High School Friendships

High school relationships get a really bad rap--like "dramatic" or whatevs. But, honestly, I never experienced much of that. SVC--one of my prized HS pals--just got an iPhone, so we've been Emojiing all day. Duh. We've been talking about how we met, and I just want to give a shout out to how spontaneous friendships can be in high school, and how truly great that is.

HOW WE BECAME FRIENDS:

-We had English class together, and one day everyone was supposed to be silently reading The Scarlet Letter. We weren't. We were both looking around the classroom, and then at each other.
-I used to mismatch my shoes in HS. At first it was an accident, and then I thought it was cool. Trendsetter, what? SVC was the only person who noticed.
-He remembers some time when the teacher turned her back, and I flicked him off. I have no recollection of this, but that doesn't mean I don't think it happened.
-We started saying "hi" in the parking lot before school.
-He was a captain on the debate team, so his AIM was on a whiteboard in the team room. I copied it in my planner, and we would IM at night.
-We read each other's Livejournals.
-We decided to hang out some Friday. He got my number, called me, and we ended up watching Biodome with a bunch of people.

And then we became best friends. What!? But, we did.

SINCE BECOMING FRIENDS:

-We helped each other establish academic ideas.
-We traveled to Scotland.
-We've coached each other through break-ups and other crisis, near and far.
-We listen to and respect each other's opinions.

Some real, adult, solid friendship-type ish, y'all. Based on goofing off in class and a Pauly Shore movie. Friendship can be anywhere.


This is us at the first gathering of HS pals after we'd been exposed to college.

Be Comforted

Cozy couple in PJS in VA.

Comfort. Capital C, sunny days on bicycles, chocolate cookies at the grad student picnic with Hill, trotting up to our favorite professor's door, being invited in for sits and thoughts.

The Comfort of the subpar but all-you-can-eat chocolate froyo and brownie squares at Sweet Tomatoes. "I want to be fat," I told Smirn. The Comfort of my home here. How it feels to punch in the code on our garage, taking an envelope out of my stationary drawer, knowing there is one pine cone stamp left for this letter Michigan-bound. The people I've met, and how they've turned into the people I can insult, or hug, and how it feels just right.

"You will begin to understand that healing is an effect. It's no longer the object of your intention. It becomes the unavoidable side effect."--Michael Pabst

Driveway's Clear, You Pray for Silence

I love this bedroom. The one I'm in and the one pictured--which was my bedroom in the fall of 2009--the first time Kay and I broke up. In these rooms I learn to be lonely and like it.

On Saturday I came home at midnight with a headache. No roommates were home. I had accidentally not really eaten all day. I took my box of Ritz crackers up to my room. I was my nurse. Get into a tank top, wet a washcloth, lay still, say a prayer of thanks.

I remember those first nights in Fall 2009--those nights of "No one even knows what I'm doing." I expressed this concern to Muff, who told me to call her and let her know when I was going to bed. I took her up on it. A few times. But I didn't really need to be accountable. I needed to know I could.

I texted her this week. Even though it was 3 AM her time. I let her know--I'm going to sleep, and someone should care. Because I am a living person, and for a while, I won't be conscious. PLEASE SOMEBODY CARE--there's an urgency in realizing you could die in your bed, and no one might realize until three days later.

I think that's right. Sometimes I don't see the roomies for a week straight. My sister would say, "Hey. It's been a while..." but what could she do? Who would she be able to call to check up on me? Chelle would probably call. If I missed rehearsal, she might come over. If someone was home, they'd come to my room and...

I have this wonderful, just wonderful, memory of that 2009 room. It was a Friday night and I was just writing a letter at my desk holding my hamster in my lap.

Today I woke up lonely, and now its midnight, and all sorts of things have happened to let me know I'm loved. Impromptu hellos from no fewer than seven--not an exaggeration--seven faraway friends. I sure liked those lil hi's, but I didn't gulp them down. This is good stuff here on my own.

Letters to Noelle--
marked up cardboard boxes fell.
I fell with them.
Crushed like them.

Watch Your Mouth

Two weeks ago in Theory class, one student--full disclosure, one the rest of us don't know (because it's a class of two playwrights, five Theatre for Youthers, and This One Chick)--said, "This is gonna sound retarded, but--"

And Rabbit laid down the law. Not rudely, but curtly, she said--deadpan--"Can we not use that word?"

I know, for a definite fact, at least five of us had been thinking it, and we breathed a sigh of relief that it didn't have to be us. Ahhhh, grad school peers. The only community where I'm not the most annoyingly PC.

Flash-forward to today:

Our Theory professor says, "We only have five weeks left." I lift my eyebrows. Whoa. Time flies, and my peer with the tiny red curls shrieks, "Jesus Christ!" and This Chick gasps a "Wooooow." I think she agrees with us that summer is so sudden, when she tacks on a, "Can we not saaaaay that please?"

My peer peeps a sincere sorry, and then a "It's just, I'm surprised..." Trail off.

This REALLY bothers me, and I know it shouldn't. We did the same thing to her--we aligned and made her feel bad for saying A WORD. Just a little word that alludes to disability. But it was unforgivable. It was also unforgivable to me that anyone ask anyone to care if the full name of a Biblical character is said aloud. But, I suppose it was That Chick's right? I mean, my peer agreed to being inappropriate by apologizing, did she not?

JESUS CHRIST, why does this bother me? Why are words so powerful? Why do I despise people who say certain things and despise even more the people who despise people who say certain other things?!

Mad Men Premiere, Age 23

A la 1960s. Smirn smoking.

I am an adult. I come to this realization with equal satisfaction and terror: satisfaction because I always thought growing up would be miserable, and it's not, but terror because it could just be a matter of time. As I get older though, it seems unlikely.

I am an adult. Yesterday night I invited friends over to watch the season premiere of a historical drama about the 1960s on AMC. That's very adult! This surprises me! My age is legal adult! It has been for years, but, still, I go, "What? Me?"

I am an adult. I invite people into the condo I pay rent for by tending my own schedule of work. I buy my own tomato sauce and make my own pizza rolls. I find recipes for chocolate vegan cake puffs, and I make a double batch.

I watch adults on TV--adults who, if they were real people--would now be in their 80s. But they are childlike. Moreso than me even--because, I am an adult...maybe not all the time, but, actually most of the time now.

I am an adult and I know when to turn down a trip out for milkshakes because I have grading to do before school starts again. Farewell, Spring Break. I'm an adult who knows not to try to clean the hot cooking pan right away, but also how to scrape away the burnt chocolate under the faucet.


We dressed up.

Reality

Last Spring Break. Watching Mad Men with Nac in North Carolina.

Think of how much time and energy you waste worrying if you're doing the right thing, when you could really just do the right thing. Do your best and feel comfortable about it--no one can fault you for that.

Triangles

Monday.

The above is not a great photo of me and Muff, but it's us in our element. Chatting and writing together. Wearing trashy clothes. Hair mussed. Cozy. It's important that I show you this photo because it's an act of humility to say, "Yeah, this is actually how we look most of the time we're together. IT'S NOT ALL PHOTO SHOOTS IN CHERRY BLOSSOMS."*

IDEA FROM MUFF: Our issues exist in triangles.
The three sides are pride (we are boastful of this thing about us), but also insecurity (but we know this thing could be damaged, or go away, or others might not see it like we do), and judgement (because we have this thing, we find it ridiculous--literally--that others don't.)

An example might be a very pretty girl who is prideful, but also knows wrinkles are part of life (insecure), but still, she judges others with plain faces.

If you've got one, you've got 'em all. And these triangles can really break us. We stand in the middle of an idea and yoke ourselves to three contrasting but conjoined feelings. OR, we can break these triangles. And humility is the magic hammer, y'all.

*I accidentally typed "Cherry Clossoms"--which could either be a delicate tea cookie, or a lesser-known Japanese monster a la Mothra. "NAN DESU KA!? CRUROSSUM DESU!"

I MISS VIRGINIA

It's been a great afternoon. Sincerely. Chelle greeted me at the airport with breakfast burritos stuffed with potatoes and pinto beans. Green sauce. We laughed these giant laughs and cast our nets far in the catch-up game.

I snuggled into bed eating the Reese's eggs Muff had decorated my guest room with. Trying to inch closer to Richmond. Super sunny here--I swam in the pool because I have one. My elementary school self would gasp at the idea that I don't jump in this body of clear water at least once a day, every day.

But, oh, I unpacked my suitcase and a tiny note "Love you so much" unearthed itself. Oh, just less than 24 hours ago I was in that white living room with one lamp on in Virginia, eating Spring Oreos with these PEOPLE, these LOVING PEOPLE. Oh, I suppose there are far worse fates to love so many people from so many different places, that no matter where you go, you're missing someone.


Hosts with the mosts.


Besties. Old Roommates. Love.


Cherry blossoms on the ground.

I mean, there are worse fates, but right now, I miss my dear friends.

I'm not drowning. There's no one here to save.

Made Up Journal Entry: Clarity

Right now.

It felt like June in Illinois today. The sheet of humidity. I watched farmland out the window from the backseat as Jamba drove us across Virginia this afternoon. Muff sat passenger side thinking. Think, think, thinking--little knots of think. She was trying to arrive at what she has been searching for this past year. What's...what's...what is it that she's been...looking for? Think. Think. Think.

At eleven PM, Jamba was asleep on the living room floor. Muff and I drank water in the kitchen. Suddenly, it was imperative to move. We started dancing, but we quickly turned into jiggling, wagging, slashing creatures of the night. Kicking our feet in zig zags. I doubled over with laughter. Muff literally fell on the floor. "Butt-down on the kitchen floor," she just said. She is next to me right now as I type. (See photo.)

Lightening lit up the sky. We crept past the sleeping husband, onto the front porch. We sat on the wooden steps and watched the lights come on and off. Natural fireworks. LIGHT-EN-ING. LIGHT-EN-ING. LIGHT! We were silent. Everything--clear, as it always is. It started to drizzle, then to rain. So we walked back inside.

Immediately, Muff knew. Think no more--she knew. There's clarity in spontaneous dancing and midnight storms. The clarity showed her: "Oh. I needed clarity to realize how much I need clarity--or how much I'm constantly trying to have it."

And you can tell Jane, if she writes,
that I'm drunk off all these stars and all these crazy Hollywood nights.

Get it Out of Me

When it comes to art, Muff and I have no desire to leave our mark on the world. That's not what it's about at all. No fingerprint on the cake icing--it will melt in the sun.

It's more like, "If there's this Live stuff in me, I feel like it's my...duty? Yes, duty--to get it out."

However, most male artists we know have dreams of immortality. The marking bit and all. Is it just us, or is this genetic? Men want to spread their seed, prove their territory, make sure it is passed through the ages. Women want to just get the stupid Life out. It's gestating in there, and it needs to be born.

I recognize the inherent faults with such a simple metaphor and generalization in the context of gender and queer theory, but, it's still interesting to consider, no?

Rich!

I am RICH! I write to you from Muff's bed, covered in pastel yellow sheets. It's 3 AM (I must be lonely?) and I've let the lovebirds to sleep. But I am up, up and energized. It's juuust getting to bedtime in the desert.

1. The song "Alone" covered in Glee Season One has been stuck in my head ALL DAY. Do you have any idea what it's like to have Kristen Chenowith's belting energy bottled up on a day of planes?

2. I repeat, I AM IN MUFF AND JAMBA'S HOUSE RIGHT NOW. I was greeted with the utmost love. I sank into their embraces at midnight in the Richmond airport and I felt so grateful, welcome, satisfied: "My friends. My friends."

3. Decorations for my stay:



4. Dinner at one AM: veggie corndog, HOMEMADE RED PEPPER HUMMUS, Oreo cupcakes, Cadberry eggs.

5. This is my other family. You guys, friendship is the best.

'Til now, I've always got by in my own.
I never really cared until I met you.

The Way Afternoons Should Be

I slept in, and it still took all my strength to go on a run. I wanted to run, but I also was just in love with my comforter today. I started House of Leaves, which sucked me in. I was the guts of a Pillsbury crescent roll, lazy, but not lazy. But, the sun peeked out of the cool desert sky, so I laced up and ran. I listened to the entirety of The Good Life's "Album of the Year" as I passed green-garbed folk, happily milling on Mill. My muscles relaxed. I came home and took a cold shower. Lunch at the sun-spotted kitchen table--the remains of a loaf of Irish soda bread. The raisins to sweet, the dough so thick. In my navy heart tank, I bundle back up into my sheets. Read more about a haunted house through courier type. I could. I could.

Wet hair on my pink pillow, a good book in hand. Nowhere to be. No impending deadlines.

It's Spring Break, yatches.

Spring was poppin’ daises up ‘round rusted trucks and busted lawn chairs.

The Ataris: March 16, 2012

Yucca Tap Room is a d-i-v-e. I arrived alone--the curse of liking a crappy at best pop-punk band that hit its stride in 2003. I scooted right up to the front and planted myself by the mic.

Kris didn't start setting up until midnight. It was hot. I stood with my arms crossed, but I was inadvertently in the middle of a group of friends. Two super husky girls and two nice guys. One nice guy chatted with me. I was uninterested in making friends, but I couldn't walk away since I had to save my spot. This guy ended up asking me out and gave me his number. This doesn't really happen anymore, and I complain about it: "Remember when guys used to just ask you out at random?!" But, I will not call him. "He doesn't know anything about me. It's too random." Cake--eating it too--something something something.

The Ataris opened with "In This Diary"--highly surprising. And then BOOM EXPLOSION OF CRAZY. I had been to bonkers punk shows in high school, but I always stood far far away. The other times I've seen The Ataris, there was bopping, but not bop-ping. This time? I was shoved, beat, knocked--all before the first chorus. The crowd was insane and moshing like mad. The husky girls were being shoved against the speakers. I understood their husk. Survival!


Kris.

Things that happened:

-As I got ping-ponged around, I noticed a solid hand on my back. I followed it back to a large Mexican woman who looked at me with maternal love. "That's me!" she yelled. "I'm okay!" I yelled as the crowd jostled me. She shook her head. Her arm served as a wall around the hooligans for the first three songs. I was willing to get swept away, but she pulled me close. Said "NO!" to a scrappy little kid with gauges trying to worm his way front.
-When the major crowd-surfing started during "Your Boyfriend Sucks," I got knocked into the middle of the pit and almost fell backwards, but I grabbed the hand of some guy, and he covered me in a bear hug and pulled me sideways. I felt like he had dove from a lifeguard stand to pull me out of the undertow. All these people, holding each other, but then pushing. Like some real drama, but it was self-created. Is that how all problems are. We must rely on one another to save us from the catastrophes we've made for ourselves.
-I felt safe on the side by "Takeoffs and Landings," but, no. Out of nowhere, some guy shoved me right into a moving crowd and I fell the ground. I was about to be tramped when three guys rushed to pick me up. The Mustafa wildebeest scene, people. It occurs to me how absolutely lucky I am to be a girl. People will save me. I did not have to worry about saving anyone else. Unfair, but true.
-It was an all-star setlist, which was kind of a bummer. i wanted some older weird stuff, but the crowd was happy. By the end, I was safely in the very back patch of folks who weren't even singing along. I jumped up and down to "San Dimas." It was over.
-In the bathroom, I checked-in. I was covered in sweat, an earring had been ripped out, my headband long gone, hair everywhere.
-I left and breathed deep in the fresh air. I biked the three miles home unable to hear a darn thing.

Stay who you are. Stay who you are.

RADiohead

Last night I saw Radiohead in concert. Here's what I think:

-It was huge. 20,000 people huge.
-This band has been popular, like, really popular, with all sorts of people for 20 years. What what what?
-The tiny little Tom moved his body like wild, but he was still so tiny.
-It was good, but my mind wasn't blown open, which is what people said would happen. Don't get me wrong, it was good. But my mind is chillin'.
-There are many parallels to Brecht and what happened last night. The A-effect, cigar theatre (people eating nachos pre-show since it was in a stadium), the purposeful cliche being loved by all ("High and Dry" and Brecht's Three Penny Opera).
-My favorite songs were the slow ballads. "Paranoid Android" was, of course, wunderbar, and "15 Step," but I liked "Lucky" maybe the best?
-Skars saw it with me. He sat on my left and yelled "Woo. Spring Break!" as we rallied for the inevitable encores.
-When its so big and bold and packed, I guess you just want music, but I would have liked some banter, some chatting. Let me know you, Radiohead!
-There are a lot of Radiohead songs that melt me right into a puddle of goop. Listening to those today--ones that weren't played last night--seemed...brighter? More electric? Like, I love this song, but now it's underscored with a personal...THING. I was there. I've been in a room with this voice. This stringy sweet voice.

Bloom
15 Step
Airbag
Little By Little
Myxomatosis
Gloaming
Magpie
Pyramid Song
Daily Mail
Arpeggi
Packt Like Sardines
Identikit
Lotus Flower
There There
Feral
Idioteque
How to Disappear Completely
Kid A
Lucky
Bodysnatchers
Give Up the Ghost
Reckoner
Paranoid Android



And for a minute there, I lost myself.
I lost myself.

Overdue Hooks

It's been a month since I saw bell hooks speak. I am el horrible for procrastinating this entry. But, here it is now. On the eve after Pi Day. 3.14 hard core this year. But, the bell:

She talked a lot about The Help and how it was offensive, didn't go far enough, the author sucks etc. She also discussed race and gender today. Pretty standard. One thing she mentioned, which I knew but didn't know, is that Michelle Obama was a Harvard law student, but now she sort of plays Homemaker Susie America. Wow. I forget. I really did. Lots of good ideas, inspiring statements--but my notes aren't here in bed with me, and I'm very tired, and it't just not worth the long three foot journey to my desk.

One thing that really stuck out to me was that once a boy asked a question asking, basically, where the crossroads of gay rights and gender rights might be. And bell explained, "You know, it's a an important issue, but there's so much we don't think of." And she went on to describe how people come out of every corner to support or oppose gay rights, but meanwhile, we are burning coal and ruining the earth. That's a topic we don't really need to debate, and it's far more harmful.

And, it was sort of biting--this champion of equal rights basically dissing probably the biggest injustice in American culture right now. But, also, I really do agree. We have bigger fish to fry, and sometimes it seems like maybe the reason all this hooplah about birth control and gay marriage and abortion is purposely stirred up by people with much more power than I have to deflect me from the real issues. You know, the ones that are killing our habitat?

Anyway, that's what I have to say about bell hooks.

My Play Reading: Sunday

So, I had to have this thing on Sunday. It was mandatory as a first-year playwright that I have a public reading of a new work this spring. It was in the cards. March 11th. It was destined since Day One, and as fall tumbled on, I feared it so.

Last August I moved to the desert to write plays, and by December I had one play under my belt, and I really hated it. But, still, the reading was going to happen. Here's what I did: I mined the stupid trash for the gems. I took the gems, shined them, rearranged, added, and so on until I had (basically) a brand new play from the rubble of Attempt One. I was introduced to a wonderful woman who said she would direct my reading. She brought on a wonderful actress who was happy to perform. (This play ended up being a collection of monologues--performed by one actor.) We met. W talked. I revised. We rehearsed. I refined. "Hey," I thought, "This isn't half bad." But, still, I did not like thinking about March 11th. 3/11 Day. WHOA-OH AMBER IS THE COLOR OF HER ENERGY.

One way that I fail as an artist is that I am not good at promoting my own work. I never have been. "Why didn't you tell me you were _____!?"--a common complaint of friends of mine since I was 12. I don't know! I don't know! I want everyone to support the arts, but I can't seem to self-promote. I just can't. There's nothing worse than wasting someone's time. I always worry. I worry.

BUT I HAD TO SELF-PROMOTE FOR THIS DANG THING BECAUSE IT WAS JUST MY PIECE AND ONE ACTRESS AND ONE DIRECTOR. BLAGH MY NIGHTMARE.

Anyway, I did tell some people about it. Including Chelle, who I strongly suspect strongarmed many a member of our comedy posse into attendance. Also, there were interested others, and fellow grads, and friends of the actress and director, and, so, well, it ended up being a hefty little crowd in that tiny studio at 7:30 PM on Sunday.

It began, and almost immediately, I was horrified. "This part sucks. That's not funny. Cliche. Cliche. Cliche. This is preachy. This isn't preachy enough. I hate this. I hope this building is set on fire before my talk back begins. Kill me. Dear, Jesus, if you can hear me, could you come down from your metaphorical cross from just a mom so you may smite me dead? Love, Alice. Do you smite? Even if it is a smite of love? Oh, I HATE THIS." But, then, it was over. And everyone clapped, and I sat in front of the room with the other two women I have come to love and respect, and the director asked the audience for feedback. And it was overwhelmingly positive. Now, I'm not a dummy. I know that talk backs are generally very positive because, who is going to just full-on hate right to your face? But, still, I felt relief. Even if I still knew...there are parts that need major work. There are things that I should never have written. If I get crushed by a semi tomorrow, I will grimace down at the world as my soul sprouts wings and floats skyward knowing the last thing I shared was that reading. But, WHATEVER. It was over, and, well, people thought about issues beyond themselves for an hour, and that's really the best I can ever hope for.


The reading team. Actress, director, playwright.

I felt loved loved loved seeing all these silly sketch boys and girls supporting me. Chelle brought a dozen donuts instead of roses, and everyone signed the box.


Some of the comedy crew. A bunch not in this shot.


That's nice.

I heaved a big sigh. I biked into the night. I laid down in my bed. It's over. Thank God, it's over. For now.

But what wasn't over was the fun. Because soon Bug, Skars, and Chelle were at my door. I was in high school again watching a bad scary movie with friends on a Sunday night and feeling rebellious about it. We ate big bowls of pesto, and I nommed through my donuts. When Chelle and I came back from Redbox, we were in the middle of a conversation, and Bug and Skars loudly enacted a rouse of being caught making out on my living room couch. Chelle and I dismissed it, and they played the game for a good ten minutes. We screamed at gruesome deaths. When it was all said and done, there was coconut donut in the carpet and an empty bottle of wine my roommate had brewed and Skars was very competitively trying to make Bug guess what he was writing on her back.



And when everyone left, I wasn't ready for bed. Not just yet. So I warmed up a last donut and ate it with a fork and knife in bed while Jonah Hill did live sketch comedy.

Substance

What we can touch is nothing.

Treats: Birthday Oreo and Gingerbread Pop Tart Edition

Happy Birthday, Oreos! 100 years!


I seriously opened the bag, and it smelled like I had just pulled a yellow cake out of the oven. Plus, sprinkles.


Mega-thumbs up to the frosting frosting. It tasted like cake frosting. OM NOM NOM.

So. I also tried these gingerbread Pop-Tarts.


Cute lil winter gingerkids on the tarts. But, I notice immediately...there's no frosting. That's pretty bland, right?




Oh, I get it. The frosting is on the inside. So, let's be clear. There's no even PRETEND nutritional value here. Like, a regular strawberry Pop Tart is still probably bad for you, but there's something that's like fruit involved. No, this snack is just a crumbly ginger-flavored pocket of icing. But, they kinda tasted like seafood.


See? Food.


Yeah, you really shouldn't have fallen for that. And they actually didn't taste like seafood. Obvi.

Overall: Oreos--8/10, Pop Tarts--6/10
That's right. I am an artifically/factory-made dessert food critic now.

Crazy Stupid Love

As you may have been able to tell, I've had a rough patch lately. This are very good, but I'm just getting out of a creativity stalemate, some homesickness, some physical sickness. As of today, the storm on all fronts has passed, but I just want to give a shout-out to my immediate family for being such goofy supporters.

Some things--a very partial list:

1. My mom wrote this in an e-mail to me today:

"I love you, Sweetie! You are such a precious wonderful child/adult!"

Oh, MOMS.

2. It was Oreo's 100th birthday on Tuesday. I flipped a lid knowing there were special edition cookies out in the world that I had not tried. I called three major grocery stores in my area--no dice. I looked on Amazon and almost bought Oreos online, but before I got that crazy, I texted my dad asking if he'd check his local store. Yes, I'm a nut muffin. He found the dang Oreos. He sent them to me. He put a shipping track on them, and he texted me all week about the cookies' whereabouts until finally today, they were in my hot little hands.

3. While I was in bonkers-mode looking at desserts on Amazon, I found limited edition gingerbread Pop-Tarts. Obvi--not in season, but someone was selling some! I e-mailed my sister the link for her marveling eyes. Without saying anything, the box showed up at my house yesterday.



So...recap.

-I love limited edition stuff.
-Desserts are the way to my heart.
-Even though my family is all split up across the state of Illinois, they are united in loving me. I love them.
-Updates on the cookies and Tarts forthcoming. Just in case you're dying to know.
-Today has been a very good day.

My Parents Support the Arts--Correction--MY Arts

“If you want to really hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven's sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possibly can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.”-Kurt Vonnegut

Cheesy, but we all need that sometimes.

Also, I would never want to hurt my parents, but, honestly, going into the arts would not be the way to do it.

This is a photo of my mom eating a red velvet cupcake on a Friday night in Phoenix, November 2011:



This is my dad eating at Taco Bueno in Texas. December 2011:

Making Thugs

Cookie Dough Pop Tarts

There they are.


There they go.


Hiding out.


Happy camper.

Monster/Saints

Today at the store I bought a tomato and four apples instead of chocolate chip cookie dough Pop Tarts.
WHAT KIND OF MONSTER/SAINT MADE UP THAT FLAVOR?

here's the real confusing question I have about food...if stuff is bad for us (IE EZ Cheez) why doesn't our mouth reject it? Like, why do I still like to eat pints of refined sugars? There's nothing natural about it. Shouldn't my tongue recognize that? I think some people argue that eating "bad" foods does make their bodies send alerts (tummy aches, indigestion), but I actually think most of the time, not very much happens considering the unnatural things we devour.

I am perplexed. This is a major flaw in the human body, or, perhaps it is a major flaw in the way we see health. I'm not sure, but I would like to somehow get to a place where I believe not buying those delicious Pop Tarts was a major flaw in my logic, so I may purchase them tomorrow?

Star Cactus

AZ. 2012.

I got nothin'. So, a list:

Good Stuff Today:
-The Biggest Loser & a Bob Harper workout.
-Pitching ideas.
-Working with two women who are genuinely having fun with my new play and who are also very talented.
-Being able to give sincere compliments to people whose art I admire.
-When you think about theatre the day after you see it.
-Pasties with improv friendos.
-Biking in the sun.
-Communication with familia.
-The Internet. Hello research.
-Muff in two weeks.

Rough

Having a rough day. It happens. It's spring outside, but maybe the sun's distance still makes my brain get winter blues. I don't know what to do. Scratch that--I know a lot of things to do, but I can't make myself do them. I KNOW the hard part isn't doing things, it's just starting to do things. Furthermore, the hardest part is not doing things. I know this. I know this, but still. But still.

I have decided to remind myself of some times I was truly happy:


ACTF 2008.


Tokyo Disney with my abroad group.


Seeing Andy solo.

These yellow lights are turnin' red, turnin' red.