Death Is Inevitable

Something cancerous is devouring my blog.

This Neat Thing I Discovered Called The Internet

I'm talking to some guy who I don't know. David spent several conversations trying to convince me that this gentleman and I would instantly become best friends. Sadly, I don't even remember his first name. I know that he lives in Nashville and has good taste in music and is humorously depressed sometimes. I know all of this from reading his blog.
Blogs are stupid. The word itself is stupid. The premise, while good, is massively abused.
I am fairly certain that blogs would not bother me if I did not expose myself to them.
It is a proven fact that the same statement rings true for world hunger.
Once I went to Mexico on a mission trip. There were plenty of starving people there. Some of them lived in cardboard boxes. That made me pretty sad.
Luckily, then I came back and had other things to worry about. Cross-country practice, IB English, and that lanky scary boy who sat behind me in English class and wore T-shirts with dragons on them and brought me chocolates and flowers on my birthday. These were all more important than the starving people. What starving people? I already forgot about them again.
Anyways. So I've been reading this guy's blog.
Blogs allow people to become fourth or fifth rate celebrities. At least eight of my friends and I constantly check these laughably horrible blogs.

When we accidentally find something utterly brilliant, we will usually call each other and read highlights out loud. Andres did this yesterday, and it brought me great amusement.

Angelica, who I can now link to, since her blog has died in a fiery storm of self-hatred, said a while ago that all romance is dead. This may or may not be true, but it is true in Greeley. Romance there seems to consist of buying someone a magical number of meals and drinks and desperately wishing that awkward moments in conversation could simply be filled with making out on a dilapidated sofabed.

I have been fortunate enough to avoid romance in the college experience, or at least the sloppy and unpleasant side of romance that ruins people's lives.

At least failed to ruin my life. I have been the object of unrequited love seven times now that I am aware of. None of these seven gentlemen were even mildly successful in their pursuit of me. I may be incapable of the emotion of 'like'. Or perhaps I'm just misdefining it.

I save my own exciting unrequited love for people who don't actually know who I am. This is a much more effective way of being secretly in love with people; otherwise they tend to find out about your feelings and such long before you would like them to. Or I just squander my unrequited love on people like Rich or David. But that's only true if unrequited love is this general idea of 'If we were in a serious relationship, I wouldn't be horribly depressed about it. In fact, it might be fine.' Which, for now, isn't how I would define love. But give it a month or so and it might devolve to that.

But I have run out of people to unabashedly give my exciting and enticing unrequited love to. Perhaps I should just channel it to a more mainstream source, such as Mark Ruffalo.

I am usually very crabby about grammatical structure. Please forgive me.





Cheap Domain Registration

Oh, Denny's. Why Do You Exist?

I sat and drank a melted chocolate milkshake from Denny's this morning.

I didn't really want to drink it. I didn't really want to drink it last night when I ordered it either, I was just in a pitiful mood and thought that chocolate might have the healing power that I required. It did not, but it did have the same congealed-animal-fat elixir that Denny's apparently puts into all food served after ten.

As I sipped my Styrofoam-encased milkshake, I resigned myself to retaining the will to live so long as that will was not conditional upon hope of my life getting better. Yes, it is true. It is Monday, and I am an incredibly unoriginal pathetic plauged student and artisan. I probably belong at fucking Paris .

Yes, I'm aware that its quite lovely of me to publicly feel sorry for myself and my horrible upper-middle-class white Boulder existence on Martin Luther King Jr. Day.

Oh, how I wish that I could somehow manage to be piquant and alluring, or at least capable of rational and logical thought, while feeling hideous.

I sat, thinking depressing thoughts that make no difference, when I realized that I had no idea where I was.
A list of possibilities ran through my mind - my room in the Houssney household, my room from a previous semester, my old, old bed from the dorms, even an old bunk bed which my sister and I somewhat shared in New York.
As I was pondering all of these things, I tried in my sleep-weakened state to sit up, and rolled onto the floor.
I think that I fell asleep in the computer chair and then sleptwalked myself to the couch. There is no other logical explanation.
This is disappointing to me.
I'm trying to find Angelica and I a house. We were discussing the possibility of not returning from Portland at all. Its tempting. Most of the courses that I have left, I could just take online. I wonder if online classes count as 'in residency'.

Tomorrow, amidst a flurry of travel, I will journey back to Greeley.
People are leaving, people have left. Germany, England,Prague, Russia, France, Italy, even Arizona and California.
And I am going to Greeley. Oh, why couldn't I go on an exciting trip? I'm good at keeping myself busy. I'm good at finding odd jobs. I'm good at dinking around in unfamiliar places.
Sadly, I have three more semesters of college and am relatively pinned to Greeley for the moment.
Why can't I go on an adventure, I asked to myself as I sat in the Trident. The time was 8:38. I lost the will to live.
It took me a few minutes to notice that it was lost. I checked my pocket, my purse. I think that Novelist Man must have sewn it into his 'creative line', because it is most definitely departed.
I don't want to go to sleep, but I just fell asleep for several minutes in an uncomfortable computer chair. My tired body hates me.
Bed. Which is Couch.

No, Angelica.

Come back to the world of the living.

Sissy.

Oh, what is to be done this evening, my last full evening in Boulder for at least six days?
Or, more imminently, what is to be done this afternoon, my last full afternoon in Boulder for at least six days?
Apparently reading about the Peace and Freedom Party is the only pressing matter on my agenda right at the moment.

Its a shame that their web site is so ugly.

I completed 'Amsterdam' today, by Ian McEwan. Not that I could write a better novel, but I thought it was contrived and unrealistic while being unimaginative in the same stroke, a difficult feat to accomplish.

It has been a while since I read an entire book that I didn't like...two or so weeks ago I gave up on Ferlinghetti's 'She', although I picked it up last night and realized that I just don't have the mental energy to monogamously devote myself to 'She' - thus, I will never appreciate it.

I saw my most recent ex-boyfriend's truck thing stuck in a snowbank in Greeley this morning. For the eight months that we were together, we had a constant feud about the exact hue of his truck - he claimed it was red, while in reality it was maroon, and at high noon possibly even pink. This argument was good-natured mostly, although it did reach violent proportions once or twice. But it was definitely pink today. And stuck in a giant pile of snow. The snow probably bothers him more than the pink, although its a close call, I bet.

This morning, over breakfast in Greeley with my friend but more appropriately ex-roommate Kim, she attempted to discuss the Patriots - Colts game this afternoon (I had to look that up again). I stared at her blankly, before she remembered that I quite possibly know less about professional sports than anyone else in the world. After ten minutes of prodding, I was able to identify possibly twenty teams in the country, their locations, and most of the time the sport they play. I was fairly proud of myself in a strange way, but Kim was appalled. I manage to have that effect on her - hence the 'ex' thing.

In theory, there are topless pictures of her on my digital camera - apparently she borrowed it to send pictures to an ex-boyfriend who she was IMing with while she was home with an Il Bastardo one unpleasant Saturday night.

I left my camera cord in Los Angeles.

Jesus Sold Out

Even Jesus has gotten whiny and preachy in the recent months. Is nothing sacred?

I remember the good old days, when Jesus was a simple man who desired nothing more than communing with nature and the company of a few indiscriminate women who resided in the Washington DC area.

But now Jesus is telling us to steer clear of the rampant nihilism which is overpowering our country and giving us advice on love.

Shit, Jesus. I thought you were cool.
Or something.