Archive | September, 2010


28 Sep

: one of my new favourite words.

Bluh. Sick, my nose is debating whether it wants to run or not. I feel like a sack o’ dough. Not a good thing. A squishy warm thing, but a bad squishy warm thing.

I am showering and then sleeping, but first I might have to write down rolling-paper-flavours for P and J, including marzipan because fuck I fucking love marzipan, fuck. If they made marzipan flavoured babies I would eat them. If they made marzipan flavoured dogs I would eat them. That is how much I love it. It is like crack made from almond paste. Mmmm.

tell her tonight

26 Sep

Warm and comfortable and without a complaint worth expressing. I am in bliss. I am full of sheer and utter content. I would like nothing more than to curl up and fall asleep, but as I am still making little plans for tomorrow I think it’d be a bit of a bad idea to try and close my eyes at the moment.

Je te manques.

Going to be writing absolute shittons of letters in the next little while, mainly because I recieved a bunch and haven’t gotten around to replying, and also because I promised some people I would and then forgot. Woe!

I listened to SO MUCH False Priest today: I have Janelle Monae and Kevin Barnes running glorious circles around my head; Solange Knowles is dancing in the middle singing that Sex Karma song which kind of makes me think it should’ve been on Skeletal Lamping simply for its subject matter.


There is no Georgie Fruit.


and goodnight.


26 Sep


Today is Sunday. I swam basically all day yesterday. I made little eyeblob earrings for people. I made a sugar skull necklace for myself. I am thinking about making cake and/or cookies. I took pictures of my Yellow Book and started my Red Book, which is a baby Moleskine that is pretty swell. I am wishing I had Halo Reach because I would probably have a lot of fun playing it.

I also wish I knew what was going on.

(Norway by Beach House is a kickass song. I think you should listen to it. I think The Poet would like it.)

Will write later.

for the promise of light

24 Sep

yellow book progress: 98% full. I am psyched. I have a place where it will go, and I’ll post that link as soon as I’ve put some of the pages up. I want to put them all on a PDF file, but I don’t have the slightest idea how to do that so I won’t.

Writing this during Physics class, we’re taking a test that makes me want to punch someone or maybe just throw the whole course out the window. It is annoying, it is repetitive, it is fucking ridiculous.

I am wearing suspenders. I guess this redeems my day a little, seeing as this morning my friend who shall not be named comes striding into Mrs. Grace’s room loudly expressing how “pissed off” he is. And then proceeds to call me a bitch. First of all, rude, second of all, what gives you the right to walk on into a room full of relatively well-adjusted people and explode your anger out on all of them? Um, nothing does. You should be able to control you own anger, and maybe keep it inside you for a little while, and figure out what about it is really making you angry. If it’s something someone said, then you don’t really have to take that to heart- discount it for now, and then later when you’re on your own rationalize why the person said it. It’s okay to whine about calculus or physics in Mrs. Grace’s room, but keep your personal shit to yourself. Especially if it’s personal shit that makes you mad.


The whole anger thing, though, didn’t bug me as much as the bitch-calling did. I am usually hells of alright with being called things, seeing as I’ve been bullied a lot growing up, but this was just pointless name-calling. And it hurt! I didn’t expect that. I was halfway towards slapping you when the bell rang, nameless friend, but luckily I escaped due to a handy intervention. Don’t call me a bitch. Don’t call me a whore. Don’t call me anything you think is appropriate, because I will fucking knock your block off.

oh jeez, that sounded a lot more threatening than I meant it to.

that’s all for now. Will write more later.

mild confusion

23 Sep

is a really fucking good song by Tamaryn and you should listen to it now.

Today: exhausting. My mom got home from her business trip. I got an 80 on half a physics test. I hate that physics test. I ate french-textbook cake. J’ai essaié parler seulement en francais aujourd’hui, but I don’t know how to quickly express certain things like “shit where is my bag, I have calc next and I didn’t do the homework- did I tell you I listened to the Wavves and I really like them but not quite as much as Grizzly Bear or Tame Impala who are just badass”. I worked on my senior page. I made a music video set to BMSR. I laughed at some orange and white day pictures. I laughed at Parker’s letter to the people from Wavves and Best Coast. He mentioned “sucking face” and tequila. Best letter ever. We should write one to Kevin Barnes one day when drunk. He would appreciate the effort. And then we’d send him a sober letter and he’d be all “oh.” There was also play practice somewhere in there, I think. Maybe.

Nothing much else to report. Nighty night.

look, i wrote an essay

23 Sep


This summer I went to France with a little program called the Oxbridge L’Academie De Paris, which plopped me in a sort of boarding school for a month in the middle of the city with about 180 other teenagers from all over the world. I took two classes, a major and minor, which respectively turned out to be Psychology and Fine Arts. The classes were challenging and surprisingly fun- we went all over Paris learning Freudian dream theories, drew the Pont de Neuf, and discovered the beauty that was the city. But in the time I had outside of classes, I wandered, my appetite still not quite sated. It took time, but I fell in love with the city. It became a home-away-from-home for me, helped me practice and improve my French, opened its arms to my curious eyes.

The reason Paris speaks to me so intimately isn’t because of all the hype surrounding it, isn’t because every person and their mom has heard of some marvelous romance that’s taken place there, isn’t (well, okay, it kind of is) because Oscar Wilde lived there for so long and wrote so eloquently about it.

It’s because of the nights, when the city starts to calm and the lights slowly start to turn off, one at a time. It’s because of the days spent in the Luxembourg Gardens watching businessmen take a few minutes out of their day and play a round of pettanque. It’s because of the rainy days, the rain forming puddles in the street that promptly get splashed into the faces of screaming teenage girls. It’s because of the Metro, loud and crowded and somehow communicating a sense of homeliness- like it wants you to be there, waiting for your station, praying that the unfortunate tone-deaf busker with the accordion and the cup of coins will please stop playing those same four chords over and over again. It’s the fireworks over the Eiffel Tower on Bastille Day. It’s days spent picnicking at the Champs de Mars. It’s eating the best macarons in the world while walking down the Champs d’Elysees. It’s sitting in an unnamed park by the Opera drinking bubble tea and waxing poetic with your friends. It’s eating falafel in the Marais.

It’s all of these reasons and more. I try to enlighten my friends, but they shake their heads and discount my feelings. I explain the feeling of running down Rue Vavin, baguette in hand, searching for a place to sit and sing- I explain the way the sun looks from Montmartre, effervescent and not quite real, but all I get is nods. Thusly I’ve come to the conclusion that my Paris is just that- my Paris- and no one else’s Paris will ever be quite the same.



routine malaise

21 Sep

Been writing crappy poetry lately. I am okay with that.

Sort of feeling an unease creep into my happy neutrality, this is bad and I will have to do my darndedest to fix it. Measures have already been taken.

Also, something that has frustrated me to no end has been somewhat reasoned out, which actually is making it even more frustrating for now but will probably make things better in the long run. Fuuuuuuucckkk though.
(thx, R.)

Too tired to write a decent post.