I looked at every fiesta. For you I wanted to greet. Maybe I'd sell you a chicken with poison interlaced with the meat

Just about 20 years ago. Just less than 20 years ago, probably:

My dad: snoring
My mom: turnover...
My dad: snoring
My mom: Turnover!
My dad: snoring
My mom: TURNOVER!!
My dad: CHERNOBYL?? CHERNOBYL???? WHAT'S THE PUNCHLINE???? (in his sleep)

Happy birthday Chernobyl.

Funny, I didn't realize that chernoble happened the day after my mom's birthday. Isn't that weird? She probably knows that. Happy birthday to my mom too.

Also, my niece is the cutest baby ever. Or at least the cutest amongst some crazy parents (and grandparents) who sent 64 pictures of 64 babies in to a newspaper in Florida. Here is the picture that won the big prize.



Her paternal grandparents submitted it. I think there are cuter pictures of her but that one is pretty cute. I think they ought to start making money off her face now.

Now I’m skinny and sick and paranoid without a cent to my name.

Am I the only one who is curious about lurkers? I see certain places pop up again and again on my sitemeter thingy. Lately, Pascagoula, Mississippi. And Toronto Canada. Some places I'm pretty sure belong to certain people. But others look at my blog again and again and I wish I knew who these people were so I could be best friends. But alas.

So I live with my brother, which is a fact I view as sort of pathetic. I wasn't planning on living with him for very long when I moved in with him but now it has been over 2 years and there is no end in sight. Except for that I sort of can't stand living there anymore. But I can't afford to move and it is rather handy to live there now that I am a poor starving student and all. I pay him rent and everything but he knows that I have to buy insulin and pay tuition and buy books before I pay him anything. Other landlords may not be so forgiving. Also, I hate landlords. They are crazy. Every single one I've ever had. The last one really scared me off of landlords for a long time. She was one crazy bitch, as my sister can attest. But I've now lived in this house with my brother for longer than any other place since I moved out of my parents house 10 years ago. I actually like moving. I think it is totally fun to get a fresh start. Which is probably why I rearrange the furniture in my room every few months.

The point of all of this is that lately my brother and I haven't been getting along so well. He is really really really really depressed and seems to just be getting worse and worse. I have a gamecube and enjoy playing games on it when the mood strikes me. My brother would also play games on it occasionally. It is in my room because I didn't want to have it out in the living room because I didn't want one of us to not be able to watch tv on the big nice tv if the other is playing some stupid game. As a result of his crappy depressiveness my brother has been spending like 4-5 hours a day in my room. I don't mind when I am gone, obviously, but when I am there I kind of want to be in my fucking room. All my stuff is in my room. All of it. Because there is no where in the house for my stuff. So everything I own is in my room. So I am spending more and more time away from home. And when I am home I am constantly asking him to get out of my room. And it is a pain in the ass. So yesterday I took my little tv and the gamecube and all the games and my chair and put them all in his room. I haven't seen him since then. It was probably the worst thing I could have done for his mental health but the best for mine.

It will be sad because I will miss Chachi, my brother's dog, and Jack, my nephew, but I have to move out of there or he is going to drive me completely nuts. It will suck for him because he probably won't be able to afford the house payments and will probably eventually have to move but that won't change if I move out now or if I move out 4 years from now. I'm not going to stay there so he can keep a house he can't afford and doesn't take care of. And his bitch of an non-ex-wife is demanding half of what the house is worth anyway so he is most likely going to sell it anyway.

I don't know. We'll see.

The Dozer Will Not Clear A Path.

Marimcgoldenstein submitted for my perusal a lovely little poem borrowed from a website that seems to be dedicated to that enigmatic phenomenon - the camel toe. In the 6th grade we used to call this girl Jodie camel toe. I'm not going to go into details as to why because you probably know and if you don't then you should ask someone because I don't think I can really explain it without getting out of hand, descriptively speaking. But it got me to athinkin' about the current state of affairs in the world of fashion. A friend of Justin and Alicia's links occasionally to this site gofugyourself.typepad.com where these bitches post fugly celebrities and their fugly fashion choices. It is pretty funny most of the time. Not that I am any kind of fashion maven in any way, but I do enjoy making fun of the way people dress. Mostly because I am a horrible catty bitch. Yesterday I saw a guy on campus wearing lederhosen. He looked a lot like this
only without the big glass mug and with long knee-high socks. It was great. It made me smile from ear to ear. I also see some people all gothed-out on campus here which is fun as long as I don't have to interact with those people. They are like eye candy. Or eye pop-rocks.
But more prevalent on campus is this look:

This is a modest example. I saw a girl today who thought she wore a size two jeans but her back fat and gut were screaming that she actually should be wearing a jumpsuit to cover all that shit up. Why would you wear pants that were several sizes too small and squeeze your middle so much that your back fat actually rolls over and covers the awesome studded belt you bought at hot topic? And the saddest part is that I know those girls are sucking in their stomachs all day enforcing a sort of mental corsetting. And don't get me started on the ass crack. Isn't the ass crack reserved for plumbers and old men with beer guts and narrow hips who refuse to wear belts? I am forever in line behind these girls at the coffee place and I just want to grab their pants and hoist them up around their nipples. Which brings us back to the camel toe.

When you wake up feelin' old at this piano filled with souls.

I must be brief. I am supposed to be writing a paper. This fat dirty weird student in the coffee shop for the last 45 minutes has been asking every single person who comes in if they speak japanese. And then he protests with grunts and moans when they don't, like it is the end of the world. Finally, 5 minutes ago, a guy walked in who does speak japanese. I wonder what he needed to know in japanese. He is

We could use a handful of wheel and a day off and a bruised road.

I think Axel Rose might be Willie Nelson's illegitimate son. Or at least related some how. Their voices are very similar and they look alike. And they are both musical geniuses. And there's the bandana.



They have very different noses but the same eyes and mouth and hair and beard and bandana.

Happy Jesus Rising from the dead day.

Play that rock lead guitar. Rock it like a magikist. Rock and roll is the joyride music. Whip that snow leopard's ass. Rock Saddam Hussein's ass

A few short things.

Many of you won't recognize the lyrics from the title. Maybe someone will. They are from Wesley Willis' song Rock Saddam Hussein's Ass off of his album Fabian Road Warrior.

All of his songs end with an advertising slogan from some fairly big business like "Subway, the place where fresh is the taste." Or, "Timex, takes a lickin' and keeps on tickin'" This song ends with "TCBY, The Country's Best Yogurt." I had no idea that is what TCBY stands for. Thanks for the info, Wesley. It was nice butting heads with you.

So yesterday I looked up my professors on myspace and read all the comments and then read comments on my teachers from last quarter. And then today in class my favorite teacher in the world mentioned that she recently found out about this and read her comments and some of the comments about her colleagues. I thought this was really funny. It is kind of neat to know that professors might actually read those myspace ratings. I could write all kinds of horrible anonymous things about the way they dress or their horrible speech impediments.

I was going to write about this whole thing that happened at my new job that made me really angry but I can't expend that energy right now.

Also, right after I wrote about that thing about my mom's grocery store boyfriend my favorite teacher in the whole world came into the english department writing place where I like to sit sometimes and write stuff in my blog and look at myspace teacher ratings, and she asked me how things are going and how I'm doing and stuff and I told her about that story about my mom's grocery store boyfriend and she wants me to write a poem about it. I wish I didn't hate poetry so much. The writing of it, that is. The writing of it by me or others. I don't mind reading it if I don't know the person who wrote it. But If I wrote it or someone I know wrote it, I hate it. It makes me uncomfortable. Like talking about having to clean someone's vomit up. That's how reading someone's poet makes me feel. Like I am cleaning up their feces and vomit and they are asking me what I think about it. I hate it! That's how I think about it! What do you expect? I'm cleaning up your vomit and you are just standing there asking me what I think about the consistency of your vomit or what you could have eaten to make the cleaning up more palatable. Nothing. It is your vomit. You could have just not vomited it. Or cleaned it up yourself. Or hidden it away. Or had someone else clean it up. I don't like your vomit. So don't make me clean it up.

Oldest fossilised vomit pile:

We're a generation of thugs, you can't play with us. We've been lied to, enslaved and beaten up.

So here's a funny story.

I am reading this book in my english class, a novella really, not a real book book, called The Gift. It is by some lady who just calls herself H.D. which stands for Hilda Doolittle but she is just known as H.D. I like that. Although for some reason when I look at it I think of all sorts of disgusting things that H.D. could stand for. You do the math.

The book is a modernist kind of a book. It is an autobiographical book but it is written sort of stream of consciousness-like and from the author as a child's point of view. It is really good. Anyway, there is this part where the mother tells the daughter briefly about this Spanish Student she knew before H.D.'s father. We were talking in class about how it is kind of inappropriate for the mother to be telling a young daughter about some romantic trist and how children can interpret things interestingly and all sorts of other things about a child's point of view. All of a sudden I remembered when I was a little girl I used to think that this man at the grocery store was my mom's ex-boyfriend from before she was married to my dad. I thought this because I had overheard my mom or someone talking about one of my mom's ex-boyfriends, Dennis. And the guy a the grocery store's name was Dennis. And I just connected the two together. I would watch very closely their interactions and try to see evidence of their past relationship. Sometimes I think I would imagine a wink or a nod, that sort of thing.

I remember also, maybe a few years later, thinking that it was a good thing she didn't marry him. He is a grown man who works at a grocery store. I remember thinking he was kind of a loser. Also, once I understood the concept that my mom and dad weren't from Yreka, which probably took longer than one might expect, I remember thinking it was strange that they should both end up in the same town when they must have known each other either when my mom lived in Michigan or when my mom lived in San Mateo. Probably San Mateo. I remember all of these things seeming weird to me but I don't remember the exact time that I realized that this Dennis at the grocery store is not the same Dennis who was my mom's ex-boyfriend. I was probably 6, 7, or 8 or so during this time. I was 9 when I stopped believing in Santa Clause. I held on to a lot of things longer than a lot of kids probably did. One often told story in my family regarding myself that I don't personally remember is when my aunt graduated from law school. Our family all went to her graduation and the president or some big wig guy from the law school asked me if I wanted to go to Law School and be a lawyer just like my aunt. My reply, I am told, is that I couldn't because there is no law school in Yreka. I think I had a very hard time conceptualizing time and space outside of Yreka when I was young. So my mom's boyfriend being the guy at the grocery store was the only possible explanation since there was no where outside of where I was.

Man, it feels like back in the days when cats wasn't clapping to K's and hood rats was acting they age.

Have you ever listened to a particular song or album during a particular time in your life and then lost that song or album or had it stolen from you by some roommate or boyfriend or whatever and then listened to it again a few years later and just been taken back like nobody's business? I have. And my first inclination is to go out and buy the album again. But then you own the album and you listen to it and slowly you don't equate that song or album with that old time anymore. Recently this happened to me and I'm thinking of just not buying it and just keeping it tied to that particular time so as to not lose that feeling.

My bro and I watched Lucky Number Slevin yesterday. I kind of have the hots for Josh Hartnet now. Go figure. It was good, though. I recommend it. Kind of silly but intentionally so. And Sir Ben Kingsly was really great.

Everyone at my job hates me. They think I am a know-it-all who thinks she is better than everyone else. I am. Part of me is kind of sad that they don't like me but part of me is secretly happy that I have become the kind of assertive bitch who gets shit done. I think I have finally learned to cut the crap and get to work, advise given to me when I was very young by my auntie tuney. Other women do not like women who cut the crap and get to work. And I am a know-it-all. But I used to try to hide it sometimes. Going back to college has made me cut that crap out.

You know what my new favorte teacher said on the first day of class last week? She said that modernism is difficult and that most of the time we'll feel unteathered and unmoored and that is okay. Is that a quote from something or did she just make that up? Unteathered and Unmoored and that's okay.

I'm taking two english classes. A criticism class and a U.S. lit class (that is the modernism class). I am also taking an ethnics in computer technology class. It is really cool. I'll be able to tell everyone whether or not it is okay ethically to download mp3s illegally.

It's not about aptitude, it's the way you're viewed. So it's very shrewd to be very very popular.

I got on the deans list. I didn't even know that there really was such a thing. The letter I got said that me and my family should be very proud so I called up the 'rents and let them know that they should be very proud of me. They weren't that interested. Apparently they are only disappointed that I was never on the deans list in the past. You can't win them all, as they say.

I am so jealous that Alicia and Justine got to suck Elijah Wood's dick at the Gogol Bordellow show. I read that he is going to play Iggy Pop in an Iggy Pop biopic. You know, I think sometimes people call biopics bio-pics, as in rhyming with my toe pick instead of myopic. What is up with that?

I had the strangest dream last night that lead me to write this one word poem:

Sublime.

In the dream I had a poetry teacher that was explaining how poems can be translated incorrectly even when the right words are used because the connotation is different in a different culture. The one word poem "Sublime" had been translated into some other language but in that language the word for "sublime" doesn't mean the same thing as it does in english. It connotes something different. It was a very interesting lesson that I made up in my own head and then taught to myself in my dream.

And then I taught myself something else. I've always argued that knowing stuff about the writer of a poem or whatever is cool because you can get more out of whatever you are reading. For instance, if you know that the writer is a black lesbian warrior poet you might read more into what she writes than if you think she is a white man. But in my dream my poetry teacher brought out a dead fish from his packed sushi lunch and proceeded to flay it and describe each layer and sinew and then asked if anyone knew what kind of fish it was and where it was from. And none of us knew. And he said, "what if it is from the arctic? Wouldn't that be cool? Then we would know this this and this about it." But why make conjecture about where the fish is from when you can analyze the fish right here and now and have so much to look at? And then I said, "yeah, don't beat a dead fish." I thought that was so funny. Anyway, I still think It is cool to know stuff about the person who wrote whatever I'm reading but if I ever need to explain to someone why it doesn't matter, I can always pull the old fish dream story out. Or I can just say, "don't beat a dead fish." and laugh and laugh. Cackle, really.

My new job is so easy. But I am very tired at the end of the day. This lady I work with told me she wore her pedometer one day and clocked 9 miles on it. I've been trying to find mine so I can find out how much I walk around. It is A LOT.

I don't have anything else say about anything.

P.S.

I want to meet more foreign people! I find them to be delightful.