I posess distinct affinity for tasty foods, the English language, wit, computer programming, and for the absurd.

A couple of things in no particular order.

• The water coming from the tap in my apartment occaisonally smells strongly of marijuana. I guess now we know why I giggle more when I am particularly hydrated.
• The neighbor with whom I share a wall is playing The Rolling Stones rather loudly. I am playing The Fiery Furnaces. It is one of the strangest mixes of sounds I've ever heard.
• This is my first complete day off in a long time - no responsibilities at all! I've read the entire Questionable Content archives. Time well spent; thank you J. J.
• Fact: It takes about 3 thick coats of Mod Podge to get paper mostly water-proof! Now you know!
  
• I haven't written anything in a long time. This is slightly disconcerting. (Well, nothing unless you count a C++ program which asks the user to input their age, and replies with a snarky comment about whether or not they should be consuming alcohol. Hey, it beats "Hello, World!", right?)
• I am shopping for a new car, adding to my already numerous fiscal worries. (I'm working on some sort of estimate describing how much beer I cannot buy while maintaining financial responsibility in lieu of purchasing an automobile. (Man, I would get so much programming done... (No, I do not subscribe to this hypothesis. (Or, in fact, most of his hypotheses...(Hypothesi?)))))

Wow, that last bullet had a lot of fucking parentheses at the end. (I maintain that those words should be "hypothesi" and "parenthesi." Firefox's spell-check disagrees.)

And now, some pictures of things I don't really like!:

A pigeon!
(He looks extremely concerned, which is a little bit cute, I guess.)


A bidet!
(I mean seriously, what the hell? Fellow ladies, just take a goddamn shower or something.)

Note: The Google Image results for "pigeon bidet" were entirely disappointing, even with SafeSearch off.

Things About A Person Who Is Me

My sister posted a similar list of things about herself.
I was mostly intrigued by the similarity and the differences between the way the two of us would answer these questions, so I am reposting it here.
Enjoy, and don't get worried or anything.

I am: an actress.
I think: it's later than it is, frequently.
I know: "the plans [He] has for me," but often I don't listen.
I have: a passport, a drivers license and a small suitcase. How would you feel about just getting the fuck out of here?
I wish: hearts and minds either kept separate, or decided to agree on anything at all.
I hate: being under appreciated.
I miss: being understood.
I fear: not succeeding.
I hear: that there is still time for me.
I smell: coffee, and smile.
I crave: attention.
I search: for people on the internet sometimes. I just wanted to know who you were before, so I could help you grow.
I wonder: what unanswered phones mean.
I regret: the impossibility of friendship.
I love: people.
I ache: when I feel a little lost.
I am not: that naive, I'm just hopeful.
I believe: in a lot of things you might make fun of me for.
I dance: to old 80's songs, or when I feel like you need cheering up.
I sing: karaoke. But never in church.
I cry: infrequently.
I fight: with people who don't realize we're fighting.
I win: at Scrabble.
I lose: gloves.
I never: go a day without showering.
I always: remember what I was doing the first time I heard my favorite songs.
I confuse: advice with condescension.
I listen: if you aren't creepy.
I can usually be found: making the same mistake over and over.
I am scared: when people look me too forcefully in the eye.
I need: very little.
I am happy about: poetry.
I imagine: graduating.
I can't: be unaffected by words.
I say: "I'm sorry" too much. Usually, I mean "I love you."
I write: vaguely, but I try to be poignant.
I play: the guitar, poorly.
I must: have listened to this song a hundred times today...

I am sadder when it rains than when the sun is shining, but I would take clouds and rain over just plain, droopy, gray and white clouds covering the sky any day.
It has been cloudy for days and days in Ypsilanti.

So there you have it.

Hello, Lizzy, Or, Why I Sing What I Do

I had an acting teacher once who said that musicals are the product of characters feeling something so deeply that the only way to express feelings of the characters is for them sing about it.

I am of the opinion that, if "you can't do, teach," well: If you can't live, act.

I have an entirely difficult time living, and so I act.

There are sometimes, in my acting, though in the real world, that I cannot express something except through song. Others songs, and sometimes songs I make up to express my deep, longing, lust for life. (Is it, really, if I am only acting? This is a subject for another blog post, promise.)

And so, I don't feel bad, playing a sappy song when my friends come over.
I don't regret singing at karaoke songs that are cheesy, or overplayed, or awkward.
Kimya Dawson or the Moldy Peaches, Ani DiFranco, mewithoutYou, The Magnetic Fields, Belle and Sebastian, The Velvet Underground, Hello Saferide, Vampire Weekend, The Pixies, The Decemberists, Tori Amos, Sufjan Stevens, Five Iron Frenzy or Yo La Tengo...
No, no I don't.

Cheers to the soundtrack of your life, and of mine.

Hi-ho Silver: A Tragic Tale of Love, Then Loss

Hi-ho Silver died this weekend. He was only ten.

The thing about Hi-ho Silver was that he really tried. He barely had a first gear, his gas gauge was always completely incorrect and he couldn't handle in the snow worth a damn, but this little guy fuckin' tried.

He was a good car, all "Escort" puns aside.

He taught like, 4 people how to drive stick.
He hauled ass through traffic, getting me to work, school, or any engagement mostly on time.
He had a weird 6 CD changer in the back, and I never really understood why.
He's gotten more people home safely than I'll ever be able to count. (At one point complete with decorated ceiling for their viewing pleasure.)
He went to the East coast, he made it Chicago, perilously, multiple times. He went to the UP and he dreamed of going West - to Texas, perhaps even beyond.
He displayed his appreciation for mewithoutYou, Haste the Day, WCBN radio, at one point, August Burns Red, love through sacrifice, and, towards the end, the Ugly Mug Cafe.

There are a lot of people who will miss him, if I do say so myself.

Silver, son, you'll make a damn fine parking lot ornament.

"People talk about my image. . .

...Like I come in two dimensions,
Like lipstick is a sign of my declining mind,
Like what I happen to be wearing is my new statement..."

I am of the growing impression that social networking devices on the internet are bringing me into a two-dimensional existence.
According to the internet, I am a successful (albeit unreviewed) actress, a quirky puppeteer, a "social butterfly," a slightly cynical but witty commentator who loves her friends, and have many other attributes about which one could conclude after sifting through snapshots, greetings to friends, self-descriptions, or just by looking me up on a search engine .
Well, now everyone knows me!
Or. . . do they?! Is this who I am!??
This is the thought plaguing me at the moment.
It's only really disconcerting when I compare these facts about myself with similar facts I've learned about others.
The internet has made me new friends and reconnected me with people I would otherwise have lost touch with, and I thank it for that.
However, the internet has replaced a genuinely human - three-dimensional, if you will - element of acquaintance. All the "necessary" information about practically everyone I know (favorite books, movies, quotes, what they did last weekend) exists in their "About Me" sections, or their most recent photo uploads.

By existing so openly on the internet, am I damaging my real life?
By putting so much stock into the persona of others portrayed on the internet, am I missing out on getting to know people tangibly?

I rarely ask my acquaintances what they have been up to, whom they are seeing, where they are attending school or working because I get unsolicited updates regularly in the form of "feeds" or uploaded photos very regularly.
While writing this I've been thinking of a certain friend of mine who avoids these social networking bull-shit-holes all together. I enjoy the company of this friend significantly because I always feel as though it is completely genuine. We see each other, we appreciate espresso at the same time, I can immediately see his reaction to my witticisms - such as they are without an hour of editing; comedic timing's not exactly my thing. This "three-dimensional" friendship is entirely refreshing.

And no, I'm not going to lie to you and say that updates on my friends aren't convenient. They're lovely; I love seeing what they've been up to.
I just wish it all seemed more. . . real
And in addition, I wish that I could be more real to them.

So perhaps in some sort of half-assed conclusion I should simply assert that I will henceforth appreciate the opportunities I have to interact in person, and set far less stock in the information derived from my triflings among the wires of the World Wide Web.

A weak conclusion? Maybe.
A comforting solution? I hope so.

(And yes, I do realize how rediculous it is to have blogged about problems with socializing on the internet. I do.)

"What did you do out there. . .

. . .what did you decide?
You said you needed time,
You had time."

I left Ypsilanti when it smelled like old gym lockers. That happens when it rains.
Trembling in my Ford Escort, I discovered how Noah probably felt during those forty days. (Later, I imagined I could commiserate with Moses in his journey to find the Promised Land. Why one city needs so many overlapping highways is beyond my comprehension.)

There was not nearly enough Mondrian at the Warhol museum, however, an exhibit I nearly overlooked proved to have the highlight of the excursion.
I discovered a cafe - not that it was in any way hidden - where smoking is allowed, regulars are kind, the internet is free, and the coffee doesn't suck completely. On the other hand, there were far too many of young people with silly faces, compensating for their self-perceived lack of social prestige with loud squeals and cigarettes, and a left-wing pretentiousness in the decor.

I acquired new lipstick and a pair of plastic earrings, growing nervousness about the state of my car, perspective on my own town. Perspective especially regarding the quality of coffee, the ease of navigation, and a place to call home, whether in the smiles of my friends, patterns in nightlife, or a small apartment on Hamilton.

I would be lying if I said I didn't think of you all the entire time.
I only do things when I am ready; I will be ready to be home next time you see me, thus, very happy to see you.

It's Gonna Be A Bright. . .

. . . bright, sunshiney day.

I can see all the obstacles in my way.
And how.

I am endeavoring to live frame-by-frame, and stop making up shit that just isn't happening. The next scene hasn't been written yet.

Anything I have with me at any given moment is all I have, necessarily.
One cup of coffee.
One glass of water.
The music from PTD's The Shadow Box.
A couple of people with whom I am loosely acquainted.
One computer.

Everything around me is serving its desired purpose for the moment - as am I; I honestly couldn't ask for anything else.

Because, you know, when I said "I'll take it," I meant as is.

"You can't hide behind social graces,
So don't try to be all touchy-feely..."

Really. I don't have any illusions about anyone.
Among our redeeming qualities - admit it - we're mostly trifling assholes.
At least you, and I, are in good company.

It was discussed, recently, the manner in which one may learn from discussing things with, and listening to various people. I have thus decided that in my dealings with people who tell me stories, tell me various interpretations, exaggerations, or reiterations of happenings, I have learned, consistently, about behavioral patterns. Patterns in which to behave, and in which to never to behave.
On the other hand - and to keep myself from sounding overly critical and obtuse - I can only assume that there are people learning the same thing from me.

I only hope you realize how much you can learn.

Carry on, my wayward [Ypsilantaholic] sons.


("...Those people who smile too much, watch their eyes,
I only know 'cause I'm like that sometimes...")

"We ain't got shit for you, Liz."

The United States Postal Service delivered a letter from Boston University to my parent's house last Saturday morning. Like I do, I took my sweet-ass time opening the letter; I was almost certain of the contents. As I had expected, on pretentiously thick paper, complete with a raised seal, was printed a brief letter explaining that the University is unable to offer me any scholarships or grants at this time. The letter carefully mentioned that this was not a reflection of my academic success, nor of my intelligence.

The letter further explained that they would be happy to loan me, at a rate of low interest, $3,500 a year towards my tuition.
"Aw, geez, guys, thanks for the one Bio textbook!" Way to make a dent in a 50 thou a year.
By which I of course meant, "Oh yeah? Really?! Well fuck you too, Boston University. Fuck. You."
Not only can they keep their Boston Blood Money, but I've got a couple suggestions about where they can store it. AND I'll throw in a couple of fingers. Middle of each hand, raised high. That's how fucking generous I am.

Bastards. Bostards.



So, uh, see you guys around Ypsi.
I guess.