Just recently I've spent my longest stretch yet at the Brooklyn digs. Two weeks of alternating between bursts of accomplishment and recovery, hangovers and museum trips, kidney problems and honey roasted cashews (cleverly located by the register of the local bodega, an obvious marketing strategy that gets me more often than not), endless 40s, buying paint, strong coffee and the inspiration to work on stories. It was great, and I'm ready to go back.

Other mentionable highlights: Devin and I tapped into our adventurous sides (read: were sick of sitting at home with icepacks on our wrists and moving at a constant snail's pace in effort to beat the heat) and upped our savvy factor by visiting the Museum of American Folk Art, the Museum of Modern Art (free on Friday afternoons, thanks to a suprising Target sponsorship), and the Brooklyn Museum of Art (once again, on Target's dollar). The Folk Art Museum was actually my favorite, despite the abundance of ratty looking hook-rugs-- apparently it was a special exhibit. Now apparent, I don't really care about hook rugs. But I was excited to recognize and see some work by Henry Darger, a crazy old coot that I recently watched a documentary on.

Something else exciting about the new dwelling is the unofficial tag sale that happens 24/7. By tag sale, I mean that likewise young art students and hipsters are constantly moving around, and whenever they decide to get rid of furniture, books, art, etc, it is usually placed outside or by the freight elevator, free for the taking. I found a large desk on the sidewalk, in very good condition, and now my room is nearly complete. This Hipster Hoard is also responsible for Matt's old fashioned desk and the giant white throne currently residing in our common area.

Honorable mention to the "restaurant" we visited, by the name of Bread. The quotation marks are necessary, as we traveled all the way downtown (which requires traveling uptown first, to catch the right subway) to virtually eat in a cafe/hipster coffee shop. It was as though we had never left Brooklyn in terms of venue, but regardless, the brie tartines were so good I am still thinking about them, and Devin got to sit on a couch.

Okay, so I am aware of how smarmy and utterly cute this entry sounds, so I'd like to point out that the aforementioned adventures took place over a span of four days, and rest assured the majority of our time was spent sitting on a couch and surfing the internet.

I had to come back to CT to teach a class on Wednesday. I was looking forward to coming home, mostly for the pool and central air. Allie picked me up, and let me know that my mom's friend from Virginia was visiting. I get into the house, completely bedraggled from the insanely high temperature and all around stress of traveling (no matter that it's only two hours and I've been doing it for years-- I pack a lot of stuff) and the first thing I see is the bigggest two-year old EVER. He was my mom's friend's nephew and a total laugh riot, because of/despite giving Shamu a serious run for the money in the weight department.

It was like an explosion of people, animals and popcorn chicken. I notice my cat becoming increasingly irritated
because the child was chasing him, and although I've never seen a whale being harpooned before, such images kept running through my head. So I picked the cat up, hoping to curb an impending attack.

"Kitty! Kitty! I can hold her, I can!"

"Oh, no, no no. I'm going to hold him, because he gets mad very easily. But here, you can pet him."

"I can't hold him?"

"Not right now."

"Okay..." and so the kid toddles off, or so I think. About two seconds later, I feel a vice-like grip on my legs and what feels like a bowling ball making contact with my ass. "I'll just hold you instead!" he cries.

WELCOME HOME, EMILY!

The icing on the cake came when I finally escaped up to my room, only to find a package of underwear sitting on my bed. Underwear that, as it turns out, had been offered to my sister at first. Underwear that was not only ugly, packaged and ominously sitting in the middle of my bed, but bore the worrying sticker that explained the discounted price: "SLIGHTLY IRREGULAR!"

Even though my dad is no longer Jewish by religion, he still possesses a lot of the stereotypical Jewisms. He's finicky, obsessed with money, and tries to get everyone to eat until they explode. I'm a lot like my dad in those respects, and it's true that we love a good bargain. But there are some things I won't compromise, and I think underwear, no matter how slight the irregularity, is top of the list.

There is no graceful way to recount this, so I am just going to lay it out on the table as is: while in the throes of humoring my sister by doing an impression of the cat, I screwed up and accidentally smacked myself (really hard) in the face.
Oh, it was hilarious. It was one of those acts that solicited a two-minute laugh session, complete with watering eyes (although in my case, whether this was from pain or laughter is debatable) and stitches in the side. I guarantee you should’ve been there, as I made quite an ass out of myself and presented the kind of fodder made famous by America’s Funniest Home Videos.
But I am still a little unsure of the logistics of the accident. I think I went to lift my leg while lowering my hand, and out of sync motor skills caused my knee to hit the back of my hand, causing my palm to ricochet right off the center of my face. It all happened very fast and a combination of shock and sheer force sent me literally flying back onto the bed. I mean, seriously. One minute I’m sitting up and goofing off and the next thing I know I’m flat on my back, a good foot away from my starting point. My only regret (well, aside from not possessing any coordination in the first place) is not having yelled “Oh, my nose!” a la Marcia Brady.
I don’t think anything is wrong, but my right nostril vaguely feels like its stuffed with cotton and my right ear is still ringing. I always knew it was only a matter of time before my strange and sometimes deprecating sense of humor would lead to a physical attack; however, I thought I was justified in believing the violence would ultimately come from someone else.
Can I charge myself with assault? And if so, does this mean that whenever I perform a routine breast exam in the shower I have grounds for sexual harassment?
If so, the first thing I will be doing with any kind of pay off is buying myself one of those helmets used by astronauts (you know, the ones that resemble fish bowls?) to keep this shit from happening again, because, seriously…ow, ow, ow.

Moving along.

I miss being by the ocean very, very much (especially with it being summer and all) but do not feel like alerting my parents to this because I don’t want to exert unnecessary financial burden. However, I am getting desperate and have sniffed many an ocean-scented candle and seriously pondered buying a nature-themed CD with the intent to recreate such an excursion. I have sat out by the pool for a few days now, but it only worsens my desire and besides, there has been a sudden influx of spiders around to ruin the mood (I’ve done enough crazy hopping and jumping over questionable dark spots on the pavement to look like a crackhead doing a Fred Astaire impersonation). This could be remedied by my simply forgoing pussydom and taking the car down to Misquamicut myself, but let’s be serious: I have a better chance of convincing people that my crazy pool shuffle is really anywhere near akin to Fred Astaire’s footwork (and not some epileptic fit) than driving two hours on the highway, even if the grail would end with fried clams and salty air.

Now I’m going to get an icepack and try for some sleep. Good morning.

Actually, I don't even like peanut butter all that much; I'll have it maybe twice a year.

Last night I had a dream that my Matt, Molly and I went to look at our "new apartment", and my parents met up with us later to see it as well. Except, it wasn't our real apartment: this one was a really cool if slightly dilapidated mansion. The rooms were absolutely huge and there were old antique chandeliers, huge ornate beds and it required walking across a catwalk to reach it.

A little sad when I woke up and realized that wasn't to be our place! But it was a strange dream anyway, with a lot of fancy shots and cuts, especially when riding the subway. This is what I get for watching Fight Club the other night... I dream in film.

So I'm home for Spring Break version 2007. I've only been here for a couple of days but that is long enough for me to a) Realize that any important work will not be accomplished unti last minute; b) Eat half a package of soy hot dogs [fat-free, holla holla]; c) Come to terms with incredible restlessness; and d) cut my bangs. Here are the fruits of my time spent at home thus far, told mainly through pictures featuring the dazzling bee-oooty that is myself, co-starring some animals and cheese:



( Bangs are hot, but pornography is better )

I woke up admittedly late today. Not absurdly late by my standards but let's just put it in perspective by saying "lunch" occured at 5 pm and "dinner" took place at 2 am. There was no breakfast in there unless you want to do some rearranging and consider a meal out of the reattack on my salad followed by two Blow-Pops at 5 am, but let's just call it a midnight snack and leave it at that.

Anyway, I was feeling a bit under the weather when I woke up. I thought it was the usual neck/face pains that are most often physical manifestations of my mental anguish over starting another morning (afternoon) procrastinating on the copious amount of backwork that I collect like a streetwalker would venereal diseases. But these aches remained with me, quite literally in the back of my head, and I moved on to thinking it may very well be a stiff neck from sleeping oddly.

I decided some shopping was in order. Get out, walk around, buy unnecessary stuff (when I really, really need a sensible pair of winter shoes). I had a TJ Maxx gift card left from Christmas, and hauled ass (in some weather-inappropriate Mary Janes) to the West side.

By this time my throat was hurting, and I wanted nothing more than a drink, so I stopped for sustenance at a fast food restaurant. No, shamedly I will not divulge which one, but suffice to say it was not among those most recently featured on the front page of the paper as well as all over the internet for having copious amounts of rodents frolicking (or if you prefer, my dad called it "playing with eachother") about. I rarely go into NYC fast food places anymore but I was thirsty, my feet were cold, and what's so unappealing about a dollar menu to a girl on a budget? Snap, I believe I gave myself away with that distinguishing menu trait: the rat's out of the bag after all.

So after a soda and a cheeseburger ordered sans meat (I am aware of being that difficult girl but the positive side of visiting the grand Golden Arches is that you can see them prepare your food, and so far I am happy to report my glorified cheese sandwiches have been spit-free), I headed over to yet another outlet of cheapened American product, TJ Maxx.

It's my second time visiting this store here in NYC, and I figured since it's the only one in Manhattan, it should have a few interesting items (I base this on the fact that while I would rather eat a spitburger than buy clothes from a CT-based Goodwill, the ones here in NY offer infinite treasures, point in case, a nifty red H&M shirt I bought for 3 bucks having originally purchased the same shirt in black from the store for $24).

I must say I keep getting off-track about my TJ Maxx trip, but that can be stopped and the whole visit summed up by this sentence: Much frownng over some of the ugliest shoes I've ever seen, a failed attempt at pulling off a big yellow tent as a dress, and an empty-handed departure. Really the only fun thing about this store is taking the three escalators to reach it, but their attempt at lowering my oxygen intake with such high altitudes is for naught, as I was still able to recognize bad retail.

So I bought a hot preztel from a street vendor and headed back home.

Much more dawdling ensues, hours upon hours of doing God Knows What and drinking coffee (certainly not cracking down on that homework just yet) and I have nothing to show for it except another extremely late night and even worse pains in my head, neck and ears. My fear of having a stiff neck has been increasingly replaced by my impending horror of facing SINUSITUS: ROUND THREE. Especially since I am still taking prescription preventive medicine to, you know, prevent this shit. On the bright side, maybe I will make it into the Guiness book of World Records as having the worst Immune System without any forseeable reason as to why.

Oh, who knows. I just keep feeling worse and worse. I can accurately say that because as of right now my face feels all prickly and I can barely lift my head up, whereas mere hours ago I was able to have a dance party of one.






The injustice of it all.

When it comes to Television, I'm usually not an avid watcher. Sure there a few shows I would try to catch, and Sunday night T.V. was a big part of my life last semester, when it served as a nice distraction while hurrying to churn out a comic due for my Monday class, but otherwise I have generally been take-it-or-leave-it.

Then I got sick.

And everyone knows that when you're sick there is nothing more satisfying than sleep, hot soup, and really bad television (also, it helps to have throat numbing spray on par with novacaine, thanks Chloraseptic, I love you). I spent many hours laying on my bed wrapped in comforters and watching IQ-robbing reruns. And now I can't stop. Usually when I get temporarily hooked on TV I will eventually grow bored and frustrated, and phase out the addiction after a week or two. But it's been some time, and here I am, growing more stupid and more vapid by the half-hour (time slot talk, you see).

Point in case, I had a point when I started this entry, but now I have forgotten it. Furthermore, downloading on my computer right now via youtube is an episode of Friends. I guess all I can say to sum everything up is this: I'm sorry, but unless you travel in a group of 6, come equipped with a built-in laugh track or have "Property of E!" stamped on your ass, I can't associate with you (except during commercial breaks).

It's a strange world that I live in, having to wake up for a 9:00 class on Fridays that centers around Human Diseases. Strange because in no way does this have anything in the slightest to do with my major, unless I decide that a comic book on the Plague or something is in my future (and don't get me wrong, this idea is not completely written off. In fact, I haven't thought about it before now, and it's sounding pretty good. Although, consider these factors before pooh-poohing what could be considered bad judgement on my part: a) I've been up since 8:30, b) I've barely slept at all, c) I just spent hours learning about revolting-sounding things such as pustules and sores, d) do you know how many graphic novels about the Holocaust are in existance? It would not be the first case of perhaps tasteless history-as-art).

I don't know what I'm talking about. My brain has really ceased to function. Maybe I have a DISEASE (although not Small Pox, because that doesn't occur naturally anymore, and unless I find myself in a lab in Moscow during a contamination, or a victim of biological warfare, this is an otherwise unlikely occurance, THANKS SKOOL FOR LEARNING ME GOOD!).

See what I mean.

Anyway, morale of the story: I got an hour's sleep at best last night, which is really upsetting. I've been experiencing an absolutely delightful week and a half of decent rest, after which I would wake up feeling better than I have in ages. I was hoping this was the result of a new leaf being turned in my nocturnal life, one compromised of my body's magical decision to suddenly use sleep as a means of rest (as normal people experience) instead of "Something That Inevitably And Fitfully Happens" or "Ways To Further Procrastinate On Homework". But, no. The key to my unconscious bliss has solely been the consumption of Nyquil.

I cannot go on like this. I have experienced heavenly rest in its intended form. I must have it back! Instead of developing an unhealthy relationship to liquid cold remedy, though, I think I will try sleeping pills and see how that goes.

Yar, yar. Come up with your own interesting and clever conclusion, I'm much too tired.

Today, Devin and I took a subway to Central Park. In our car was a woman with a child, reading a book with a very 90's-centric cover, entitled "The Lesbian's Wife".

At the Park we walked for a little bit, and talked a lot about shoes.

Then we went for dinner, at a crap over-priced diner that had a Pickle Bar.

On the way home I stopped and bought two bags of cheap Valentine's day candy (lollipops and conversation hearts) and a soda. I felt like a tool.

I decided to go out around 11:00, for a salad.

Passed by one of my doormen on the way (out of uniform) who said "hello", but I had my head down and realized too late that it wasn't some creep. Considered running back down the sidewalk to catch up with the doorman and repair the accidental snub, but thought that would make me the creep.

Went into shop where I usually get my salads, and headed for the ATM. "It's out! It's out!" shouted angry night employee from behind the counter. GEEZ, okay...

Next three ATMs are also out of service. Odd.

Walk to street corner, and strange 35-year old arab man smiles real big and says, "Hello, I am David! Nice to meet you!" I mutter hello, and he continues "Nice! Can I talk to you? Conversation?" And I say no. Then have to spend what seems like a really long time standing side by side, silently and awkwardly waiting for the light to change.

Find an ATM that works, one avenue over... all I had to do was follow the trail of blank CDs scattered like breadcrumbs down 23rd street.

On the way back to the bodega, I walk by another smiling arab man, walking with one arm held out straight in front of him.

Once at the salad counter, pick out my container of lettuce before being greeted with "YOU WANT SOMEONE TO TOSS YOUR SALAD?" from the man behind the counter. Obviously I have to say yes. Not so obviously, he didn't have to shout it.

Angry man charges me 45 cents more than the actual cost for a bag of chips. When I point this out, he grunts and knocks off nine cents.

I make my way home, and eat my salad, careful not to spill anything on my shirt (it's relatively new, and I like it). Mission accomplished, until I light a cigarette and an fallen ember burns a small hole in the front.

Is there a full moon, or what?

The medication I received for my third illness in five weeks (another round of Sinusitis) makes me want to vomit. I feel dizzy and loopy and it's alarmingly sad when your medicine makes you feel worse than the original sickness. I hope this will change after I've gotten used to it, but regardless, I am in extremely low spirits right now.

I feel gross, disgusting, congested, naseous, hot (temperature wise), fat, stressed, unaccomplished, beriddled with cat hair, weary, uncomfortable, and sick of being sick.

What I don't feel, however, is tired. Which is really a shame considering I have to get up in 6 hours to catch a train during a supposed snowfall, and then go to a class that I am falling behind in, and I will just be really happy when tomorrow is over with.

I could quote the Bangles to further drive home my disapproval of Mondays, but that just may be the very thin line between keeping my Orange Juice in my stomach as opposed to all over my sister's laptop (don't get me wrong, I'm all about the Bangles, but now is not the time).

Help help help help. I am a beast.

I might join a Yoga class. it's surprisingly cheap, and when I begrudgingly checked the class listings, found that it could fit easily into my schedule. I don't know about Yoga, though; it seems sort of pansy to me. This particular class is an hour long, and ends with group TEA DRINKING. Just the thought of that is enough to make me feel uncomfortable, but as the same time, it's so absurd and cute in theory, and might be worth a shot.

I'm undecided. Tae-Bo appeals more to me, because I know I will lose weight, but I honestly can't see myself getting out of bed on my day off to wear unfortunate clothing and sweat buckets with a bunch of energizer bunnies. However, rolling out of bed at 6 pm to have a tea party sounds darling, I just wish it could be with a bunch of old biddies and not a swarm of wannabe posh interns, among which I will be the short frizzy pear-shaped maternity goddess-looking thing.

Joining the community is appealing, though. I need to branch outside of my current social network. Sorry Roger and countless Pizza Place employees, it's nothing personal.


Also, I had a really lovely moment tonight that started with me sitting in my room. I was just fooling around on the Internet when I heard a faint popping noise. I grabbed my camera and ran downstairs (a sure indicator of my oh-so-exciting CT night life), and sure enough, our neighbors in the valley were setting off fireworks. I put on my dad's coat which was extremely large and could have fit two of me, and stood outside on the back deck in the cold and darkness, trying to capture the fireworks as they exploded over the tops of the trees. I didn't get any on camera, since it turns out I'm rather inept at capturing quality photos, but it was cool anyway.

Happy New Year! I hope this one is good.

I've noticed that whenever I enter my house in Connecticut, the first words out of my mouth are always "Jesus Christ!". Sort of like giving the safety word upon entering the portal to hell.

Just a quickie update, because I've actually gotten a great start to my paper (but oh please dear god please somebody tell me that one day teachers will stop assigning papers on "The Bell Jar" because I've been writing about this book forever and you would think what with all the attention it gets that Sylvia Plath shat gold), but I just wanted to share the latest bit of amusement in My Life.

Yesterday, I almost got run over by a swanky white stretch Hummer.

It sounds funny, and I am glad to be able to add it to my list of accomplishments (filed as "The Time Emily Battled The White Street Beast"), but at the time there was nothing funny about it. In fact, it was fucking scary, and I would be surprised that I didn't piss my pants, except bladder control has always been a strength of mine (one more thing for that Accomplishment List).

So I am crossing the street at around midnight, to pick up some salad and beer (sadly, not a joke). I had the white light signalling it was Okay to cross the street, and there were no cars turning. I was a model pedestrian. I was almost half way across when two bright headlights appear at my left, temporarily blinding me. I wasn't too freaked out, I thought it was a car and felt assured they were about to stop-- there was no reason for them not to. I was directly in front of them, as hard to miss as an Asian at SVA.

Then there was the really upsetting moment of realizing the driver, for whatever reason, did not see me and was still moving forward. At about 7 feet from the bumper I turned to make a run for the sidewalk (the one I had come from, it was slightly closer), and that's when I realized it was a Hummer because the fucking thing took up the entire street, leaving me no where to go. Honestly, it was happening very quickly and there was absolutely nowhere to go, and here I am about to be broadsided by perhaps the most flamboyant vehicle in the entire world (save for, maybe, The Oscar Meyer Weenie-mobile).

I was about 3 seconds from getting rammed into when I saw the Driver inside the Hummer lift his attention from whatever the hell it was that was so important on the floor of the limo and slam on the brakes. The bumper was about two feet away. It came really, really fucking close. The driver's reaction was first of pure terror, then bewilderment, THEN AN APOLOGETIC SHRUG before resuming course, albeit much more slowly. Who the HELL takes their eyes off the road when they are making a turn, during a red light, in a goddamn stretch Hummer?!

"So sorry I very nearly killed you."
"Whoopsie, dropped my hoagie, my bad."
"You don't understand, it's been ages since my last blow job!"
"SHRUG" !!!



Mr. Diddy, I think it's time for a new Chauffer.

Also, it could be the Subway sandwich, or the coffee, or the cigarettes, or the chocolate (however, I have these things all the time), but I feel like someone slipped me drugs. Maybe while I was in Union Square? Although if you were to put a gun to my head, I couldn't say I was hating it completely.

And I was thinking that, possibly, I could ask my dad to pay for me to have my own website. Or domain. Or whatever you call it where I get to pick a really cutesy name like "www.fruitsnacks.com" or "www.FROWNY_GRL.com". Two problems, though. First, I lost pretty much all of my mad HTML skillz, so it be the most boring thing ever (visually, of course; don't think for a minute I was insinuating that my entries are nothing less than life altering novellas sprinkled with pearls of wisdom), and second: If he is going to pay for a domain, surely my dad will ask what for, not to mention know the address. Which means, friends, that I would be unable to write about porn, sex, and wild adventures. And what is an Emily update, if not that?

Oh yah. It's an entry about Candy Canes.

I decided to make my last post friends-only, because I hate everyone who doesn’t have a Livejournal. Only actually, upon rereading that entry, I realized that if anyone who didn’t know me happened to stumble across that steaming heap of angst, they would instantly misunderstand my being, and thus ruin my chances of being a ToTaLLy KeWL iNtErNeT SuPeRStAr !!1! However, given the vein in which this very paragraph is written, I’d have to say my intentions are ultimately for naught.

(And-not-that-I-just-experienced-this-or-anything-but) I hate when Candy Canes break. Half the fun lies in the whacky J-shape, as it requires a little skillful maneuvering to eat and therefore constitutes as an accomplishment, and everyone knows that the meaning of life lies in the successful completion of tasks and goals.

Come to think of it, though: seeing as how the Cane shape has proved to be perpetually flawed (after all, it seems as though 95% of Candy Cane Breakage happens right at curve; the curve being its defining feature), why not opt for something a little more practical? Why make it a Cane in the first place?

After some skillful and tedious Googling on my part (just wishful thinking as an offshoot of wanting to be a top-notch gumshoe; this search was completed almost as fast as when I typed in The Bell Jar, you twisted suicide-commiserating freaks), I found that Candy Canes were said to be handed out originally as Shepard’s canes. This was around the time when Christmas Trees were becoming popular, and since cookies and other candy were also used as ornaments, the cane-shaped candies became a natural addition to holiday décor. Originally they were all white, though (America, your early resistance to anything of color never ceases to amaze me—frankly, I’m surprised the practice of gluing on little blue eyes and teaching the Candy Canes to herd the Chocolates into concentration camps never caught on).

I wonder how many people still put Candy Canes on their trees. Personally, I hardly ever see this anymore. The only people I know who still do this are my grandparents, which means it is incredibly outdated and probably on the verge of extinction (“Emily? What in gosh-dang-darn is the world-wide-inter-web-net?Come over here and show me how to use it, while I tell you about the pet dinosaur I had as a kid!", for example).

I like Candy Canes on trees. I mean, obviously. One look at my stomach tells you that I won’t be turning down free food anytime soon, even if it means fishing through a bunch of pine needles to get to it. (God forbid the day someone should tell me there’s a pizza hidden in the branches; that Christmas tree will be on the ground faster than you can say “Jingle Bells”). But what I mean to say is, I think most people just buy Candy Canes to eat nowadays. I think I am alone in my willingness to literally forage for food, and Candy Canes now reside safely in pretty glass bowls, or stockings. Their shape, originally made popular because of its ability to hang from trees, is becoming pointless, and because this is America, I think it should be phased out with the REST of the useless, out-dated crap (why are we all still walking when motorized wheel chairs exist? Who can riddle me that?).


So, I present to you: A list of Candy Cane Thing suggestions for configuration, that would better suit the people of today:

-Football Shaped— This is a good one for the boys, obviously; not to mention the girls who call themselves “Tomboys” and Pretend To Like Sports but really mean they Like Kissing Other Girls. Regardless, it would be one more thing to initiate bonding between males (and male wannabes). While Grandma is busy opening her 8th pair of fuzzy slippers, the guys can just grab one of these treats and begin tossing the ol’ Peppermint Pigskin. Added bonus being they would probably hurt like a bitch, so you better give good gifts or risk getting pelted with one of these suckers.

-Cell Phone Shaped-- This is an obvious choice if only because it’s an object we’re all accustomed to (and dare I say, feel a bit lost without) holding onto for extended periods of time. It would make sense to manufacture something like this, as I am sure that pretty soon at least one of our hands will no longer open all the way but instead remain semi-clamped in full on phone gripping mode, as to conserve physical energy and ultimately make us The Most Efficient Humans Ever (my guess is this will start happening in Japan first, watch for it).

-Penis Shaped-- The same exact reasons for the Cell Phone Shaped Candy apply here.

-Finger Shaped-- This is for the girls with eating disorders, so they can simultaneously suck on it and purge at the same time (I mean, at 50 calories a Candy, you don’t want to be the one girl packing on the Holiday pounds, do you?)

-Pokemon Shaped W/ a Liquid NyQuil Center-- Face it: the damn kids are going to be stuffing their scream-holes with Candy all season long. Instead of the impending tantrums that will be thrown if you try to deny them their bounty (sidenote: I’m thinking of every instance in which I go to Wal-Mart, here: MOTHERS, either give the brats what they want or leave them at home while you do the monthly shopping for Looney Tunes Printed Sweaters because BabyDaddy finally sent the support check. I do not appreciate your cartfuls of Headache!), simply give them this treat instead. They will enjoy the reference to their favorite Japanese monsters, and the Nyquil will work to offset the sugar high. Undoubtedly, a Mother’s key to a Happy Holiday is dependent on that piece of jewelry she’s been hinting at since Labor Day, a fifth of Vodka, and the kids heavily sedated with sleep-inducing medication (and for once, the opportunity to accurately describe them as little angels). Don’t deny yourself, ladies.



I would like to know where I could submit these fine examples of confectionary genius. Surely I have established there is a market for such treats. This season, be sure to ask yourself: WHY THE CANDY CANE? Campaign to get rid of the Cane! It is outdated, and only is only working to hold back America from evolving into what we all agree is our common goal: ROBOT AMERICA. The Past is out! Future is in! Rah, rah, rah!


(I know what you’re all thinking: Shut up bitch, and Go Choke on A Gingerbread Man. To which I say… gingerbread man? Why not gingerbread reality television star? Or gingerbread stockbroker? Why not gingerbread duplexes, and condos? Why no--)

You would not believe the Winter Wonderland going on in my room right now, despite it being 4 am. I'm listening to some of the christmas songs I've downloaded recently (uhh, just kidding), looking at TVGUIDE.COM for upcoming holiday movies (uhh, still kidding), searching gettyimages.com for pictures of balls and men-- of the decorative and ginger variety, respectively (FINE I'm not kidding, I'm just a douche GOD get off my back), and most worriesome of all is the new habit I've accquired, of looking for pretty christmas icons to make my computer background, which changes often to heighten the spirit.

I'd say that maybe this all has something to do with tonight's conversation with my Pop, who mentioned that light snow was in the forecast for Connecticut tonight.. but since this absolutely sickening behavior has been going on for about two weeks now, I'll just admit that I may have a problem. BUT, since I'm already on the road to utter (moral) destruction, why not just go all out? I'm serious. Imagine my room (at home in CT, of course-- whatever I put up here in NY I'll just forget about and leave alone, until there are still cardboard reindeer falling from my walls come May) just decked out in garland. Or, those really corny cut-out christmas tree chains. I will admit that while part of me wants to jump-start the holiday spirit by any means necessary, a lot of the driving force lies in knowing how much my Mother will come to despise my decorative endeavors. Which is why I am seriously picturing a JUNGLE of tinsel hanging from the ceiling. Ho-ho-how funny.

But FoR rEaLz Yo, I'm game for getting into the season this year. Considering how Thanksgiving this year was a first one in awhile where I can say it honestly went okay (largely due to the fact that Allie and I took the occasion into our hands), maybe a little effort can make Christmas better than the more or less depressing event is has become in the years past. Is it lame (yes yes yes oh well) to want this one to be really good/adequate at the very least? Also, I'm ready for snow, and all my scarves are raring to go. I've already accumulated gloves, a few fuzzy short skirts, and in the very near future: a hat (something I haven't bought in years). Hey, Father Christmas: BRING IT.

Like I mentioned, I was talking to Papi tonight and once more, brought up the subject of living in Brooklyn come May. In short, one of the big reasons I'm living in the room I am in now was because I had to find something before last summer, so I could move my stuff in, instead of bringing everything back to CT at the end of the semester and vice versa (my parents refuse to drive here, and didn't want to pay for storage). Unfortunately, this means I have never really moved anything back since coming to NY as Freshman, i.e, I have a lot of crap. I plan on getting rid of the bulk of my stuff, and then just moving into my next place sans junk, like a normal person (and to stop doing things in a roundabout crazy way because it sounds better to my dad).

So, I sort of fought with Pop, telling him that the reasons he wants me to stay here are ridiculous and unrealistic ("a good storage place") but it wasn't as bad as usual. Then he goes on about Allie, who will be coming next year to SVA as a Freshman, and how she should take this room over because, once again, it acts as a great storage and saves my parents the trouble of moving us back/forth. I got really angry and explained that he was lucky I was such a pushover in the past, and that most parents have to deal with moving things, that's part of the college experience, and that it hardly constitutes living in a sad, kitchenless room. Also, that it would be really mean to deny Allie her Freshman year in the dorm, as that's where everyone makes their friends.

And so my dad goes, "Oh my god, what is she going to do for the summer, though? What about her stuff?" and it's like, come on, just deal with it. So he goes, "Fine! At the end of Allie's first year, you find her a place to live. Find her an apartment on, what's that site, craigslist? You're responsible for finding her an apartment, and a place to keep her stuff for the summer, it's all you!", and then he sounded happy, problem solved. And I mean REALLY, BUT NO. No, it is not my responsibility. It's just that there is absolutely no reality in that situation, and secondly, I am not her PARENT, which he seems to be forgetting more and more. It's always, "Em, talk to allie about how mean she is", or "em, talk to allie about drugs", "em, find allie a job", and now, "em, find allie an apartment for next summer", and if he wants to complain about Mom and her lack of any sort of maternal guidance but remain with her, that's his thing, but the worse it gets the more he heaps it on me, and I'm too young to be a mother to anyone, especially when I am so stressed out these days. Nor did I ask for it.

I've made it a point in the past to help her out (dropping her off and picking her up, giving her what little advice I can, college talks, being there, etc) specifically because mom sucks at being a mom but not only is Allie pretty old now, but what's next-- "Em, pay for Allie's schooling"? I'm not even that much older than her, it's pretty ridiculous. I think he takes for granted how I help out to be nice, but this is really demanding too much. I shouldn't be expected to be to responsible for someone else when I'm at the point in my life where I've got to get myself an internship, my degree, and my own housing.



This entry has backfired in my face. All spirit is temporarily suspended, to make way for aggravation.

I’ve been in Connecticut for a little over 9 hours now, and I’ve done nothing but chain smoke, drink a lot of coffee, illegally download songs of the emo-douche variety, and play scrabble. Oh, home.

I was looking through the pantry and I saw a jar of something questionable, and when I read the label I learned it was passion fruit-flavored cherries. Now, I’ll admit I’m no gourmet chef but what is up with that? Isn’t that like eating an apple-flavored banana, or tangerine-flavored pear? What’s the point? I must say it sounds a little bit enticing; however, I doubt I will be partaking seeing as how they are bright yellow and look like the result of a one-night stand between a jar of stewed tomatoes and the hot pepper rings.

Also, upon losing my cool over Fat Free Kraft Shredded Cheese I got to thinking: I don’t eat food. Oh, no. I eat things inspired by food. The more microwavable, fat-free, vegetarian, substitute-serving and all-around cardboard tasting it is = the more I am bound to deem it “bEsT tHiNg eVerZ !!” (still surprised I’m not a gourmet chef? didn’t think so). Imitation Baco’s, Soy Hot Dogs, Everything-Free Butter Spray, and Lean Cuisine Macaroni and Cheese dinners are a few of my favorite things.

But anyhow, back to the Fat Free Shredded Cheese—it’s fantastic without even being good. It has no taste. But the possibilities are endless! It saves me the trouble of shredding those darn Kraft FF slices. It stays nice and cold. It looks real. It comes with a Ziploc closure on the bag. I can put it on Matzo, soy dogs, or add it to my LC Mac and Cheese. I can put it on salad, or maybe a baked potato. Maybe I can even dress it up as a person and pretend to have friends and be cooler than I obviously am, instead of writing entries on the merits of cheese substitute!!




Ugh, I just went to eject what I thought was going to be Bridget Jones’s Diary from my computer, only to find out that I’ve brought Porn home by mistake.

My life is a series of ups and downs.

Disclaimer: I have nothing funny to report, and am just killing time while my headache subsides & the next episode of Canada’s Next Top Model loads on iTunes (because makeovers and funny accents are the new Tylenol).

My roommate is in France, and I keep going back and forth between liking the freedom, and feeling really alone. Although since the school week has started again I have more stuff to do so it’s not as bad, and come Friday when she gets back I know I will miss the following:


- 2 showers a day (one for hygienic purposes, the other purely as a means to practice a medley of show-tunes).

- Use of the microwave at any time (more specifically, around midnight, when I eat dinner). To celebrate, in approximately an hour, I will be dining on ABC’s (the only meatless kid-friendly canned pasta the supermarket stocked: I was sort of holding out for SpaghettiOs).

- Talking to myself (and what I mean is reprimanding myself, because you wouldn’t believe how much crap I have spilled today, including soda, soup, coffee and the same bottle of water three times). However, I am afraid this habit is going to carry over anyway, and my roommate will be left wondering who I am calling a “fucking clumsy cow”.

- The freedom to vacuum at 10 pm because of the aforementioned huge messes.

- Doing everything pants-less.


I will also miss the opportunity to stand by my front door and eavesdrop on the people in the apartment next door. Not that I have done this often, only once in fact, but that was enough to hear this little gem:

Gruff sounding man: “NO! NO, YOU SHOW ME NO LOVE! NO LOVE! ABSOLUTELY NO CONSIDERATION! I EVEN SHOWERED TODAY!”
Shaken sounding woman: “That’s not true, I pet you earlier, don’t you remember, I pet you!”


After I consecutively knocked over my coffee and soup, I went on a bit of a cleaning binge, which was much needed. Now my room looks better but I still have energy to burn. I do believe I will fix that by going in the shower and practicing my show-tunes now.

I was going to post an ad on craigslist, in search of a part-time sleeping companion.

The ad was going to go on to say that the position is open to men, spooning is the only intention, feel free to bring your own blanket but if impossible I can provide an extra, personal pillow a must, I smoke so you should too, I get the left-hand side, cats are OK, part-time (because I get annoyed easily), and that this is a non-paying job, possibly for internship credit. Then I was going to post a picture of a tall black man and say that I am the opposite, and to use your imagination if you want to know what I look like.



But the form was too long and I think it mentioned something about paying to post an ad, not quite sure, so fuck it. I'll just write about my great scheme here, and go to bed (ALONE) with visions of my countless failed dreams.












( I wasn't actually going to give my address, duh.)

For the first time in my life my nickname could accurately be “Jugs”.
Unfortunately, this has absolutely nothing to do with my breast-size and everything to do with the gallons of juice I’ve been seen carrying home; a liquid diet for the ill. Go figure.

The last four days have been spent sleeping and going to class, though much more of the former. In fact, I should be in class right now. La-de-la-de-la! But after straining through an in-class essay on Charlotte’s Web (not mentally straining, obviously) earlier this afternoon I am beat. I became largely aware of how often I was blowing my nose (2 times a minute, minimum) and it turned into one of those obsessive things: “Am I blowing my nose too much? Is everyone hating on me? I don’t want to be the Sniffle Girl, I can’t help it!”

I tried to get out early. After the essay I asked the teacher, “oh, what are we reading for next week?” and she eyed my overstuffed bag and empty chair and replied, “That’s what we will be discussing after the break”. KAY GOT IT THANKS. I didn’t feel so bad for blowing my nose after that. Nor did I see any problem in putting my head in my hands, staring at the wall, rolling my eyes continuously, or practically flapping out of my chair onto the floor in the throes of being dramatically ill.

Some animation guys from class were talking to me in the elevator (if you didn’t know, male animation majors are the closest thing you get to normal, actual boys at this school) but I was so busy put-putting to myself about the tragedy that was having to stay in class that when asked about the quiz I started with “CHRIST!”, said the words “pig”, “web” and “bacon”, before ending with a string of charming obscenities. And then I probably blew my nose.

Good thing I stayed, though. Otherwise I may have never known that for next week I have to read “The Cat in the Hat”. I mean, I’m going to need the whole week to get through that motherfucker, for sure. Maybe I can use SparkNotes, if things look really hairy.

Last night I awoke from my marathon nap for something other than a cigarette or the bathroom. I decided I should get something to eat. So, equipped with a slight fever and my umbrella, I go outside in the rain. I felt like a ghost, and I probably looked horrible, going from eatery to eatery, unable to make up my mind. At one point I stopped using my umbrella because I was too damn hot, and despite feeling really good, I know I looked utterly bat-shit. In the end I opted for some DAIRY SUBSTITUTE alias Tasti-D-Lite (It’s not ice cream because it doesn’t have cream, nor is it frozen yogurt because it doesn’t have yogurt, nor is it delicious but I don’t have my sense of taste back so who cares), and it was cold, and that was nice. Better solution than the previous night, when I woke up for the first time with a fever and spent four hours dying on my bed in just underpants because the air conditioner was up at the highest setting and it still felt like Brazil inside my body (my across-the-street neighbors never have to buy Porn when I’m around).

Okay, so anyway, I’m feeling a bit better. Enough to be back to my charmingly snide self. At least, I hope I’m better, as I ran out of aspirin and decongestant, and am too cheap to buy any more when I will be home tomorrow night anyway. And I am contemplating real dinner, and I just might fork out the extra 1.50 for Sauce Andiamo (named for the pizza joint from which it is made) which includes garlic, onions and mushrooms in addition to just marinara sauce. I better wake up tomorrow feeling like 100 bucks because I’m so bored I’ve reverted back to LJ.


Small sidenote: Since bed-ridden and nothing interesting has happened, I will briefly recant a dream I had in which my cousin and I were hitching rides with a trucker, one of those really huge MAC truck type deals. Except, there was only room for one lovely lady in the front seat and that went to my cousin, where as I had to lie on a metal structure beneath the truck (no doubt a fever-induced dream, wtf?). But the best part was that we got pulled over, and this cop (who was the dad from Sister, Sister!) came screaming at us and we’re freaking out, and then he looks at me and yells, “PUT YOUR TOP ON!” and I look down and realize I clutching my bra in my hands.

Hitchhiking and flashing? I WOULD NEVER!

I had a dream last night in which I had a boyfriend who was really fat and pimply, but I really liked him anyway. I woke up thinking what the hell, and concluded that whatever higher beings/states of mind exist are trying to prepare me for a lifetime of ugly boyfriends, sex on top, and possibly inadequate living situations (in the dream we were also caught in flagrante by his mother).

I hear that sometimes weird dreams occur because of something you ate before you went to bed. If such is the case, in the future I will try to avoid:
-polish pickles
-lean cuisine manicotti meal, with broccoli
-italian bread w/ half slice of american cheese
-reduced fat cheezits
-pink lemonade flavored jolly ranchers
-Pez
-Strawberries


Seeing as how I ate all of that within a span of three hours, it's not surprising that I dreamt of fat people. Considering counting money before I go to sleep, as to possibly dream of rich boyfriend, with a slight chance that I could end up with a bank-robber instead.