice and tight, and show everything off to its full advantage. However, there is a rule: if you've got some extra flesh around your waistband, boxers for you, my friend. No muffintop. And if you are a beanpole and look like an emaciated African child in boxer-briefs-- boxers for you, too. I don't want to be thinking "feed you!" when I should be thinking "maul you, you sexy man-beast!" And no spoofy boxers, (yes, American Eagle, I am talking to your merchandise of the hot dogs and crabs and glow-in-the-dark hot tamales.) (I am not kidding. Follow that link. If I woke up to a short's full of glowing hot tamales coming at me, I would be out of that bed and running so fast the hinges on your front door would never close the same again. It's just like colored or glow-in-the-dark condoms-- whatever is coming at me, I want to be as natural, non-threatening, and serious as possible. I am trying to have sex here, not get raped by a circus clown. Thank you.) No one ever went wrong with classic plaid or preppy striped boxers. I am particularly partial to both patterns in blue, myself.

And yes, to answer your question, I could feasibly go for over a third of year or five months without ever having to do laundry for a clean pair or go involuntarily commando. And also yes, a Victoria's Secret gift card would be the perfect gift for me if you ever felt so moved. (Oh please, oh please, oh please, oh, please!)


Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Welcome "Juxtaposition"!

Like any good coin or Gemini, I've got two sides. One side revels in all things relationship, material, and shiny. The other side wants to suffer for her art and can't justify putting her creative writing in the same space as the writing that she loves to do for fun and pleasure.

Sometimes, one voice is louder than the other.

Because of this, I've created a twin-blog, Juxtaposition, for my more scholastic writing. (Yes; eight months a year, I am in classes designed to make me a better writer. Might as well have something to show for that 40-grand a year tution money. Some of what's created for class is actually passable enough for me to have designs for it.) Some of you close to me and with similar literary leanings may know, because it may have come up in conversations on favorite words and letters and the like, but I picked "Juxtaposition" because it's one of my favorite words. Also, I thought it worked well with the idea of having equal sides frivolous and fun and serious and striving.

Please check it out. It (purposefully, for the meaning of the title,) looks like SATCG's sullen older sister. At the moment, it's rather bare-bones, with four posts I've carried over from here: The Kitchen Bitches articles, the poetry post, and the recent "Snapshots". I have another poem that I wrote this evening that will be going up soon, and that will be published exclusively to Juxtaposition. (From now on, I won't necessarily be advertising what's new on "Jux," so if you like what you're reading, you may want to follow that blog, as well.)

For those of you worried about what this means for SATCG, have no fear. I absolutely adore what's happening here. I just need to stretch both of my writing wings, equally. I'm not just the Sex and the College Girl-girl; I'm also someone who reads Edward Abbey like a religion and thinks running away and getting back to nature is a viable option, a la "Into The Wild." As any Gemini such as myself will tell you, we need to feed both creative outlets and facets for ultimate happiness.

...Now, if I could just convince myself it's ok to bring those Tahari heels...

As always, thanks for your support and continued readership! And visit "Jux"!


Monday, December 28, 2009


What you should not say to your dentist when, instead of just looking at your x-rays in the folder in his hand, he asks you if you've had your wisdom teeth removed:

"Well, unless it happened during one of those nights I got black-out drunk, no."

I have never actually been black-out drunk (thankfully); I just need to learn when not to be a wise-ass.

Like when sharp implements are in my mouth.


Saturday, December 26, 2009


The User and the Used
"I’m glassy-eyed in the mirror; that same vacant, pretty, coping stare Legs used to have.

My mind stutters on these thoughts, catching rays of sunlight and dust particles glinting in the air. My fingers cramp and release, heavy like my eyelids as I type on the black and white, trying to get the words down, depressing ‘backspace’ more and more as I realize letters are missing…
Overhead, planes fly people to their heart’s location.

My heart thumps heavily in the cage of my chest, bone and skin. The air is thick and smells like funk. I puff, puff, drag, feet resting on my windowsill, blowing the smoke out the window with the aid of a fan. My lighter sparks and catches, sparks and catches, and I wonder if this was how Legs did it, if that’s how he found his escape, like I am doing now. I buy, and de-seed and stem, and pack, and roll, and light, and inhale, and let the smoke trickle from my open lips like smoke monsters in the dark air, and I miss him, terribly, heart-wrenchingly, despondently, all at once.

It’s late, and I know I should put the laptop down, stop allowing myself free access into the confused sore that is my heart and laying it, splat, across the page, but it’s a masochistic exercise in life-lessons: you fall in love and let that person walk out of your life, and this is what happens. So you cry about it. You rationalize it. You get angry about it. You work at it. You smoke to avoid it at first, and then you smoke to embrace it. You mold it into something you can work with. You apply it. You find something that you can live with. You get happy about this, at least, and then you smoke more to continue. It’s a circle of use, misuse, and being used.

...The words tumble from fingertips that are dry and unfeeling on the keyboard, and I don’t even try to stop them. I can’t even stop my mind. Blink, there’s another memory I haven’t remembered since it happened. Flash, and I’m sweaty and I have a dry mouth and can feel everything around me in minute detail. Click, and I’m all the way gone on the sweet side effects of a love that doesn’t know better and a habit that shouldn’t have been allowed to grow. Snap, I’m back to square one."
Roused from my sleep,
I clutch pen
& grit teeth.
I cannot help when the words come
Anymore than you can help your addictions,
Already deep-seeded,
Or the singer can control her song
Or the bird his flight.
It is an impulse,
My scratch of pen on paper,
The snort of powder up your nose,
As you cut lines,

Prepare your straw, ---Close one nostril, ---And make that
---------strange ---------snuffling ---------noise

That makes me cringe,
Though my back is turned to you,
Like it always is when I see you start your ritual.
The rise and fall of notes, much sweeter than this candy.
The feeling of air under a bird’s wing, much more free.
You are not sweet,
& you are not free.
But neither am I, chasing this trail of papers,
Always hoping the next one will be better.
You and I,
We aren’t so much un-alike,
Both of us with our willingness to fall prey,
To the things that gnaw on the insides of us.
It is to say,
“Because I can,”
& to do so.
It is to say,
“Who I am,”
& not resist it.

I tell you to stop using.
You tell me to shut the light off,
& go to bed.

"I’m warmest in sunlight. Not at night when you’re lying next to me, radiating body heat and safety and comfort, but when I’m walking in the cold air and the sunlight touches my face with rays gentler than your gentlest brush of fingertips. I think I have a gold-and-cream complexion (my nice way of saying what some call “pale” in tones reminiscent of disease and social awkwardness,) because I’m a sun-baby—my hair reflects it and my skin soaks it in, becoming almost luminescent. (Again with the “pale.”) I was born in June for a reason.

Your heat doesn’t stay long, just like your body—come the next morning, we part to go our separate ways and I’m cold until the next time you nuzzle your body beside mine, nook into nook, limb over limb, some strange sort of human pick-up-stick pile of us. The sun only leaves me at night, leaving me in your care, your heat, your warmth, knowing that you can never really replace it, even though you will try, and you will like to think that you’re the true center of my personal universe. But I say everything still revolves around one sun, and you, with your thin wrists and your love for sarcasm, are far too human. You are human, and you are cold.

Winter wind still blows even though the sun is in full shine mode. I tilt my face up at it through the smudged windows of the bus and close my eyes, seeing a disco ball pattern on the insides of my eyelids that dance like the free-love generation did on LSD. I’ve forgotten my coat at home, lulled by the sunshine into thinking that it’s warmer than it actually is, and you offer me yours.

The ancient Greeks’ sun-god was named Helios. The Romans called him Apollo. I call him warmth-bringer, light-maker, shadow-chaser. You call me sun-worshipper, heat-seeker, desert-baby. I call you mine, but I lie through my teeth when I say it. You are not mine, and I am not yours, not any more than I can claim to own the sun.

In the age of solar panels, people harness sunlight and bend it to suit their needs—heat, energy, power. I am just as much to blame, yoking you to my proverbial harness to suit my basic needs—companionship, entertainment, and because it’s convenient. You, I suspect, have done the same to me. We do it because it’s easy; because it’s what people expect of us. When you need, you need. It’s human to need, too human, and I have never been good at denying myself, the byproduct of a spoiled childhood. Although I have a hard time telling people out-loud what it is we’re playing at, I find it equally hard to be utterly blasé about it and say, “I keep him around for the sex.” What I don’t have a hard time telling them is what it isn’t. It isn’t forever. It isn’t immortal. It isn’t stationary, or reliable, or even planned. Just like the sun rises from the East every morning, it is predictable and we take it for granted. Once, you called me a frigid bitch. I didn’t deny it. I, just like you, am cold. That’s why I believe more in sunlight than I do in love."

Christmas, Tough-Love Style
"What do you think? Does it look good?"

"It could do without some of the more tacky ones."

"Like which?"

"Like that one, to the left of the middle. The lumpy red and green one that looks like a wreath."

"That is a wreath. I made it for you in Advent Workshop years ago."

"Oh. What about that white Styrofoam one?"

"That one, too. It's supposed to be a snowflake."

"The clothespin reindeer."

"Basically, anything you consider tacky, I made for you and Mom as a child."

Wounding people is so easy, we stride right on afterwards without even a second thought. We all do it.

There will always be that awkward tension between parent and child in the constant search for parental approval. Tides change-- though I will never feel quite up-to-snuff for my father, my mother now looks to me for my approval. I am off-guard and awkward, and don't know when and how to give it. This softens the dynamic of my father a bit, however.

But, then again, who am I to judge?

Choosing Sides
"Wall or nightstand side?" he always asks, even though the answer always remains the same. It's just the kind of guy he is.

He's already tucked in next to the nightstand. Half of me wonders what would happen if I asked for that side. Half of me chastises the other half for trying to make trouble when everything is exactly how I want it to be in the first place. Half of me sighs. All of me crawls up the bed instead.

"Wall," I answer. "Of course. That's where I always end up, anyway." Always between cool wall and warm body. I modulate temperature like a flesh thermostat. Always on his right-hand side. Just like how he always pushes me back down in his sleep to his arm and shoulder in the place of a pillow.

Whoever needed cotton and filling when you have a hot-blooded male, anyway?

After the third night, I wised up. If Manhammoud won't let you go to the pillow-mountain, you bring the pillow to you.

Part One:
Writers: Black depressions, over-active imaginations, mental illnesses, and substance abuse. We are an under-whelmingly cheery lot.

Bathtub and beer. Bathtub and half-bottle of wine. Bathtub and a vodka concoction. It's all the same to me.

I think writers have an affinity for bathtubs because there's always the possibility of drowning oneself if the mood so strikes you. I'm sure some author must have tried holding their breath a minute too long after an unfavorable review. (Note to Self: Research this.)

I lounge in the convex shallows of the tub, one knee propped up under the facet, regulating water temperature by feel, my right kneecap bright red because I like it scalding hot. (Might as well live if you're going to be alive.) I'm reading Abbey's "The Fool's Progress" and feeling quite foolish myself, feeding this writer's malaise of mine so indulgently. Later, I will try sticking my toes in the jets, reverse whack-a-mole.

Part Two:
I turn the radio on, but leave the lights off. The moment I step into the shower and close the door behind me, my hair instantly and decidedly curls up in the trapped humidity. (Fact: I have naturally wavy hair. You will probably never see it.) The Presidents of the United States of America remind me in "Peaches" (Fact: Meant to give that CD back...) that the acoustics of the shower are the best I've ever found for singing (Fact,) but these glass walls won't hear my voice today. Soap in silence. Shampoo in solitude. Condition in consternation. (Fact: Alliteration is one of my many writer's vices. Along with verbosity and cliches.)

"Must stop playing hermit," I tell myself. "That's a direct order. Cheer the fuck up."

Circa Bankruptcy

Christmas night. The dog is napping in the backseat, taking up the entire bench, and it's nearly midnight; not Christmas any more. I'm driving and smoking at the same time, because that's one of the things I do know how to do in full multi-tasking glory. I've got the windows cracked because, silly to admit, I am scared of harming an innocent animal's lungs. Mine are already damned. So my nose is cold so his lungs can remain free from any more second-hand smoke. Silly. But the windows are still down.

It's nearly dead downtown. I'm tempted to make a silent joke about the graveyard shift, but it would be almost too easy. I don't know what called me here, but I needed to fill my eyes with it. The sight of a sheriff's cruiser lingering at a red light reminds me I still haven't replaced a front headlight that's out. I skulk past and hope Christmas spirit is enough to get me out of a ticket. I don't have the time, money, or desire to pay for either a new bulb or a ticket. I'd rather just take Plan A and flee the country. Har har.

The streetlights that rise up around me are festooned in white Christmas lights that wind around them and wreaths. The old, retro buildings, once freshly painted and proud, slouch into their foundations. Half of the storefronts are empty; "For Sale" and "For Rent" signs are the only things that occupy windows. The city of my childhood is gone. Instead, hardscrabble has taken hold.

At seven, I used to walk the four blocks down the hill from the public library to my dad's shop. At twenty, I lock my car doors as I come to a stop outside the building that used to be my father's. No lights. No gold glistening from overhead lighting in the display cases in the windows. Everything is quiet; not even the whisper of falling snow to make white-noise. I'm caught half-in and half-out of the past and the present, the crossroads of What Used To Be and The Cold, Hard Truth. Somewhere in the last twelve years, I missed this all changing. You come home, an almost-adult, and you suddenly see it all. It's alarming. It makes you wonder where it went wrong; if there was something you could do; what signs you missed and how. And if a city can change like this, unnoticed until it's over, what else can?

The dog lets out a snore. Suddenly tired, I take a last long draw and then stub my cigarette out on my side-view mirror, the plastic burned and crusted from doing it so many times in the same place before. I pull a U-ey and head for home as the clock ticks in a new day.

"And miles to go, before I sleep, and miles to go, before I sleep," I remember as I roll up the windows and rub the feeling back into my nose.

"I'm done with being looked through. When you look at me, it's almost enough to make me believe I could catch fire. Spontaneously combust in being someone."

Excuse me for just thrusting you into that, but one of my professors, a very wise man who is pretty much the reason I came to Champlain, once said that there is a time and a place for disclaimers, and in front of your writing is neither the time, nor the place. So I guessed I was wise to heed him-- his advice hasn't done me wrong yet.

The one good thing about being home and broke is that it's giving me lots of time to write. And write. And write some more. The above are some pieces of writing I've been busy resurrecting and breathing new life and words into for awhile (the first piece was an excerpt from a longer work from Creative Non-Fiction; (In)Pulse and Cold are both pieces I read recently at a gathering that went over well, and since people asked for copies, decided to put them here so I don't have to individually email. Laziness is a vice I posses.), as well as some short snippets that have come to me recently, as always, in the most awkward of places. (Mostly, the shower. In the shower, hands sudsy, not a pen or piece of dry paper in sight, is where I get all my best ideas. I have learned to play them on repeat like a broken cassette tape between my brain and my lips to remember them until I get out and run, dripping, for a flat surface and something to write with.) Muses be damned. They always come at the worst times.


Friday, December 25, 2009

Have Yourself A Furry Little Christmas.

By this time, you should have opened up presents, stockpiled your stash back under the tree, and sat back and looked over it all like the Overlord (or Overlady) of the Material. You should have stuffed your face with Christmas ham or turkey and potatoes, and special Christmas cookies so much that you've popped the top button of your jeans and vowed to start hitting the gym with a vengeance as soon as possible. Maybe you've imbibed enough eggnog to vomit. Maybe, like me, you started your morning off with champagne enough to put you down for not one, but TWO, afternoon naps. (Mmmm, bubbly...what a weakness.)

You should have called your friends and family to tell them that you love them. You should have been tickled pink by all the random "Merry Christmas" texts you got from acquaintances. (You should have responded to them, too. Nice is as nice does, after all, to run the risk of sounding like your, or my, elderly Southern ex-deb grandmother.) You should have seen a few important people in person, and remembered the ones you can't see (Nora, my best, the Cheech to my Chong, the Jeff to my Mutt, the Curly to my Larry, the Lucy to my Ethel-- this was such a weird Christmas without you this year. I love you; I miss you; I hope you're having the time of your life in New Zealand, but I can't wait to see you again!).

You should have napped. You should have stretched out on the couch and watched some TV and a movie or two. (The Notebook-- and yes, I couldn't watch the end.) You should have helped your family or friends or whoever you're doing Christmas with cook or clean or prepare for dinner and lent a general hand. You should have gone outside for a walk in a winter wonderland. You should have thrown a snowball and tried to catch a snowflake on your tongue without thinking of acid rain or our deteriorating atmosphere.

You should have celebrated Christmas by doing whatever makes most sense to you, in other words. But I know it can be hard. One reader asked me after a recent post what the single are supposed to do for Christmas. (Um, well, I can tell you from a perfectly candid side-- Christmas for me this year was nearly identical to Christmas for me last year, irregardless of status. Nothing special happens for those in relationships, save possibly the creation of an ulcer worrying if his/her family is going to like you if you're doing the whole "Christmas With The Other Family" thing.)

Christmas is filled with more promise than any other holiday (save maybe Valentine's Day). A single person can feel as if they belong in the Land of Misfit Toys. You are told, trained, and brainwashed from childhood to believe that you'll be unwrapping your heart's desire on the morning of December 25th. But, as another friend of mine recently pointed out, sometimes that's not possible. And I know it.

Sometimes, there is no big surprise. Disappointment can be hard to downplay, but, as I (continuously) get older, I start to realize that certain things no longer are so weighty. A small present haul doesn't mean much compared to a large one as long as you're content with what you have. In fact, Christmas lists start to become non-existent. Mine this year was simple-- new running shoes and plaid Burton luggage. Check, and check, and there was my Christmas, for the most part. There are other little things you learn to deal with with maturity. Don't let the little things bother you-- a lack of a call is not a lack of affection. Take a time-out. Realize people are busy with their own families and plans. Keep yourself busy and keep it from getting you down. I firmly believe that love and care does not have to be stated-- love can be implied, and it doesn't need to be over a phone line. In some cases, an international phone call is just not possible. In other cases, it just may not be the thing to do.

It's not always feasible for the people you want to be there for you to actually be there. You may have to make do without friends, or family, or significant others. "Single" comes in a lot of different styles around Christmas time. "Single" can look like someone who's closest friends haven't come back to the hometown for the holiday; "single" can look like the person who is apart from their S.O; "single" can look like the other blogger I read who decided for economical decisions to stay in New York, by herself, than overload the money and stress of going home to Texas and her parents. Take a look around. Find another "single" person. Two "singles" together aren't "single" anymore.

My biggest savior this Christmas has been my friend's dog that I'm holiday-sitting for. Dubs is a Rhodesian Ridgeback/Rottweiler/Labrador cross, roughly the size of a small pony, very warm at the foot of my bed at night, snores exactly like someone else does, and very dedicated. (Dubs would make a wonderful man.) He's become my (almost realistically sized) shadow. When I start to lose purpose, I turn to Dubs. There's always a walk to be had, a tennis ball to throw, or even just a paw to hold. (He holds hands. It is adorably wonderful.) It's hard to be down when big orange eyes are looking at you like, "Hey, get up. I need you, please. Here is my tennis ball. Make yourself useful."

More than anything, I usually need a use in life. Give me a project or an aim, and I am a happy and productive girl. When a dog has figured this out, I'm taking it to mean I wear it on my sleeve in flashing neon. So I'm thankful for this, this year. It gives me something to do other than mope and stress and think, re-think, and over-think.

What else am I thankful for? I'm thankful for my great, caring friends and wonderfully wacky family. I'm thankful for the very gracious texts I got from people it means a lot that included me in their yearly Christmas-texting rounds. (Hello, a few surprises this year! I must be doing something right to merit those.) I am thankful for the lessons I've learned in the past few months, and the happiness and contentedness I've found through them. I'm thankful for the people who have taken a chance on me. I'm thankful for the things I have learned to say. I'm thankful for the conversation, the arguments, the smiles, and the little things. And I'm thankful for you, dear reader, for your support and time.

Now excuse me. I have to go take the dog on a car-ride to go see some Christmas lights and smoke a cigarette since I can't do it in the house.

Merry Christmas, and, if worse comes to worse, go run rampant with some mistletoe.


Sunday, December 20, 2009

The Heartbreak Project

I'm taking a break from packing up my apartment (sob, sob, sob,) to share this with you, because I think it's remarkably important.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen recently.

I foresee great things happening with this project. Around the time you reach a certain age or certain number of relationships, everyone has a heartbreak story. Some people find it cathartic to share it. Some never would dream of it. Some keep it short and sweet. I'm a big fan of the six-word stories, so I'll keep my short, not so sweet, and condensed. I wrote the following for another great Facebook group started by the lovely Alli called "I Dated A Douchebag."

The Three Douchebags:
Story #1: Six months of catering. He cheated.
Alternate ending: He's married, kids now; secretly gay.

Story #2: Always, "Maybe later, baby." Never happened.

Story #3: Love. He left; disappeared. Thoroughly abandoned.

This last one is my personal heartbreak story. When I was a freshman in college, I shacked up with a senior. And then I fell in love for the first time. I can't tell you why-- he wasn't an exceptional guy in any way; in fact, I recognized this about him on a daily basis. Maybe it was just time for me. Anyway, I fell in love, and he graduated, left, moved back home, and completely washed his hands of me. There were no calls. No emails. No communication whatsoever. Witness Protection would have been proud. It was as if a friend you saw every day was suddenly not there, and you had know idea why. It was like missing my left arm. Even after he got arrested and I left a message asking if he could please let me know he was ok, I heard nothing. Nothing. This has resulted in some abandonment issues. I am terrified of being left this way again. I am terrified that any given day, the calls will stop; the communication lines, always tenuous with me in the first place, will break down; someone will have upped and moved away on me, either physically or metaphorically; that the places I once saw someone in will be empty.

After an entire summer and fall, an ocean of tears, hundreds of pages of writing, and countless hundreds of dollars spent smoking myself into an unfeeling oblivion, I woke up one morning completely free of him. Just as quickly as I fell into love, I fell out of love with him. It felt like the moon had suddenly stopped orbiting around the sun, and snapped off into deep space. In the end, I don't regret any of it: I don't regret taking that insane leap and falling in love for the first time; I don't regret what I learned about myself through the pain and the smoke and the writing; I don't regret equally ignoring him for the past year now that he's tried getting back in touch with me. From an utterly unremarkable relationship, I gained some truly remarkable knowledge. I feel; I love; I am.

And so, the (heart)beat goes on.


Saturday, December 12, 2009

Supercallifragisexy...With Cheetos On Top.

Because Fergie has not yet penned an epic war-chant for the vaguely illiterate yet titled "Un-G-L-A-M-O-U-R-O-U-S," please let me enlighten you as to what the music video for this gem would look like:

A college girl, dressed in plaid flannel, sitting in the half-empty bedroom that she is in the process of moving out of, cuddling with her husband pillow (yes, that's what they are called,) while giggling like a rabid hyena and trying to stifle the sound so she doesn't wake her roommates up while catching up on reading GoFugYourself and 2Birds1Blog, and MOWING down on a bag of Cheetos at 2-fiddy in the morning like she has not eaten all day and she can see Starvation, closely followed by Death, trotting up the path toward her. In the background, drunk 20-something men longing for their frat days shout things like "That's how we do it, BITCH," as they stumble out of the bars below the apartment.

Yeah, that's right, 2-FIDDY.

Which is totally, exactly what I am doing right now. I am eating Cheetos, and not doing any of my exam homework. No judging-- we know what choice we all would have made, too.

I swear it is not because I didn't fall off of the little green wagon. Nor am I drunk. There are just some nights when a girl needs a little orange fake cheese powder schmeared on her duvet cover.

...I have either made it in life, or I am nowhere near to ever making it. I just can't decide which. The good news is I am perfectly happy with either.

Can I get a "G"?
...An "L"?
......Possibly a "supercallifragisexy?"

...I am so ashamed I actually know that phrase.


Friday, December 11, 2009

"Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open."- John Barrymore

Do you know when I feel sexiest? When I'm happy. It's a stupidly simple formula-- when you feel good, you feel good. People tend to discount it because of the fact it is so simple, which is probably one of the worst mistakes you can make. I'm having a good day today; I got my monstrous paper for one of my classes finished last night and handed it in; it was sunny, even though it was ass-numbingly cold out; I'm looking forward to going out and catching up with a friend later; I got paid and so am out of over-draw in my bank account; I've got a lot of other things going well and making me happy right now. What can I say? I'm a lucky girl. And the best part is, is that I know it. I'm not taking anything for granted at the moment; I'm just living moment-to-moment, like a particularly felicitous hitch-hiker.

Though it's nearly impossible to whip yourself into a good mood, I've found a few things that never fail to work for me:

- One of the things that makes me feel happiest is to grab a good cup of coffee, get my new monthly issues of Cosmopolitan and Glamour, and read, sip, and relax to some good music. Indulge yourself harmlessly like this. It's my once-a-month date with myself. Spend time for yourself, by yourself. Your time is precious. You give it to other people. Now give that same gift to yourself.

- Make a playlist of songs that make you crack a smile every time you hear them. Music is one of the greatest mood-elevators of all. Just hearing a familiar song from someone else's headphones makes me grin. Today, I passed a guy blasting Beck's "Girl," which is one of my all-time favorite songs, let alone one of the ringtones in my phone I love to hear go off.
Here are a few I love:
"I'll Be Your Man"- The Black Keys
"Mama's Room"- Under The Influence Of Giants
"Girl"- Beck
"Love You Madly"- Cake
"Who Knows"- Marion Black
"Do What You Want"- OK Go

- Around this time of year, I love going for chilly strolls downtown to see the lights and decorations. Church Street is beautiful. Check out your own metropolitan area-- the lights and people-watching are superb. Make up stories about passer-bys over coffee or tea or hot chocolate for some free amusement. Bringing a friend along to see who can come up with the most creative or crazy story tops it all off.

- Spend some time with animals. (And no, your wild guy friends don't count.) Possibly the best gift I've been given this year is the chance to take my friend's dog home again for the holidays since she's away. If you don't have pets, spend some time with the ones of friends who do have them. Petting something has been proven to lower stress and blood pressure and raise your oxytocin levels, the same "love chemical" that gets released during sex. (Weird, but since it feels good both times, we're not going to discuss it.) And yes, if you can't get your hands on an animal, I'm sure a friend wouldn't mind having their hair petted, or a guy being caressed.

- If you're going to sit around and stare at your phone while waiting for it to ring, you might as well make good use of that time and pick it up and call a friend or family. (This is what "call waiting" was invented for.) No more wasted time pining when you could be keeping up with another, usually more important, relationship, missy!

- Give a sincere compliment. It makes someone else's day, and you always feel like a superstar afterward.

- Cook, or (if you're one of those people who burn water), go out for, a meal with your friends to say goodbye before you all scatter for the holidays. Hosting friends always brings out the most of your hospitable, polite, generous talents.

- And, of course, a great guy is just the icing on the cake. Find a guy who dials, not just texts. A welcome phone call can make a difference to any day or night. (Yeah, you're doing it right, so thank you. Yes, you. I know you read this; don't think I don't. I'm hip to your groove, sir. But thanks for keeping the silence at your end of the deal, anyway. You get bonus points for that.)

Speaking of giving, the economy sucks right now, if you didn't get that memo, and people's wallets are slim. (Like you keep trying to keep your waistline. But that's much harder. Unfortunately.) My roommates and I went all-out with the Christmas gifts last year, but this year, we've decided to give each other a much less expensive, yet much more touching, gift: we've all agreed to give each other the love we have in our hearts for Christmas. It sounds like a cop-out, but when a friend looks at you and says, "I love you so much; what would I ever do without you?" it honestly feels like you've just been given the best gift in the entire world. And who doesn't want love?

For those of you who are looking for ideas for the hubby for the holidays, here they are, from one of the Current's own writing men! I absolutely adored this article, and was so happy when Sean agreed to write it:

"All He Wants For Christmas
By Sean Conrad
Special from the Champlain Current.

Good evening, ladies. I’m sure that right now you’re asking yourself, “What am I going to get my boyfriend for Christmas?!” or one of the other myriad of gift-giving occasions this December. Well, there are plenty of options for different types of guys, as well as for all of your price ranges.
If you’re already stumped, you’ve probably considered gift cards. Does your guyfriend snowboard? Chances are he has a pass for his favorite slope, but does that slope offer gift cards for the ski lodge? Not needing to worry about having cash for a hot chocolate after flying down a cold mountain would put a smile on anyone’s face.

While unbelievably corny, a coupon book of favors can go a long way. And no, I don’t just mean sexual favors. One for going with him to Gilbane when he gets his car; one for sitting through an entire hockey game without asking how much longer it will be; one for a back rub; one for allowing him to burp whenever he wants for an entire day without being glared at. These are just a few examples. Barnes and Noble sells a few coupon books, but I would suggest writing some of your own— go crazy with it!

A good fallback for a college male these days would be a video game, but don’t just go out and buy him Barbie Horse Adventure; he might not appreciate it as much as you hope. I would also shy away from the ‘hot’ new games, like Modern Warfare 2, Assassin’s Creed 2, Uncharted 2, and for consistency’s sake, Left 4 Dead 2. Go back a few months into the release schedule and think about Turtles in Time Re-Shelled, Battlefield 1943, Infamous, Batman, and Borderlands; just don’t forget to make sure he doesn’t already have it!

Last, I must digress. Take him out on a date. Don’t go for anything exceptionally fancy or proper, just a nice relaxing evening at his favorite restaurant on your tab. I would advise against a ‘new’ restaurant, since there should be no worrying about whether or not the menu has something desirable. Even if you usually split checks or take turns paying, this would take all of the pressure off of him, and give him a chance to just think about how lucky he is to be eating out.

What’s that you say? This list is too short? Well the problem is, you think you don’t know what to get him, but he’s been telling you for a year! “My car’s sound system sucks!”, “I wish my hard drive was bigger”, “Your mom looked really hot in that”, “My keyboard’s keys keep falling off”, “This jacket can’t keep the cold out”, and so on and so forth. Some items you can’t get outright, and might not know exactly what to get, but a gift card to one of those places where he wants to get something really expensive would give him the chance to finally make one of those upgrades. I know you’ve been listening, so go forth and conquer. And if all else fails, get naked."

See, wasn't that good? I have such a great staff...(insert bragging here.)

As I'm a writer, I've always been a big fan of the slightly personal. Some of the best things I've ever given people were written. Write something down for someone, if you're good with words. A poem or a letter can last forever, and guaranteed, it won't just be thrown away. ISpys in the Seven Days newspaper between couples are always fun, touching while not overly sickeningly sweet, and like an inside joke or secret. Plus, they're relatively cheap.

Lastly, on a slightly more shallow, yet still practical note, when you look good, you feel good. It can be remarkably hard to look cute in the winter, the time of year to bundle and layer. If you're of the mindset that looking like a yeti's wife or an Eskimo's cousin isn't the hottest deal, I've got some tips for you from the frozen tundra that is Vermont. (For the geographically challenged, we're located in the north-east, in New England. In other words, it's cold. REAL cold.)

- I love wearing
oversize men's sweaters with skinny jeans and boots. (Generally, my tall Uggs-- they may be ugly as all hell, but they are the warmest things I have ever worn, and you can't get me out of them in the winter.) Warm, functional, and cute.

- Plaid, flannel, men's clothing, and gender-neutral clothing are all big right now. To make sure you don't spend your day feeling frumpy, lazy, or awkwardly butch or gender-confused, accessorize with girly pieces! I love big cocktail rings, bangle bracelets, and blinged-out headbands. In fact, I'm wearing all three today.

- The snowbunny look I love:
Bright sweater-dresses over black or gray leggings. You can belt them for that tiny-waisted, hourglass shape.

- Long graphic tees over leggings with a cardigan in a fun color is a great way to layer and keep warm.

- If you can afford it, cashmere is the best, most snuggly, luxurious, warm thing you can give yourself. A sweater will keep you so comfortable you'll never want to get out of it. Lord knows I've slept in mine during a few cold nights. Look for some deals on cashmere after Christmas time; that's usually the best time to buy. Buying cashmere/something else combinations is usually cheaper, but just as nice, as well.

- Get thee some
cute flannel pajamas for around the house, dorm, or apartment!
- Always remember: "Of all the things you wear, your expression is the most important."- Janet Lane. Spread the happy.

- Lastly, not a clothing item to keep you warm, but an important fashion note: girl's jeans are tight. Bulges in pockets from cell phones are so unsightly. I like to keep mine in my boot. Roll up and fold your jeans to tuck them into your boots, and keep your phone in the little pocket that your pant legs make so you don't lose it under your foot when walking. Plus, it's always surprising when it goes off and people watch you reach into your boot; it's novel.

That's it for now, loves. I hope I gave you something to chew over, whether it's a way to be happier, a good new song, or the solution to Christmas presents you've been stressing over. In the spirit of the day and upcoming holidays, and because I'll be busy with exams for awhile, I want to thank each and every one of you for reading. EACH and EVERY one of you, whether you are a long-time reader, someone who just stumbled upon this blog, or if you're having a good laugh at my expense-- you all keep me going. For those of you who comment, motivate me, compliment me, stretch me and press me to grow, challenge me, or believe in me, I thank you thousand-fold. And that's one of the best things you could ever give me.


Tuesday, December 8, 2009

I'm Not A Poet, And Most Of The Time, I Know It.

We interrupt this previous prose programming to bring you some poetry, because due to the multiple readings I've been attending for classes and other events, that's what's been coming out of me lately. It only happens about three times a year, and only for a few days, like the guest appearance of a cosmic spirit, so I'm beseeching you to indulge me, briefly, for these are only brief snippets of full, raging, triumphant, un-humble, unfinished works. Ellipses mark where content is missing, for one reason, or the other. Or none. The first two are part of set poems. For all purposes, what I consider "done." The third is a complete and utter mish-mash of sayings and thoughts and advice and songs and lots and lots and lots of random things. It has something for everyone-- childhood memories, sage wisdom, simile and metaphor, decorating advice. It is my Chaos at the moment. Everyone needs a little. I'm entering Finals Week of school. I have a lot.

"...Because night is when I get
--------Real soft,
And in the dark,
If you look at me
--------Real close
----------------Like you do
And don’t blink,
You can see the cosmos in my eyes when I’m talking to you,
Not just one or two
But the whole damn thing,
& I have no words for this feeling,
The death-knell of my trade,
But it’s like
--------Holding your palm
----------------Up to the flame of a lighter
------------------------On the coldest winter day
--------------------------------Right before you light that cigarette..."

"...I want to see when you close your eyes,
Because I know, sometimes it’s just
--------Too much
To look at,
All of it at once, spread out before your eyes,
Like a feast, and you
--------Just ate.
I want to see when your lips open,
And your tongue
--------Darts out,
To lick the same dry lips that you use,
Faithful sinner,
To worship.
I want to see you completely open in front of me,
--------A book to read,
----------------A story over skin,
------------------------A tale that won’t lie.
Give me your mind!
At these moments, when there is literally nothing between us,
But these un-naked thought-things,
I want a light, like a blinding ray of truth,
I want to see you, as you are,
Not, as you want to be,
I want to see you, in that moment when you give in,
To know what I have,
And what you are,
And what that
--------Makes me."

"...You’ve got to call me to you,
Because sometimes, like a cat, I won’t
To the meaning behind the command,
Instead, focusing on tone and context,
And not really
--------Getting it.
But still, sweetie,
You’ve got to keep tryin’,
Because what’s worth it in this life,
--------It isn’t free,
And it sure as hell
--------Ain’t easy.
Because I,
I don’t play with the things I say,
--------Like some do.
Getting me to admit
--------Is like moving a mountain.
Are you strong enough for that?
Make me
At your conviction.
Make me want to burst into song,
You have never heard
--------From this mouth.
So you know, I like to kiss to both sweet songs of
So you know, I like to stay up late, and sleep until sometime,
And I am always,
Down for some lovin’.
So you know, your room,
Are in the same exact places mine are at home,
And it knocked me into silence,
Like coming home, only to find someone else living there.
So you know, I only ever ask to come over,
Every third time I want to,
Because there's this thing called
And there's a difference between "want" and "want,"
& I am always trying to find the fine line between the three.
But I will wake up early,
Just to be there and know it
Like I knew it when I was five,
And was the child
Who was never told that she wouldn’t find
--------What she was looking for.
Responsible people never learned how to fly.
I never learned
--------How to jump.
But here I am,
Toeing the edge of this cliff,
Hello, my name is Mediocre,
And I am striving for
For you."

That's more or less it for now. I'm pretty much straight bleeding poetry at the moment like a love-junkie suicidal poet, so I'm skipping class in the morning to stay home and write. Because it's the writerly thing to do, and I really have no choice. Sometimes, when these things are outside of your hands, it's the most beautiful thing in the world. Scary, yet gorgeous.

You writers out there. Agree? What gets it flowing for you? Is it the first snowfall of the year? Fear? Love? Loathing? Inspiration from others? Sheer need and necessity? I'm curious. As always.


Saturday, December 5, 2009

Orgasms For Peace; Toe-Curlers Against War.

The best part of Champlain Current's Layout Weekend is the news-trolling that we have to do in order to find pertinent news-briefs. (As opposed to news boxer-briefs.) (Which are much more appealing.) (Bwahahahahaha.) (No, but really-- boxer-briefs are like the Wonder Bra of men. I am adamant about this fact.)

We come across some real gems. Like the mother of five in New Jersey who, after being laid off from her job, had enough crazy faith to believe that God would provide for her family and sat around for the last few years not trying to find a job or buy groceries. Because starving your children is so Christian.

But to balance that atrocity is good news: December 21st is Global Orgasm Day. Fo' realz, yo. The idea is to have an orgasm for peace. Because, I don't know about you, but after I have a toe-curler, I am not thinking of running off to go fight a war. I'm more preoccupied with taking a nap. The only thing I want to wage war with is my eyelids, and possibly my bed partner for a little more mattress space. backs up their movement with some sound, albeit wordy, reasoning: "To effect positive change in the energy field of the earth through conscious dedication of orgasmic energy to the vibration of Peace. Our minds and our biology influence Matter and Quantum Energy fields, so by concentrating our thoughts before, during, and after orgasm on peace and loving-kindness, the synergy of high orgasmic physical energy combined with the power of positive visualization could help reduce global levels of violence, hatred and fear. Orgasm is the largest possible instantaneous surge of human biological and spiritual energies. It is a biological gift! What better way to achieve your resolution for Peace?"

If you're like me and don't like to read text that sounds like it could come from a New Age science textbook unless you have to (for, say, Copy Editing homework), this is basically what it boils down to: in case you were unaware, orgasms feel good. And when you feel good, you're not putting negative energy into the world. Which means you're not making other people unhappy. Capice?

The best part of this is the statement in which Global Orgasm encourages you to "in the meantime, practice, practice, practice (safely)!" So the next time you're craving some lovin', please, I implore you, look at your S.O and say, "But babe, it's for WORLD PEACE." (Let me know how that goes. If they say "no" to that plead, I think you're dating either a heartless bitch or a Neo-Nazi. In any case, I'd wonder about their moral fortitude.)

For those of you still in the college world, December 21st falls at a pretty good time. For most of us, finals are just getting over, so you've got some steam to blow off. You also are looking at a holiday break in which, if you and your S.O are from different geographical locations and are each making the toe-dragging pilgrimage to your respective homes to the world of living with your parents for about a month again, awkwardly re-meeting with your high school friends for New Years' Eve, and sleeping solo in your childhood bed, means you're going to be apart and (hopefully) (though this is a horrible thing to say and it does really pain me so,) sex-less during this time. So the 21st is kinda like the sexual equivalent of your Last Supper. Savor it, people, savor it! Practice makes for the perfect orgasm! It's for WORLD PEACE.

For more information on what is possibly going to become one of my new favorite holidays, right after April Fools' Day and Halloween, visit


Thursday, December 3, 2009

This Is The Best Advice I Can Give You.

These are the things I've learned from my parents:
1.) A man shouldn't be your entire life. If he is, there's a problem.
2.) There is no set formula to raising a healthy, happy, (relatively) well-adjusted child. (It's up to you to decide if they did well with me. If yes, I was raised with no baby-talk and basic social etiquette before I could walk, so I could hold my own at their friends' parties, in the corners of classy restaurants being fed things like fois gras and steak tartare, hang out on the tailgate of our old Jeep at the airport while my dad flew planes and mechanics babysat me, and in big cities and they didn't have to worry about me and could go about their own things. If no, it's because I was a total mistake and they were never expecting kids and so raised me this way.)
3.) You have to believe in something, because if you don't, you'll fall for anything and cave at the first sign of pressure.
4.) Snails DO taste good, given the right amounts of garlic, butter, and white wine. (In other words, try the weird shit in life. You may find you like it.)

This is what I've figured out either with help or on my own:

The expectations of other people are just that: expectations. They are not the guidelines you have to live your life by. Because a professor tells you how to do something does not mean you should totally reject your feelings on the topic. Because your parents want to see you do well does not mean you have to go to grad school to further studying something you aren't passionate about. Because your friends are the people you're closest to does not mean you always have to agree with them. Because society has a certain view on what is "acceptable" does not mean you shouldn't speak your mind and dare to challenge its' views.

Silly rules make you really limit yourself. For example, saying things like "I will never date a guy with glasses," (enter any other shallow appearance-based topic here), or "I will never be with someone in the same profession as I am," (enter any nervous worry/pig-headed thought/stubborn opinion here), not only narrow your mind, but the universe usually has a really funny way of making the bespectacled co-PR worker/bartender/teacher/superhero the one who makes you forget not only why you ever had those silly rules, but also basic English and all rules of public decency and what an unhealthy amount of time to spend staring at someone is. In other words, the "rules" that you come up with end up having one function in the over-all scheme of things: they are made for you to break. Or, at least, you maybe should at least think of breaking them and why.

"Nice guys finish last." I'm sure you've heard that. I'm sure, at times, you've thought that. I'm sure, if you are the average red-blooded girl, you've ignored the "nice guys" while you chased after the "bad boys" because you thought they were the total end-all, be-all of the Holy Grail of awesome sex and an exciting life. Total bullshit. As someone who has picked herself up, put her broken pieces back together, and dusted herself off after being pushed off of the Dark Horse of Bad Boy Love many a time, I say this with utter sincerity. The trick is to find a nice boy with an edge. Find the sort of guy who opens doors for you and apologizes for being even just a few minutes late, but also has a few dirty habits and gets really riled up and passionate about a few things. "Nice" does not have to mean "boring." "Nice" can mean good enough to introduce to your friends and family without having to worry, even if you know that secretly, they should be, because DEAR GOD, the trouble you can get into.

For men, this is the best way I can turn tables so you understand it: It's how girls want to be sweet and girl-next-door enough to make your mother think, "what a nice girl; I really enjoy her," and not, "despite those pearls, she's the whore whose mouth is going to be around my baby boy later." Sorry if that was shocking. But that what's she's thinking. We know because if we gave birth to a son, that's what we'd be thinking, deep down.

Don't be afraid to push yourself. I shoot myself in the foot quite frequently; I'm used to it at this point. But because of my mistakes, I now know how to handle some things quite well. Those I haven't mastered yet, I'm always learning. We're all always learning. Be patient. Be kind. Help others out. Surround yourself with people who will both challenge you and believe in you. All my ex-teachers can tell you: I'm not at my best and not having fun unless I'm being challenged. Challenges are what change you.

Your friendships are the most important relationships you will have, and just like any other relationship, it takes two sides to make it work. If you're the only one ever doing the planning and the trying and the talking, maybe it isn't as strong as you thought. If it falls apart at the first sign of trouble, maybe it's better to let it go, though we are all human and all make mistakes. If not, make the time to "date" your friends just like you would any romantic interest. Make time to see them, talk to them, take them out and treat them, compliment them, and sometimes, just do absolutely nothing with them for the sake of just being together. (This may mean sacrificing your preferences for a night to do what they want, just warning you. It won't kill you, I promise. And if it would, then you need to re-think why you have friends who are into dangerous hobbies for shits and giggles.) Just stop short of getting drunk and sleeping with them, please.

And for chrissake, do as I say, and not as I do, and eat something more than two lattes, a cigarette, and a piece of gum for dinner. A healthy, well-balanced meal is important to do things, such as the running at the gym I was planning on doing before I realized that I have not ingested nearly enough calories today to burn them off with a mile or two run, let alone even type this without feeling like I'm going to pass out.

...However, the rest of the fit and sweaty people at the gym would get a good (and hopefully concerned,) laugh if I fainted and totally ate it on the treadmill and slammed back into the windows.

And while I'm on the topic, smoking is not something I condone. It's not something I abhor, either. It is a means to an end-- in my case, a way to calm my OCD and manage stress so I do not literally end up pulling my hair out-- and I smoke, friends of mine smoke, my bosses smoke, some of my family members smoke, the president smokes(-s, +d), and that thing that your mother told you when you were 16 and dating the "bad boy" 19-year-old who looked like the hot Australian biker in Grease 2 and who smoked like a chimney and when she caught you making your fledgling attempts at "being cool" said how "no one likes to kiss someone who tastes like an ashtray" is totally not true. I quite enjoy it. It's familiar and strangely reassuring. Though I suppose you have to be a smoker to actually feel that way. It would be like being an alcoholic and finding someone who tastes like vodka. Totally enabling. But not your lungs/liver that's getting the beating for you to get your fix. Rather symbiotic.

Nothing good ever happens at the best time for it. Sometimes, you need to not question what life hands you, even if you really want to, and see how fast and how far you can run with it.

And now, I've got to run. A girl's got to have fun!
( I hate the Velveeta rhymes, but I can't help myself sometimes.)
(...and again.)