Tired/Move

I am very. I wake up early and coach the speech kids going to Nationals. I spent the weekend at Maf's--the first place I stayed when I moved here. I showed her the pine prickles in my hand from the cactus I hit that first Arizona day. The bumps remain.

I walk slowly and lay on the couch for too long plotting, re-plotting all the moving details. This much money, that email about the one job--waiting, cutting up the strawberries, too tired to pick a show on Hulu, tired. It's one-hundred all the time and I have no mode of transit. Bike--sold. Scooter--sold. I expected to cry when she was wheeled into that stranger's garage, but I didn't. There has been too much to do. I have been so slow in doing it.

Jerome, Arizona.

I'm tired, so tired.

Stop Sex Trafficking

My current laptop backdrop. Summer 2010.

This weekend, I attended a public affairs conference about sex trafficking. Obvi, kind of a downer topic--but hugely important to address. I heard a lot of very unfortunate facts about little girls in other countries.

Out of all the scary (and real) stories involving razorblades and kidlets and burning cigarettes and drug addiction, the saddest thing was this:

Sometimes girls who live in brothels are sent back home to talk about the fun new job they have been away doing for the past few years. Since the girl is trusted in her own town, parents send their daughters away with her, and a new generation of slaves are trapped. Even sadder--sometimes, the original girls realize they are giving too much money to the middle man and simply open their own brothels and exploit girls like they themselves were once exploited.

I am the saddest for the girl who holds onto these scars and finds it fair, fine, advantageous to so blatantly disregard the golden rule.

Instead of getting mad, I will write this and do my best to live it:

1. Just because it has been done to you doesn't mean it is fair for you to do it to others.
2. Just stop. Just STOP being part of the problem!

Tonight, I'm down on my knees.
Tonight, I'm beggin' you please.
Tonight, tonight it bleeds.
Oh why can't I be makin' Love come true?

Yatchy Entry

Sometimes don't you wish someone hadn't taught you how to think? That all you did was enjoy watching Survivor and grinding on guys at bars and reading TMZ every day? I'm not dissing any of those activities, but wouldn't it be nice if that was it? If you were illiterate and didn't believe in global warming and thought trash disintegrated into the ground and human rights were a last priority and money really for real wasn't important and wasn't limited and guilt wasn't a sin and wasn't a reality and everyone who didn't like you needed to get over it and all the work you didn't do right was just whatever because the paycheck keeps coming baby and consumerism was fun again?

Right now the high school Lincoln-Douglass debate resolution is that states ought not own nukes. As I was watching some awkward kids in suits last week I began to day dream I was in the debate with a neg case arguing that the owning of nukes will lead to an accident or use of nukes which would put brains and consciences out of their miseries. Value criterion: utalitiariansim--happiness for all the lil minds and hearts in the world through total destruction.


Tokyo Disney November 2008

This happened to me twice before, won't happen to me anymore.

Made Up

yesterday during rehearsal--a photo proving to a friend snail mail was on its way

Tonight was "dress rehearsal" uno. I use the term lightly because there was much goofing, trippin', yelping (when my hairpiece fell out), stopping, forgetting, etc.

Point: Full hair, make-up, and costume. The middle one is the important one.

As soon as I "put my face on" literally three girls jumped as they approached me saying, "I couldn't even tell it was you." Several men commented, "You look pretty.", and as I just entered my hall three more women said, "You look so nice/pretty/good."

My hair is the same. My clothes are t-shirts and running shorts. It is the GD make-up.

I do look different, and I do use make-up to get made-up. To look prettier. I mean that's the point. But, for some reason...it always strikes me as funny. That little dark pencil marks under my eyes make me look "better", that we can conditioned ourselves to see rosy cheeks and say "Lookin' good."


right now

I want a girl who will laugh for no one else.
When I'm away she puts her make-up on the shelf.

Gettin' It Out

Your touch is a heartbreaker.

I just have to write something somewhere about Andrew McMahon or I'll explode. I can't write it to myself because everything gets just too creepy...jotting notes in my diary about art and Andrew blah blah blah. No, let me just barf some ideas out right here and right now before I clunk into a heavy heavy sleep that is WELL deserved. Holy Toledo, Weezer was a work-out. I was sweating buckets. BUCKETS. Irrelevant.

Important Ideas:

-I like to have a discourse with things and people and ideas. Not everyone does, but it's also not unique. It kills me to not have a discourse about Andrew's music with him maybe because I like it so much (God knows why--objectively, honestly, I know it's trashy) so much of it doesn't make any sense and I. Want. Answers. But, he's not famous enough that I can find answers...making me feel like I need to investigate them personally. Or, I just want my appreciation to be noticed. Either way, discourse denied.
-Seeing him as an opener tonight was so sad! Hardly anyone cared, and he couldn't be interesting or charming at all. He played a snappy set of seven songs--the most well-known of his bunch, and high-tailed it off for the much less sharp but much more loved guys of Weezer to take over.
-How much as an artist are you indebted to fans? What is the proper way to show respect (if any)? How would I like to in my life in any forms of art?

Mother of pearl, I have got to go to bed.

My love is a life-taker.