Perhaps Halloween has melted my brain

The Ultimate Bogeyman

His face: that of my mother's second husband, Chuck. Think emaciated alcoholic with jaundiced coloring, hollow cheekbones, and ferret-esque nose and mouth. Then add a goatee and moustache for added creepiness.

His hair: Dr. Browne's ponytail days. The days when it looked like it hadn't been combed in at least two weeks. And the days when you could clearly see the natural hairline as contrasted with the implants.

His body: Much like that of my mother's third husband. He lifted weights, and he moved furniture for a living, leaving him with a physique befitting a high school football coach. (Let's add man boobs, just for fun.)

His clothing: I think a prison uniform is a good start, but not enough. (Oddly enough, that picture was found while searching for "high school football coach." I wonder if he molested one of the team members or assaulted the coach of a rival team.) Oh, and he definitely needs to add some inspiration from the slutty cowgirl movement. And just to be sure he doesn't start gnawing on himself, he needs one of those cone thingies. And definitely ruffles. Lots of ruffles.

A little bit about him: Well, Scotty (as shall be the name of the Ultimate Bogeyman) is a Leo and enjoys long walks on the beach, looking for women who are walking alone. His life goals include procreation (to call the offspring "children" might not be appropriate), obtaining a Ph.D. in Popular Culture Studies (emphasis in urban legends and modern mythology; don't worry, anyone can get a Ph.D. in Popular Culture), and ending U.S. reliance on foreign oil. He currently spends most of his time working with the Roman Catholic Church and is rumored to be the next candidate for Pope. (If you ask me, he really just wants the hat.)

With that said, I really truly wish I knew how to use photoshop. I would love to waste my entire evening mixing those images. And, no, that is not an endorsement to any of you out there who do know how to use Photoshop (and quite well) and are planning to blame the lost time on me. I refuse all responsibility. Got that? No blaming me.

Alright. Enough from me. Happy Mandy?

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club

Ever feel like the only single person around? Ever think about just settling for the first person who comes along? Well, we here at Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club know exactly what you're going through; which is why we're prepared to offer you a free--that's right! free!--trial membership for the entire year of 2005! Just post a description of yourself, and find great singles in the wonderful state of Ohio. Here are just a few of the great men you can expect to find:

Greg, a 20-year-old native of the Cincinnati area, is a college student and a devout Christian. In his pre-fanatic days, Greg tattooed a certain someone's name on his arm and has since covered it with a tattoo of a cross--to symbolize the way in which Jesus covered the sin of the relationship, of course. This one's a fine catch, gals! Grab your Bible and head on over for a chat!

Dennis, a 27-year-old from Toledo by way of Cincinnati, has recently left the state after obtaining those pretty yellow license plates for an extreme DUI. Dennis likes to drink and watch anime after a long day of restaurant management, and he has a most attractive circular spot of gray hair on the side of his head. So if you don't mind a man who chews his orange juice, this one's a real catch!

Jeremy, a 26-year-old in the Toledo area (from Michigan), is an experimental psychology graduate student. This guy loves his Adult Swim--several riveting seasons on DVD, ladies... oh yeah--, Star Wars--display cases of Star Wars novels in the bedroom... hott--, and bunk beds--twin size, no less... sexy! Hurry up, ladies, men with hairy backs are bound to go fast!

Kevin is a 31-year-old from the Eaton area, who enjoys cheating on his wife and taking time away from his three children for aforementioned affairs. He's hardworking, with two jobs that take all of his time--his wife may never get to see him, but neither do you! Come on now, you know you want a man who can lie to you.

Ladies, how's that for a sampler? Oh yeah... we know you can't resist the temptation. Call in today and experience the wonder that is Allison's bad taste in men. Remember, you can get the entire year of 2005 for free! Call today!

Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart Club is not responsible for bad experiences or for lost money or time. We cannot be held responsible for broken hearts or for being used. Members of the Club understand fully that all other members are wastes of their time and should not be dated under any circumstances.

So many things wrong with this...

I'm drinking a soy raspberry mocha from Starbucks while thinking about how to feed myself on the Welfare budget of $75 for two weeks. . . .

Who does that?

Rest assured, though, as I complete this project for my social welfare policy course, I will keep you informed. And if you have any tips for being extra thrifty in regards to groceries, let me know. Otherwise I may just have to pick a cause and start fasting.

OCMC (Pronounced: Ock-Muk)

This weekend was our first Mock Trial tournament of the season. With the exception of two of us, it's a team of rookies; so this tournament couldn't really be seen as anything more than a learning experience. There were some great moments this weekend. Such as the time when a judge, during comments, said that the attorneys should get up to examine a witness with a pen in their hands to play with (which prompted me to threaten to stab my fellow attorneys if they ever did that). Or the time a team from the University of Cincinnati called a witness who supposedly graduated from Duke University, was in his fifties, and had a wife and children, but acted so retarded that I found it hard to believe he was older than twelve or that anyone would procreate with him. Seriously now, who sits on the witness stand and looks at his hands as though seeing them for the first time? (No, he wasn't high.) And there will always be the worst defendant of all time, who prompted the question on cross examination, "It was dark. And so you took the long way? Does your car have headlights or not, Mr. Perry?"

Anyway, the real reason I write this morning is that my team has given me a new nickname. Last season I was just "Alamaroo." (It went with everyone else. On the trips, there were four of us who generally roomed together: Kevbo, Beffernoo, J-Coo, and myself, Alamaroo.) This year I've been dubbed, "Oh Captain My Captain." And "Beffernoo" has been changed to "Co-Captain My Captain." Then somehow the names got shortened to "OCMC" (Ock-Muk) and "COCMC" (Cock-Muk). I thought it was all funny. I knew the name only from The Dead Poets' Society (excellent Robin Williams film; if you haven't seen it, do so quickly). Then COCMC decided to read me the Walt Whitman poem, the original, the story about death.

O Captain! My Captain!
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:

But O heart! heart! heart!

O the bleeding drops of red,

Where on the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head;

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.


My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;

From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!

But I, with mournful tread,

Walk the deck my Captain lies,

Fallen cold and dead.

Think they're trying to tell me something? If we make it to the National Championships again this year and I end up dead or missing, you know who to go after.

Hey, Honors Program: It's "privilege," not "privelage." Dumbasses.

So I've been pretty tired lately. For obvious reasons (a. I have very poor time management skills; b. I overbook what time I do actually allot for productivity; c. I'm just not motivated to do schoolwork most of the time because I hate my classes). This week I've pulled two all-nighters. No, I mean all nighters. And it sucks the next day. I can't focus; I just think about bed. This morning I got to work and apparently I was sleeping, while sitting up in my chair at the front desk, because Betty, one of my sweet middle-aged coworkers, walked up and started laughing. And what do you do at that point? What can you do? I smiled, said I was tired, and moved on.

And then I realized I had been having a good dream about mock trial. Can't remember what it was. But I'm going to assume it was a good omen for this weekend's tournament.


[Context for the omen comment: Last night, Steve, Bethany, and I were working on Steve's opening statements in the lounge, when Bethany announced that she had had a dream about Steve. It was supposedly an omen that our tournament was going to go well this weekend because she and Steve were going "to become one." When Steve and I took the obvious interpretation, she simply said, "The details aren't important. All that matters is that we will be one. And the team will do well."]

[Context for the title: The Honors Program actually sent out an email to every single Honors student announcing in the subject line "White privelage - Panel discussion." Yeah. No comment necessary.]

[Random: I was looking at the preceding paragraph, for editing purposes, when I thought about adding "around a thousand" to better describe what I mean by "every single Honors student," but then I actually thought about how that number isn't in any affidavit and is therefore hearsay or lack of personal knowledge. (Who lives by an affidavit? Argh.) Translation: my mind has now decided to devote itself entirely to mock trial, and therefore it blows.]

Law & Order a la Sin City

(I don't know whether you guys have seen Sin City, but it cracks me up that all of the men have the same voice in that movie. So, this post is to be read in the Sin City voice. Imagine Bruce Willis's voice, only think that he has laryngitis and is intentionally whispering on top of it. Then, think about that deep, gravelly quality that voices only acquire after twenty years of chain smoking. Finally, imagine you're hearing it through a cell phone with no bars of reception. Can you hear it? Good. Now read on.)

I saw the broad walk into the room. I knew she was going to be trouble. She sat down and started talking. The questions were simple enough. She was a cop. She had been there after the little girl was taken from her home. And she wanted to find the sick fuck who would steal a child just as much as I did.

But she went too far. She framed my client. And I had to do something about it. I got out of my chair, walked to the center of the room, and started asking my own questions. The words were flying from my mouth. I hardly knew what I was doing. Sometimes I get a little crazy like that. I didn't have my pills. A girl needs her pills.

Before I knew it, I had my gun in hand, and I was firing like crazy. "You didn't question anyone else, did you?!" *Bang!* "And you only found my defendant's fingerprints in one place, isn't that correct!?" *Bang!* By the end of the cross examination there was just a mound of bloody flesh on the witness stand. That broad had it coming. She was lucky I left my automatic in the car.

I wiped the blood from my hands on the judge's robe. Then I walked out into the night. I needed to find the man who had kidnapped that little girl. I had to find him. So I could castrate him. Twice. Then make his head ooze orange liquid everywhere.




As you can tell, I think Sin City is one of the funniest movies I've seen in the past several years. Seriously. Who gets castrated twice? That's not even physically possible. And how does someone turn radioactive orange from a surgery or two? Come on now.

The moral of the story? Our mock trial scrimmage went well last night. I had forgotten how much fun cross examination can be.

Graham Crackery Goodness

I was feeling overwhelmed, sitting at my desk looking at words that my brain refused to comprehend, when in came my roommate. Jenny was in a mood--a quirky good mood, that is. And she had Teddy Grahams--dangerous, dangerous chocolate chip Teddy Grahams.

The first Teddy Graham made its way across my desk, informing me, "I am Productivity Bear. Eat me and you will be productive." As I laughed, Productivity Bear was shoved into my mouth by one highly amused Jenny.

Then came another. "I am Laziness Bear. Do not eat me or you'll be lazy." So then Jenny shoved the bear into my mouth only to scold me, "Allison, don't eat that! What are you doing? You don't want to be lazy."

And yet another. "I am a sad bear. Ask me why I'm sad, Allison." "Why are you sad?" "I'm sad because you don't want to eat me. I'm just a Teddy Graham, but I could be so much more. I could dive into your stomach, swim through your intestines, and then go out your boo-tay, making my way into the glorious water of eternal freedom, where a hurricane will whisk me away to heaven." And of course Jenny saw to it that the bear was put on the path to eternal bliss.

Just when I thought Jenny was done playing with her food, along came one more. "Look. I am a bleeding bear. And my blood is black--like your heart." Then, if you know how mothers play the whole "airplane" game with spoons to get their kids to open their mouths, the bear was flying toward my face. "Look, Allison! I'm flying. And if you eat me, you'll be able to fly too." I've named this bear Hallucinogenic Bear.

Welcome to our home. We're fucking weird.

Licensing Parents

My first year at BGSU, I read an article by Hugh LaFollette entitled "Licensing Parents." It essentially argues what one would guess from the title: People should have to go through a licensing process, much like the ones through which we put foster and adoptive parents, before they are allowed to procreate.

Of course such a system would never catch on in the United States because people think they own their children and that they should be allowed to do whatever they want with them. Americans view having children as a basic human right that should never be infringed upon. However, I would like to give my support for this system. I would like to strongly advocate that NO ONE procreates unless a board of highly qualified parenting officials deems them adequately prepared.

Here's why: I hate my mother right now. I hate her and her husband. I hate her previous husbands (with the exception of my father). I hate what she's put her children through, and I hate what she's currently doing to my sister. Most of all, I hate that I am financially dependent upon her such that I can't cut ties right now. As my dad put it, "Don't cut your nose off to spite your face."

With that said, I'm off for a coffee binge.

How to Avoid Productivity

Do you have a daunting task staring you down? Are there stacks of homework sitting next to you? Is your to-do list growing daily? Are you the typical student--fond of procrastination? Then I have something to share. You see, I have done nothing for the past twenty-four hours. But the joy of this system is that I don't feel like it's been twenty-four hours since I was last productive. And the reason why? I've been developing a list of activities to fill the time until I get motivated to do work.

1. (You obviously know this one.) Read blogs. Doesn't matter whose. Check out the recommended blogs when you go to your "Dashboard"on blogspot. Just pick one and be amused for the next hour. My most recent favorite: http://ahyesmedschool.blogspot.com (It works especially well because the posts are incredibly long.)

2. Closely related to #1, write in your blog. What purpose do you think this post serves? It's certainly not due to some noble cause, like helping all of you avoid homework. No, this is so that I can waste the last thirty minutes before a meeting that will force me to be productive.

3. Go grab food. As long as you don't do this six times a day, no one can really fault you for taking time away from work for it. After all, nourishment is necessary. (Don't forget: you can always pull out the fact that without glucose, your brain can't function and therefore you won't be productive anyway.)

4. Create the soundtrack for your life. You'll need playlists of music for the happy moments ("Blue Skies," Ella Fitzgerald), the triumphant moments ("Icarus," Ani Difranco), the basement scenes ("Taking Chase as the Serpent Slithers," RX Bandits), the all-out porn scenes ("Closer," NIN), the falling-in-love scenes ("The Night Will Go as Follows," The Spill Canvas), the sad scenes ("That I Would Be Good," Alanis Morisette), the funeral scenes ("Cold Water," Damien Rice), and the angry scenes ("The Wretched," "No, You Don't," or any number of other songs by NIN).

5. Grooming. I spent two hours straightening my hair last night (counting time spent waiting for my hair to dry after showering--don't neglect the fact that long showers are an excellent way to destress and waste time as long as you aren't concerned about your ecological footprint and using too much of a limited resource like clean water). Then I tweezed my eyebrows. Gentlemen, you know you can do that too. You can always file/paint your finger/toenails as well. And, if you happen to have an open wound like myself, you can take your time changing the bandage and examining the skin to try to guess when it will be done healing.

6. Call a relative. Everyone knows we, as college students away from home, are obligated to keep in touch. If you're really trying to avoid work, be sure to tell the relative about all the goings-on, including upcoming projects, and to ask about each and every relative at home individually (second cousins are important too).

7. Review/make a to-do list. This is great because it still resembles productivity. Just don't get overwhelmed looking at it. You'll get around to it eventually.

8. Masturbate. No. Seriously.

9. Watch a movie. This one is less justifiable, so you might have to get creative. ("I am doing work. I know I'm not a Pop Culture major, but Interview with a Vampire is a classic tale about the intricacies of the human condition. As a future social worker, it is important for me to recognize the complexity of the individual person, and therefore my time is better spent doing research by watching this movie than reading a textbook that refers to the "District of Columbus." (Yes. One of my textbooks actually did this. Do you see why I've given up reading them and gone to the age-old method of skimming the bold print?))

10. My absolute favorite. Sleep. Just sleep. I slept until 2:10 on Thursday (my day off), got up and went to my 2:30 class, came home at four, was back in bed by five, and didn't get up until 7:30. Lazy? No. Of course not. I'm a sleep-deprived college student who needed to play catch-up. (And so are you. Even if you're not: so are you.)

Okay. Mission Accomplished. Time for the meeting. Good luck, and let me know how it goes.

"Have fun... Or at least don't be miserable."

How's that for instructions? Ever think about what we tell one another? It's standard to tell people in the service industry to "have a good day." But do we mean it? Wouldn't we rather say something like, "You keep doing your job. And try not to be so fucking slow and incompetent next time." What about when people leave for class? Why do we tell them to "have fun"? Shouldn't we be sending them off with words of encouragement like, "Go forth and learn, ye faithful student." But no. Class must be entertaining, otherwise we zone out. So perhaps telling someone to have fun is more appropriate (if we want to embrace reality in all its ugliness, that is).

A professor once told my critical thinking class of an essay all about the way we answer the question "How are you?" There are standard responses: fine, good, okay. However, it is fairly close to socially unacceptable to respond with anything else. If someone really wanted to know how you were, would they not be prepared for a twenty minute recitation of all the goings on?:

"My toes have been getting stiff with the changing weather, which meant while on a walk the other day, my dog got away from me and ran off and ate birdseed, which made a total mess of the carpet, and when I cleaned it up my knees got sore from being down on the floor, so then I had to stay in and get some rest, which was kind of frustrating until I found a really great Lifetime movie to watch, which reminded me of the time Ella cheated on Dale and they had the huge fight with the rifles and the police came out and during the make-up sex Dale ended up breaking his penis and got all sorts of pissed when he had to go to the hospital for surgery and all that, and anyway, I'm off track--I've been alright with the exception of the disaster my family has created in my home; I've never seen such a wreck, and I can't keep it cleaned up for ten minutes before they start in again, and then they expect me to make dinner and clean that up too; well I tell you what, I'm thinking about going on strike, and there won't be a damn thing they do to stop me. *Breathe* How have you been?"

Well, the essay is one such recitation. I want to say Mark Twain wrote it, but a quick internet search has yielded no such confirmation. Nor can I find the essay at all for that matter. Perhaps some day soon I'll dig out my old notebook and figure it out.

Until then, you all go have fun, have a good night, get some rest, and be happy.

Alright, kids. Here we go.

Recipe for the world's greatest man:

(In no particular order)

Pride & Prejudice's Mr. Darcy

Sense & Sensibility's Colonel Brandon

Lucky Seven's Bagel Guy (Peter Connor)

(and, just for kicks) The MacManus Brothers of The Boondock Saints

[Do you see why I'm bound to be disappointed?]

Escapism at Its Best

Yesterday J-Coo and I were feeling a bit down (to say the least). Our thoughts about the meaninglessness of school (and thus our lives) so closely mirrored each other that Jenny said we must have been sisters in a past life. Over the next five to ten minutes, the following story developed:

Jenny (a.k.a. Susie): Oh, do you remember good ol' Grandpa?

Me (a.k.a. Claudia): You mean how he used to take us out on sleigh rides, and how the dogs had such blue eyes... that is, when he wasn't working in the coal mines.

Susie: Do you remember the time he was working in the mines and he heard the canary drop dead, but when he turned around, he couldn't find his way out?

Claudia: Oh! Yeah, that was the time the guy he called "Fred Flintstone" had to come rescue him. I remember, it was hilarious because the idiot had to tell Grandpa how to get out of there.

Susie: Well, yeah, but it was just because he heard Grandma at the entrance to the mine, passing out cookies again.

Claudia: Remember how she always had to bring two different kinds, too? She was always trying to please people.

Susie: She always had hot chocolate with whipped cream for me...

Claudia: It's too bad Mom wasn't around...

Susie: Yeah, but she's happy now.

Claudia: I just never thought she would actually marry a Ringling Brother.

Susie: Oh, I saw it coming. So did Grandpa. But at least Dad's doing better now too.

Claudia: Is he? I haven't talked to him recently.

Susie: Yeah. He and his new girlfriend are really happy. Do you remember how they met?

Claudia: No... I don't think so.

Susie: Oh, I'm sure Dad must've told you. I'll get you started. You know Dad can only work as an acrobat on weekends, and he doesn't make that much money, so he drives the snow plow through the week. Well, one morning he was at Dunkin Donuts getting coffee for his drive, when there she was. She's a hospice nurse, so she was picking up donuts for work--they're all involved in death and dying so they don't care what they eat; she's kinda a big woman, if you know what I mean.

Claudia: Wasn't she trying to start a fan club for Dad because she kept going to see his act at the circus?

Susie: Yeah!

Claudia: It was kinda sweet until she asked for a nude picture.

Susie: She already had a website set up and everything.

Claudia: She failed to mention it was a pay-per-view website.

Susie: Somehow they still ended up talking and he took her for a ride on the snow plow, and that was that. They're still together.

Claudia: Huh. That's kind of cute. Too bad she kept offering him donuts though. The man's a health fanatic.

Susie: Yeah. She probably picked up the ones he threw out on the ground too. Like I said, hospice: she's dyin' anyway.

Claudia: Yeah, but that makes them rather perfect for each other. He's always doin' that acrobatic shit. He could die at any time.

Susie: That's true... If he fell and only had six months to live, they'd be right on track.

Claudia: I wonder if she could still be his hospice worker or if that would be a conflict of interest.

Susie: I don't know...

Me: Whoever said escapism didn't work obviously didn't know us very well.

We're random; we know. Bradley has agreed to be the boy that both Susie and Claudia like, and so he gets to be at the center of the fight that nearly ends the sisterhood. His fake hetero name is Nicky. If you would like to be woven into our fake lives, please feel free to apply for a position. We're always casting.

I wrote a different entry earlier today,

only to realize that I really don't want people to think I'm suicidal or anything. So this is my second attempt to explain my thoughts.

I had been back in Bowling Green for approximately four hours when it hit me that I haven't the slightest clue what I'm doing here. I don't know that anything I do matters; in fact, I have more than a lurking suspicion that it doesn't. I don't respect my education. I don't see great meaning in mock trial. I don't feel like I'm accomplishing anything, or doing anything for the world. I feel like, should I die tomorrow, there would be nothing to say at my funeral other than what a shame it is that I didn't get to carry out plans x and y.

Jenny and I were discussing this whole train of thought when I remembered a story I heard this weekend. Andrew (a friend of my little sister) was living in Mexico, going to an intensive art program rather than an American high school. He had a few friends with him, but at some point they just ran out of money. So they left their apartment and hitch-hiked to another city, where they were taken in by a stranger--a woman in her seventies. Inside, they were seated around the biggest dining room table imaginable, fifteen chairs surrounding solid wood four inches thick. And, unprompted, turning to Andrew, the woman said in perfect Spanish, "I thank God every day that you could be here to eat my food. Because without you, my table is empty."

I want moments like that. I want moments that make me see meaning in life. I want to feel like I've done something good, something that will have a lasting effect in this world. And I'm not referring to the manly need to leave a prodigy. I'm talking about the fact that in this life, in this world, the only thing I could ever possibly do that would be bigger than myself would be to help someone else, to make someone else's life better. And don't I owe that to the world? Don't I owe something for the privilege of being born in a nation where I'm not submitted to electroshock therapy as punishment for being sad, where I'm not mutilated in the name of tradition and purity, where I'm free to say I don't want to be part of organized religion, where I can choose to help other people because I really don't have it that bad after all?

And if I do owe that to the world, what am I doing here?

Dear Beloved Bed,

Freshly made with clean sheets, just washed and brought from home, you sit there--less than ten feet away. I see your enticing arms. I see your sly smile. And I know what you're up to. I know what that look means. But I cannot be tempted. And I cannot be lured into your warm embrace when there is work to do. Damn you, seductress. Damn you. And the pillows too.

Some day we'll be together again. . . Some day. . .

Forever yours,
(From the desk,)
Allison

My Trent...

Last night was the long awaited night. It was the night when I drove to Cleveland, nearly got killed by several semis along the way, and then sat through two mediocre/bad opening bands before seeing Trent Reznor and Nine Inch Nails play over twenty songs for my enjoyment and viewing pleasure. Not only is he amazingly talented (you don't walk away going, "Wow... the guys back in the studio really deserve all the credit for his last album" (he is the guy back in the studio really, if you think about how the music is made with quite a few electronic elements and how he plays everything on the recordings, but that's besides the point)), but he also has a hilarious temper.

During a series of three songs, curtains came down around the stage and they were projecting a slideshow onto the front. The songs were the slow ones off With Teeth--"The Line Begins to Blur," "Right Where It Belongs," and "Beside You in Time." But during "Right Where It Belongs," the slideshow cut out. It was no more. And when the song ended, Trent said, "As you can tell, there was a nice video element there, but someone fucked up and it ended." [The crowd laughed.] "I do apologize for that. But don't worry. I'm going to kick his ass after the show." [Crowd cheered.] "Can one of the fucking dumbasses in the back tell me if it's working again or if we're just moving on?" [Crowd cheered even more. Trent looked at one of the tour employees.] "You smile now, but wait until after the show." So someone got his ass kicked. But to rationalize Trent's temper, let's allow him some perfectionism after twenty years in show biz and let's allow him some anger when his clearly political slideshow, which was well thought-out and perfect for the songs, doesn't work.

Other than the dumbasses sitting behind us (who spilled several beers all over, threw lit cigarette butts into the crowd in front of us, and broke the two chairs next to me because they decided it would be a good idea to push against them with their feet as hard as possble--not to mention the drunken singing), it was a highly enjoyable experience. My ear drums hate me. And my entire body is going to hate me when I actually let it sink in that I've accomplished nothing for school this weekend and thus need to not sleep this week. Oh well.

Moral of the story? Trent Reznor is great.

"Welcome home. You don't have a room."

I was extremely confused by my step-brother's greeting. But after he explained, it all made sense. You see, my mother called me the day before I was to come home to ask my time of arrival because she was going to clean to my room for me--you know, make sure there was no cat hair or anything on my bed. Little did I know what she really meant by "clean" was "reassemble." Apparently my bedroom is now the home gym. And no one was going to tell me.

So this morning when I saw my mom for the first time since being home, I decided to freak her out. (They never know how moody or upset I'm going to be, so this was fun.) I was headed to the shower and said in passing, "Oh, by the way, you guys are totally busted. Carson didn't know that I didn't know that my bedroom is now the home gym." And then I just walked upstairs. All I heard was my mother's husband say, "Was it a secret?" But later my mom gave me this whole explanation of why it's a good thing that they're using my room that way. I laughed. I don't really care as long as I have a room when I'm home. And it gets cleaned for me this way.

But then, later today, my mom comes downstairs with this awesome jewelry catalog for a company called Silpada. It's very earthy and natural-looking sterling silver jewelry. She told me she ordered me several pieces for my birthday and Christmas but that she wasn't sure she knew my taste well enough so I could make her a list of things I liked and then she could give the ones she already ordered to my sisters. I was so impressed. My mom even talked about how there's a difference between jewelry that makes you feel dainty and jewelry, like this stuff, that makes you feel powerful. I was so proud of her. All of you: check it out: www.silpada.com

Don't Watch Sad Movies Alone

Last night I watched A Home at the End of the World, a movie Jenny had recommended. I was a bit stressed because mock trial is already falling apart and with fall break upon us, I know I'm not going to get as much done this weekend as I need to. Thus, I thought a movie was a good idea. I was wrong. But, to my credit, I didn't know the movie was going to confirm my lingering suspicion that no matter what you do in life, you always end up sad and alone.

You see, the main character's life sucks. When he, Bobby, was nine, his hero, his older brother ran through a sliding glass door and slit his throat. In front of Bobby no less. Before he finished high school, both his parents had died. And then, after he's been taken in by Jonathan, his best friend, Jonathan ends up moving off to college in NY and Jonathan's parents move to the West Coast and don't take Bobby with them. Bobby eventually moves in with Jonathan again, but by the end of the movie, he has been abandoned by his lover, Clare (who also took their baby), and Jonathan is dying of AIDS (he so happened to be a sexually confused youth who turned out to be a gay man who went on promiscous rampages because he was mad at Bobby and Clare for being together, yada yada, weird love triangle, hard to explain).

So, now that the overly convoluted explanation of the plot is out of the way, what am I getting at? It only takes two scenes from this movie to really get it:

A) Bobby and Clare are talking while changing their baby's diaper.
Clare: You're amazing. You can do anything, can't you? You could probably move to the Sahara, build a house, and just live. It doesn't matter to you where you are. Is there anything you can't do?
Bobby: *thinks* I can't be alone.
Clare: No. I don't suppose you can.

B) Final scene of the movie. Bobby and Jonathan have just spread Jonathan's father's ashes and are walking back to their house.
Friend: You know, this place will be fine for my ashes too. You've built us a nice home out here.
The idea being that after everything he's been through, everything he's tried, all the people he's loved, Bobby is just going to end up alone. All alone. The one way he can't be.

And so I finished watching the movie. Sat crying in my room in the dark. Told myself I was stupid. Started crying again. And realized that, in a lot of ways, we're all kind of like Bobby. We try and we try and we try to find happiness. And if you think about the ways we try to find happiness, they're highly related to our relationships with other people. But in the end we can't make our Clares stay if they want to go. And we can't keep our Jonathans alive if they're dying from diseases with no known cures. I wish I could say something inspiring, perhaps something involving the Goddess Fortuna, but I'm really just falling back on one simple theme:

Life is one big over-rated exercise in futility.

If you'll excuse me, I have water to tread.

An Ode to My Pillows

I was feeling inspired by Jim's latest post - see http://theuncannybusker.blogspot.com - and by memories of Bethany's "Ode to a Down Blanket." Therefore, fresh from nap time, I began writing an ode to my pillows. However, after a few moments I noticed the music blaring up from the ninth floor such that I can't even cover it with my own music. Thus, rather than a loving little poem to my pillows, I give you the following:

To the Cretins Below

A Poem by Allison the Bad Person (for those of you familiar with The Many Personae of OFFW 1010)

Ninth floor savages, how I hate thee so.

Have you any ethical standards? No.

You blare your music through the floor

And I cannot take it any more.

How is it that you still can hear?

Or is that just the problem, dear?

Pity for you I refuse to feel.

For wild dogs, I would make you a meal.

I would pull off your fingernails one by one.

I would blast off your toes with a shot gun.

I would shatter your bones with great glee.

I would kill you oh so painfully. Oh so slowly.

I would cook you in a big black kettle,

And let you stew for the flavor to settle.

Heeeeeere wild doggy, Heeeeeeeeeeeere wild doggy.

Hurry up before your food gets soggy.

Drunk Dialing

My little sister called me last night, but the phone was promptly stolen away from her by a male who would later be identified as my step-brother. It quickly became apparent that everyone was drunk--my sister, my step-sister, my step-brother, my step-cousin, my step-sister's boyfriend, their friends. And after I got off the phone with them, it dawned on me--that revelation of all revelations, that one that should have seemed obvious all along: life really does just continue as normal when we leave. *GASP*

Isn't this ridiculous? I feel like the two-year-old who doesn't want to take a nap because he's afraid he'll miss something. I miss home not so much because there is something inherently good about it, but rather because I can't be there to supervise what is happening, to see my brother grow up, to make sure my sister doesn't do anything overly stupid while drunk, to clean up after everyone so my mom doesn't get stuck doing it. I'm such a control freak. Ugh.

(I'll spare you, my invisible audience, the rationalization for my feelings of control freakishness (what a fun term) toward home because it's just ranting about how my family shouldn't be trusted or left to their own motivations.)