you may be reading this as i type it.
maybe i'm wrong. maybe i'm always wrong.
i wonder if you're thinking, how could i know with you? how could i know, with all the boys and their nicknames detailed in the pages of this dandy little account?
with you, i always knew.
i think it was "shiny." i think it was that song that did it to me, the line about tawny gypsy girls, sleeping blanketed by stars.
it was you.
it was always you.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
five.
you and me at war at arms
all falling in embrace.
five songs, five loves, five laughs.
Quads, I know you'll read this and surely think, with a bit of self-aware reluctance, that it's all about you.
I always was a terrible liar.
Because you had to know that I was fond of you,
Fond of Y-O-U
You think you know me well, and maybe you do, but here; here's me:
I have ten fingers and ten toes. The latter are all of normal, descending length.
That being said, I hate feet.
The only lies I can manage are the stomach-clenching white lies to attempt to get myself out of trouble.
I have dinosaur hands, and I often hold my arms aloft as if posing as a T-Rex.
This is entirely unintentional.
I am outspoken with emotions, but I'm never sure exactly what I'm feeling.
I'm loud, but I'm much more introverted than many seem to think.
I'm terrified of life.
This is just the bare bones.
Quads, you're just great.
I love that you're a corrupting influence.
You're in my top five.
I'm not making sense I'm not making sense I'm not making sense.
I think I love you.
all falling in embrace.
five songs, five loves, five laughs.
Quads, I know you'll read this and surely think, with a bit of self-aware reluctance, that it's all about you.
I always was a terrible liar.
Because you had to know that I was fond of you,
Fond of Y-O-U
You think you know me well, and maybe you do, but here; here's me:
I have ten fingers and ten toes. The latter are all of normal, descending length.
That being said, I hate feet.
The only lies I can manage are the stomach-clenching white lies to attempt to get myself out of trouble.
I have dinosaur hands, and I often hold my arms aloft as if posing as a T-Rex.
This is entirely unintentional.
I am outspoken with emotions, but I'm never sure exactly what I'm feeling.
I'm loud, but I'm much more introverted than many seem to think.
I'm terrified of life.
This is just the bare bones.
Quads, you're just great.
I love that you're a corrupting influence.
You're in my top five.
I'm not making sense I'm not making sense I'm not making sense.
I think I love you.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Dance Hall Days
We talk about love a lot, you and I.
I find myself wondering--
Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, you could have it with me?
I find myself wondering--
Did you ever consider that maybe, just maybe, you could have it with me?
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 23, 2009
cosas, veinte y cinco
JK: "The world's one big orgasm! I thought, if anyone would agree, it'd be Tony. I thought, look, finally, here's a kid with spirit!"
It's the final countdown.
1. I love the smell of clean sheets.
2. My feet squeak as I walk. I cringe at the sound.
3. I have the dirtiest fingernails of nearly anyone you'll ever meet. And it's usually from food.
4. I've seen every episode of The OC. At least twice. And I not-so-secretly take pride in the fact that I draw comparisons to Taylor Townsend.
5. I'm awkward and pathetic and terribly disheveled. Constantly. And a part of me finds joy in my disaster.
6. I can barely handle the taste of alcohol.
7. I want to be Anna Quindlen.
8. Nudity makes me severely uncomfortable. I think this roots in the fact that I am completely uncomfortable with my body.
9. I'm a romantic idealist, but I'm a realist. I prefer reason to the emotional shitshow of being an eighteen-year-old girl.
10. I used to be an optimist.
11. I am innately a motherly figure. I worry. About everything. All the time.
12. Chuck Klosterman changed my life. Andy Greenwald made the dream life real.
13. I never thought I'd be a sorority girl, but I'm quite contentedly sporting the silver and bordeaux.
14. I have never been comfortable in my own skin. I fear I never will be.
15. I often love antagonizing people. In a way, it's my attempt to make someone prove that they care.
16. I love riding the L. I love riding the L backwards. I love riding the L backwards and watching the people and gazing at the world as it drifts past.
17. I love love, I love being in love.
18. Whenever I'm feeling down and out, I don my jacket (it is February in Chicago) and Chucks, headphones in, dancing silently and observing the world as the tunes pound in my ears. It brings a sense of adventure and adds a soundtrack to monotony.
19. I get excited when record shopping.
20. I'm a procrastinating perfectionist. It's a terrible combination.
21. I have an incredibly weak stomach. When I was small, I used to vomit at the stench of public restrooms. My sister used to taunt, "Don't you throw up! Don't you throw up!" I still start to wretch.
22. I am a pesca-/pollo-tarian. I have a (likely) allergic reaction to red meat. And I can't eat lamb, due to the Simpsons episode with Lisa and the lamb. "Liiiiiiiiisa, don't eat me!"
23. I want to be more Jew-ish, but I frankly don't have the time. I think God forgives me.
24. I set my alarm for times so that the sum of the digits is a multiple of ten.
25. I'm proud of my writing to the point that it's become a vice. I'm only a little ashamed of that.
It's the final countdown.
1. I love the smell of clean sheets.
2. My feet squeak as I walk. I cringe at the sound.
3. I have the dirtiest fingernails of nearly anyone you'll ever meet. And it's usually from food.
4. I've seen every episode of The OC. At least twice. And I not-so-secretly take pride in the fact that I draw comparisons to Taylor Townsend.
5. I'm awkward and pathetic and terribly disheveled. Constantly. And a part of me finds joy in my disaster.
6. I can barely handle the taste of alcohol.
7. I want to be Anna Quindlen.
8. Nudity makes me severely uncomfortable. I think this roots in the fact that I am completely uncomfortable with my body.
9. I'm a romantic idealist, but I'm a realist. I prefer reason to the emotional shitshow of being an eighteen-year-old girl.
10. I used to be an optimist.
11. I am innately a motherly figure. I worry. About everything. All the time.
12. Chuck Klosterman changed my life. Andy Greenwald made the dream life real.
13. I never thought I'd be a sorority girl, but I'm quite contentedly sporting the silver and bordeaux.
14. I have never been comfortable in my own skin. I fear I never will be.
15. I often love antagonizing people. In a way, it's my attempt to make someone prove that they care.
16. I love riding the L. I love riding the L backwards. I love riding the L backwards and watching the people and gazing at the world as it drifts past.
17. I love love, I love being in love.
18. Whenever I'm feeling down and out, I don my jacket (it is February in Chicago) and Chucks, headphones in, dancing silently and observing the world as the tunes pound in my ears. It brings a sense of adventure and adds a soundtrack to monotony.
19. I get excited when record shopping.
20. I'm a procrastinating perfectionist. It's a terrible combination.
21. I have an incredibly weak stomach. When I was small, I used to vomit at the stench of public restrooms. My sister used to taunt, "Don't you throw up! Don't you throw up!" I still start to wretch.
22. I am a pesca-/pollo-tarian. I have a (likely) allergic reaction to red meat. And I can't eat lamb, due to the Simpsons episode with Lisa and the lamb. "Liiiiiiiiisa, don't eat me!"
23. I want to be more Jew-ish, but I frankly don't have the time. I think God forgives me.
24. I set my alarm for times so that the sum of the digits is a multiple of ten.
25. I'm proud of my writing to the point that it's become a vice. I'm only a little ashamed of that.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
M83
(You can find this on the Daily Northwestern website):
No Strings Attached
For the uninvolved, wading through the NU dating scene can be as much of a bitch as a Friday night on Parents' Weekend.
It can all be summed up succinctly in a grammatically incorrect text message eliciting relations: “My place? 8p.m. Ur ass is foiiiiiiine.”
It’s the familiar hook-up in its smuttiest form, stylized with technology into a booty call. In the collegiate bubble in which we reside, however, the hook-up translation is often slobbering, well-intended, tipsy tonsil hockey, tantamount to a grand hello — while under the influence.
The idea of a hook-up was something I never quite comprehended. I dwell in the dichotomy of black versus white. I understand the color wheel, the violet-reds and yellow-oranges that exist between the utter absence or presence of light, but my life is, to the best of my ability, an unambiguous operation. I prefer definitive answers to abhorred utterances of “Mayyyyyybe,” which seemingly formed the entire vocabulary of last quarter’s love interest.
When it comes to the sticky sweet goodness of romance, though, the cataloguing in taxonomic groups just isn’t sufficient.
That, it seems, is the problem with Northwestern’s non-academic romance department — there is no in-between, no mucky gray mundanity between the head first of hook-ups and the eternity of lock-ups. I’ve discovered, as of late, that I have trouble in the romantic limbo which is the Northwestern dating scene — and I’m certainly not alone.
It hit me last week, as I was scrolling College ACB, the heir to the online collegiate gossip throne left vacant by the demise of JuicyCampus. The subject line read “Dating Scene,” and the original poster posed, “What do you think of the dating scene here..?” The first response, the simplicity of “What dating scene?,” seemed to sum up the subsequent ten posts.
As a second quarter freshman, maneuvering the overtly-coital atmosphere of the lascivious collegiate dating world is tricky. I’m diving head first — pun entirely unintended — into the romantic dynamic at Northwestern, and the resulting social climate is tumultuous. Winter Quarter, steeped in rumor and expectation, facilitates the hook-up, the no-strings-attached kissy-kissy.
It’s difficult to attach myself to the idea of meaningless kisses, as I was raised on the ideals of Disney princesses and happily-ever-afters. Jasmine would have never exchanged saliva with Aladdin if he’d kept their exchange to a simple magic carpet ride. Hell, even skanky Meg forced Hercules to suffer a little; he did, after all, offer up his soul in exchange for hers. Why, then, is it acceptable to exist in this uncompromising lackadaisical world of literal free love?
My disenchantment with romance began in a tizzy of perfume and liquored air on a chilly winter night. There were black Xs scrubbed from cold hands, and sweat flooded the dance floor, mobilized by the thumping beat of what I will generalize as every dirty-ass grind track from Britney’s Circus. Bodies pushed closer than prepubescent males at a high school homecoming, and the commotion of hips colliding with hands clouded otherwise clear minds.
It started, as all antiquated romances do, with a dance. The aura of hormones pervaded the air, and, as pelvic bones crashed with the pounding of the dance groove, good pilgrims breached familiar territory of Shakespearean proportions. Eyes clenched tightly as arms wrapped around waists, and, in the moment, sly smiles met shy eyes.
Conversation superseded dancing, intensity replaced by the humility of eye contact. Common ground dialogue of baseball and music allowed comfort in a potentially awkward situation; arms outstretched wrapped delicately around cold shoulders, nothing more, nothing less. Tired eyes concealed intimations of past indiscretions, but the quiet whisper of voices divulged a tenderness unseen in the banality of “the hook-up.” The sentiments were evident in the casual brushing of hands, the subtle grins and the faint beaming of complete and utter contentment.
The night wore on, and downcast eyes chanced meetings with good graces. Laughter permeated the mere inches of air separating one party from another, replacing the deafening rhythm of the dance floor. Hands gingerly sought mates, venturing into territory indisputably tiptoeing on the edge of commitment, and the graze of lips across forehead met bashful utterances and crimson cheeks. The night air dried the remnants of sweat and sin, and the dance of light conversation, peppered with the laughter of shared jokes, was the last of the night.
I ventured oh-so-innocently into the former territory in the dating dichotomy (see: hook-ups), but I longed instead for that nonexistent middle ground. The idea of a committed relationship terrifies even the most hopeless of romantics, myself included, and I crave the ambiguous gray of involved bachelorette-dom. I’m a single lady, and, if you like it, dear God, please don’t put a ring on it; use your words, and maybe we can explore that happy medium. The campus romance climate encourages us to eschew the idea of moderation; we’re beings of utter intensity, and this fervor for the extreme extends into our romantic lives. Even I’m avoiding discussing that gray. It’s an unflattering shade of life.
I’m done sending text messages and skirting the issue, but I’m not ready for the titular classifications just yet. For once, I’m pleading for that gray matter, the limbo in which I can feel confident and comfortable and sexy without transforming into someone’s ball and chain. And I doubt I’m alone in my lamentations of romantic foibles on campus.
I suppose it’s unfair to say I dove into the romance department here at NU. I, if we’re being candid, stumbled. And I’m falling.
No Strings Attached
For the uninvolved, wading through the NU dating scene can be as much of a bitch as a Friday night on Parents' Weekend.
It can all be summed up succinctly in a grammatically incorrect text message eliciting relations: “My place? 8p.m. Ur ass is foiiiiiiine.”
It’s the familiar hook-up in its smuttiest form, stylized with technology into a booty call. In the collegiate bubble in which we reside, however, the hook-up translation is often slobbering, well-intended, tipsy tonsil hockey, tantamount to a grand hello — while under the influence.
The idea of a hook-up was something I never quite comprehended. I dwell in the dichotomy of black versus white. I understand the color wheel, the violet-reds and yellow-oranges that exist between the utter absence or presence of light, but my life is, to the best of my ability, an unambiguous operation. I prefer definitive answers to abhorred utterances of “Mayyyyyybe,” which seemingly formed the entire vocabulary of last quarter’s love interest.
When it comes to the sticky sweet goodness of romance, though, the cataloguing in taxonomic groups just isn’t sufficient.
That, it seems, is the problem with Northwestern’s non-academic romance department — there is no in-between, no mucky gray mundanity between the head first of hook-ups and the eternity of lock-ups. I’ve discovered, as of late, that I have trouble in the romantic limbo which is the Northwestern dating scene — and I’m certainly not alone.
It hit me last week, as I was scrolling College ACB, the heir to the online collegiate gossip throne left vacant by the demise of JuicyCampus. The subject line read “Dating Scene,” and the original poster posed, “What do you think of the dating scene here..?” The first response, the simplicity of “What dating scene?,” seemed to sum up the subsequent ten posts.
As a second quarter freshman, maneuvering the overtly-coital atmosphere of the lascivious collegiate dating world is tricky. I’m diving head first — pun entirely unintended — into the romantic dynamic at Northwestern, and the resulting social climate is tumultuous. Winter Quarter, steeped in rumor and expectation, facilitates the hook-up, the no-strings-attached kissy-kissy.
It’s difficult to attach myself to the idea of meaningless kisses, as I was raised on the ideals of Disney princesses and happily-ever-afters. Jasmine would have never exchanged saliva with Aladdin if he’d kept their exchange to a simple magic carpet ride. Hell, even skanky Meg forced Hercules to suffer a little; he did, after all, offer up his soul in exchange for hers. Why, then, is it acceptable to exist in this uncompromising lackadaisical world of literal free love?
My disenchantment with romance began in a tizzy of perfume and liquored air on a chilly winter night. There were black Xs scrubbed from cold hands, and sweat flooded the dance floor, mobilized by the thumping beat of what I will generalize as every dirty-ass grind track from Britney’s Circus. Bodies pushed closer than prepubescent males at a high school homecoming, and the commotion of hips colliding with hands clouded otherwise clear minds.
It started, as all antiquated romances do, with a dance. The aura of hormones pervaded the air, and, as pelvic bones crashed with the pounding of the dance groove, good pilgrims breached familiar territory of Shakespearean proportions. Eyes clenched tightly as arms wrapped around waists, and, in the moment, sly smiles met shy eyes.
Conversation superseded dancing, intensity replaced by the humility of eye contact. Common ground dialogue of baseball and music allowed comfort in a potentially awkward situation; arms outstretched wrapped delicately around cold shoulders, nothing more, nothing less. Tired eyes concealed intimations of past indiscretions, but the quiet whisper of voices divulged a tenderness unseen in the banality of “the hook-up.” The sentiments were evident in the casual brushing of hands, the subtle grins and the faint beaming of complete and utter contentment.
The night wore on, and downcast eyes chanced meetings with good graces. Laughter permeated the mere inches of air separating one party from another, replacing the deafening rhythm of the dance floor. Hands gingerly sought mates, venturing into territory indisputably tiptoeing on the edge of commitment, and the graze of lips across forehead met bashful utterances and crimson cheeks. The night air dried the remnants of sweat and sin, and the dance of light conversation, peppered with the laughter of shared jokes, was the last of the night.
I ventured oh-so-innocently into the former territory in the dating dichotomy (see: hook-ups), but I longed instead for that nonexistent middle ground. The idea of a committed relationship terrifies even the most hopeless of romantics, myself included, and I crave the ambiguous gray of involved bachelorette-dom. I’m a single lady, and, if you like it, dear God, please don’t put a ring on it; use your words, and maybe we can explore that happy medium. The campus romance climate encourages us to eschew the idea of moderation; we’re beings of utter intensity, and this fervor for the extreme extends into our romantic lives. Even I’m avoiding discussing that gray. It’s an unflattering shade of life.
I’m done sending text messages and skirting the issue, but I’m not ready for the titular classifications just yet. For once, I’m pleading for that gray matter, the limbo in which I can feel confident and comfortable and sexy without transforming into someone’s ball and chain. And I doubt I’m alone in my lamentations of romantic foibles on campus.
I suppose it’s unfair to say I dove into the romance department here at NU. I, if we’re being candid, stumbled. And I’m falling.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
aoe
Last week, you saw a girl
As you recall, it was a sorority girl.
All you wanna know is who she be
Oh hot damn, she’s an Alpha Phi!!!!!
And you jizzed in your pants.
Saw some ivy, and you jizzed in your pants.
Silver and bordeaux make you jizz in your pants.
You just ate a grape, and you jizzed in your pants.
Sisterhood.
As you recall, it was a sorority girl.
All you wanna know is who she be
Oh hot damn, she’s an Alpha Phi!!!!!
And you jizzed in your pants.
Saw some ivy, and you jizzed in your pants.
Silver and bordeaux make you jizz in your pants.
You just ate a grape, and you jizzed in your pants.
Sisterhood.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
