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Saturday, April 13, 2002
I never imagined being the "best" teacher anyone would have, but to have people tell me that is like the biggest reward I could have.
You're the best teacher I've ever had.
I know it's not the same thing, but, just sayin'.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:41 AM | shower me with attention
You're the best teacher I've ever had.
I know it's not the same thing, but, just sayin'.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:41 AM | shower me with attention
Tonight was dinner with Steve, Gina, Erica, Erica's boyfriend Rich, Steph and my mom, at our favourite Italian place on Bleecker whose name I can't spell, in honour of Steph and Steve's recent birthday.
My chicken was delicious.
I talked way too much.
It was a lot of fun.
Tomorrow, KITH in Philly. Front row, baby. Lady Luck, she is sweet on me, ah?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:28 AM | shower me with attention
My chicken was delicious.
I talked way too much.
It was a lot of fun.
Tomorrow, KITH in Philly. Front row, baby. Lady Luck, she is sweet on me, ah?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:28 AM | shower me with attention
Friday, April 12, 2002
I love Craig Northey more and more each time I see him. Tonight he did three songs during the Wallingford show and each one was fabulous. I wanted to buy his and Bruce McCulloch's CD after the show tonight but American Express cards were not being accepted. To that, I say poop.
I was also distressed by the apparent restlesness of some of the crowd during Craig's songs. Certainly most people were enjoying it, but I kept seeing some people use the time to go to the restrooms or get new drinks or what-have-you, and it displeased me.
The show at Wallingford wass in the big barn and there were some appropriately yokel-ish individuals present. I'm thinking of one guy in particular: in the crowd near the merchandise table, standing nearby was someone who was obviously a post-op transsexual. She was very tall and wore all the accoutrements of femininity; there was no doubt as to her gender identification. Nevertheless, some fuckwit in a plaid shirt felt the need to comment loudly to his friend, "What is IT? I don't know what IT is. IT's so tall. IT has to be a man. Look at IT." With each IT I felt more and more like punching this guy in the face. How rude do you have to fucking be? In 2002, at a goddamn Kids in the Hall show we have to hear this kind of shit?
The show itself was wonderful. I actually took notes during the performance, a la Kitana, but it's the last time I'm doing that. Way too distracting.
Oh, we showed up in Wallingford way too early, of course. Gina and I arrived around four, and Cheryl and Mike wouldn't arrive until seven. We bought coffee and a deck of cards, wandered around the dull, empty streets for about five minutes, and then, like the dorks that we are, drove to the parking lot of the theatre, where we stayed in the car and Gina taught me gin. I'd never played before, and I quite enjoyed the game.
It was magic time soon enough. I can't wait until Saturday; my first time in the front row at a KITH show. I've seen these guys live 27 times, and this will be my first front-row experience. I am terribly excited.
(I really should do my homework or go to sleep now or something. But no.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:56 AM | shower me with attention
I was also distressed by the apparent restlesness of some of the crowd during Craig's songs. Certainly most people were enjoying it, but I kept seeing some people use the time to go to the restrooms or get new drinks or what-have-you, and it displeased me.
The show at Wallingford wass in the big barn and there were some appropriately yokel-ish individuals present. I'm thinking of one guy in particular: in the crowd near the merchandise table, standing nearby was someone who was obviously a post-op transsexual. She was very tall and wore all the accoutrements of femininity; there was no doubt as to her gender identification. Nevertheless, some fuckwit in a plaid shirt felt the need to comment loudly to his friend, "What is IT? I don't know what IT is. IT's so tall. IT has to be a man. Look at IT." With each IT I felt more and more like punching this guy in the face. How rude do you have to fucking be? In 2002, at a goddamn Kids in the Hall show we have to hear this kind of shit?
The show itself was wonderful. I actually took notes during the performance, a la Kitana, but it's the last time I'm doing that. Way too distracting.
Oh, we showed up in Wallingford way too early, of course. Gina and I arrived around four, and Cheryl and Mike wouldn't arrive until seven. We bought coffee and a deck of cards, wandered around the dull, empty streets for about five minutes, and then, like the dorks that we are, drove to the parking lot of the theatre, where we stayed in the car and Gina taught me gin. I'd never played before, and I quite enjoyed the game.
It was magic time soon enough. I can't wait until Saturday; my first time in the front row at a KITH show. I've seen these guys live 27 times, and this will be my first front-row experience. I am terribly excited.
(I really should do my homework or go to sleep now or something. But no.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:56 AM | shower me with attention
Thursday, April 11, 2002
Tonight: five Canadians and a big barn!
(Why can't people keep their willies out of hoooooooles?)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:44 PM | shower me with attention
(Why can't people keep their willies out of hoooooooles?)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:44 PM | shower me with attention
I was going to go to bed, honest I was, but she is online so rarely and I love her so very much. I love her so much that my heart is made of yogurt when it comes to her.
That made sense to no one in this world but me. I love it when that happens.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:37 AM | shower me with attention
That made sense to no one in this world but me. I love it when that happens.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:37 AM | shower me with attention
Wednesday, April 10, 2002
Ladies and gentlemen, presenting the best description of high school I have ever read:
...it is a hideously malformed monster sucking the creativity and soul from the vast potential of wonderful emerging individuals, designed as a cathedral of paranoia and angst for the most emotionally vulnerable people who wish to learn to be adults but, no, they only get to learn to be vicious nasty asswipes and/or cowering trembling shadows.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:23 PM | shower me with attention
...it is a hideously malformed monster sucking the creativity and soul from the vast potential of wonderful emerging individuals, designed as a cathedral of paranoia and angst for the most emotionally vulnerable people who wish to learn to be adults but, no, they only get to learn to be vicious nasty asswipes and/or cowering trembling shadows.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:23 PM | shower me with attention
I'm going to Sweden, yes I am. I am going to Sweden, yes sirree.
Thank you, frequent flier miles.
I am going to Sweden, and if the gods smile, it will be timed so that I can take 17 hours (each way) worth of train trips back and forth between Stockholm and Amsterdam for a weekend of fun with my dears.
Actually I want to see Berlin, too... but that may be pushing it.
The train part is not daunting, as I took plenty of Amtrakvaganzas with my family as a young teenager, and have spent two nights in a row-- more than once-- sleeping in the coach cars of overheated trains. And it was, at times, a hell of a lot of fun. If you don't mind peeing in sticky-floored Amtrak lavatories, I recommend it.
So, there you go. Don't say I'm not adventurous. I'm going to a country where I only know one person there. In the whole country.
(Don't ask me about summer school. You won't like the answer. Look, I can go to summer school any time. Like six credits is going to break me at this point.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:19 PM | shower me with attention
Thank you, frequent flier miles.
I am going to Sweden, and if the gods smile, it will be timed so that I can take 17 hours (each way) worth of train trips back and forth between Stockholm and Amsterdam for a weekend of fun with my dears.
Actually I want to see Berlin, too... but that may be pushing it.
The train part is not daunting, as I took plenty of Amtrakvaganzas with my family as a young teenager, and have spent two nights in a row-- more than once-- sleeping in the coach cars of overheated trains. And it was, at times, a hell of a lot of fun. If you don't mind peeing in sticky-floored Amtrak lavatories, I recommend it.
So, there you go. Don't say I'm not adventurous. I'm going to a country where I only know one person there. In the whole country.
(Don't ask me about summer school. You won't like the answer. Look, I can go to summer school any time. Like six credits is going to break me at this point.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 11:19 PM | shower me with attention
Hola! Holla! Ho-la-holla-doodle-all-the-day!
I've thought of something.
If I were a therapist, what I would say to me at this point is:
Tavie,
(I would want any therapist to call me Tavie, or it wouldn't work)
why don't you try this. Draw something every day. Don't show it to anyone. Don't do it for anyone but yourself. If you start despairing that you're not any good, push past it and keep on drawing until it goes away. Draw anything. Do it every day.
And it made me begin to understand art therapy. I imagine a bunch of self-obsessed depressives at long tables with butcher paper spread out before us, humming nervously to ourselves, clutching crayons in our hands, thinking, "Okay, I'm not M.C. Escher. Okay, I'm not Wendy Pini. I'm not Maxfield Parrish. I'm not Daniel Clowes. But look, I made this mark myself. It's pretty. Look, I made another. Art, art, art. Look at me being expressive. How expressive I am!"
Mmm, therapy fantasies. That's got to be a step in the right direction.
I am going to bed now.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:50 AM | shower me with attention
I've thought of something.
If I were a therapist, what I would say to me at this point is:
Tavie,
(I would want any therapist to call me Tavie, or it wouldn't work)
why don't you try this. Draw something every day. Don't show it to anyone. Don't do it for anyone but yourself. If you start despairing that you're not any good, push past it and keep on drawing until it goes away. Draw anything. Do it every day.
And it made me begin to understand art therapy. I imagine a bunch of self-obsessed depressives at long tables with butcher paper spread out before us, humming nervously to ourselves, clutching crayons in our hands, thinking, "Okay, I'm not M.C. Escher. Okay, I'm not Wendy Pini. I'm not Maxfield Parrish. I'm not Daniel Clowes. But look, I made this mark myself. It's pretty. Look, I made another. Art, art, art. Look at me being expressive. How expressive I am!"
Mmm, therapy fantasies. That's got to be a step in the right direction.
I am going to bed now.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:50 AM | shower me with attention
I don't remember what life was like before medication. I think it was pretty bad. What wounds us so much that we need chemicals to bring us up to a level where we'll choose cake instead of death? (Or an apple instead of cake, which for some of us is leading to death. Fuck this metaphor.)
It is these lonely, contemplative nights talking only to my blog that I can do without, I think.
Okay: it would not help me to know when it was that I lost any shred of confidence in my ability to create things to please myself. If I'd rather be dead than live a life without art (a bold statement indeed, a bold admission to myself, don't underestimate that please), but I don't have any confidence in my ability to create art (art, in this sense, meaning anything new that wasn't there before, that I made myself, and blogging does not count but other writing may, although I was never a writer, but I used to draw, dammit) then where does it leave me? Here at 3:30 am. (Not the physical here but this dry-eyed, squinty brand of hopelessness and restless foot digging a groove in the carpet)
The key to this is that I have not yet taken my nightly Effexor.
Before Effexor I used to draw a lot more.
Before Effexor I used to want to be dead a lot more.
It doesn't matter if you're not as good as other people, you hobo eating a rat. You used to do it for you. So do it again. How about it?
How about taking your book, taking your pill, going upstairs, puffing up the air mattress, climbing into bed, and being in Margaret Atwood's head for awhile.
Even when I hate you, I love you.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:33 AM | shower me with attention
It is these lonely, contemplative nights talking only to my blog that I can do without, I think.
Okay: it would not help me to know when it was that I lost any shred of confidence in my ability to create things to please myself. If I'd rather be dead than live a life without art (a bold statement indeed, a bold admission to myself, don't underestimate that please), but I don't have any confidence in my ability to create art (art, in this sense, meaning anything new that wasn't there before, that I made myself, and blogging does not count but other writing may, although I was never a writer, but I used to draw, dammit) then where does it leave me? Here at 3:30 am. (Not the physical here but this dry-eyed, squinty brand of hopelessness and restless foot digging a groove in the carpet)
The key to this is that I have not yet taken my nightly Effexor.
Before Effexor I used to draw a lot more.
Before Effexor I used to want to be dead a lot more.
It doesn't matter if you're not as good as other people, you hobo eating a rat. You used to do it for you. So do it again. How about it?
How about taking your book, taking your pill, going upstairs, puffing up the air mattress, climbing into bed, and being in Margaret Atwood's head for awhile.
Even when I hate you, I love you.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 3:33 AM | shower me with attention
She daydreams about building Muppets, which is what makes her so damned cool. That and the hair.
You don't play soccer, do you?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:40 AM | shower me with attention
You don't play soccer, do you?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:40 AM | shower me with attention
Got to keep on top of my life. The deal:
I'm now at Mint Manor for the week, until Sunday night. Earlier than usual because my poetry prof will be out tomorrow, and I have to miss Thursday's linguistics (exam) class to see the Kids in the Hall. And, of course, no school Fridays. So I came over tonight after class and I'm here for the week.
The week must include the following:
Tomorrow: do poetry homework. Make Hedwig tape. Get dressed at some point.
Thursday: Kids in the Hall in Wall-ing-ford!
Friday: Steve arrives! Take him and real-life Steph out for their birthdays to that Italian place whose name I can't spell on Bleecker. (Also present: mom, Erica, possibly Erica's boyfriend, heterosexual lifemate).
Saturday: Kids in the Hall in Philadelphia!
Sunday: Kids in the Hall at the Beacon!
Monday: Poetry class. Kids in the Hall at the Beacon, again!
Tuesday: Make-up linguistics midterm? Bye-bye Steve.
By this point, my parents will be gone on their five-week jaunt to Spain and Italy and wherever the hell else it is they're going. (I pretended to look at the itinerary but I was just skimming it looking for my name.)
So this is the excitement of my life. The whole time I will be wishing I was one of those sporty, artsy, healthy young girls with bouncy shampoo-commercial hair who play soccer and go to expensive art schools and are brimming with creativity and self-confidence. Like the grass isn't plenty green over here in overweight medicated groupieland!
Why didn't I play soccer as a child? My life would be so different today, I just know it.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:31 AM | shower me with attention
I'm now at Mint Manor for the week, until Sunday night. Earlier than usual because my poetry prof will be out tomorrow, and I have to miss Thursday's linguistics (exam) class to see the Kids in the Hall. And, of course, no school Fridays. So I came over tonight after class and I'm here for the week.
The week must include the following:
Tomorrow: do poetry homework. Make Hedwig tape. Get dressed at some point.
Thursday: Kids in the Hall in Wall-ing-ford!
Friday: Steve arrives! Take him and real-life Steph out for their birthdays to that Italian place whose name I can't spell on Bleecker. (Also present: mom, Erica, possibly Erica's boyfriend, heterosexual lifemate).
Saturday: Kids in the Hall in Philadelphia!
Sunday: Kids in the Hall at the Beacon!
Monday: Poetry class. Kids in the Hall at the Beacon, again!
Tuesday: Make-up linguistics midterm? Bye-bye Steve.
By this point, my parents will be gone on their five-week jaunt to Spain and Italy and wherever the hell else it is they're going. (I pretended to look at the itinerary but I was just skimming it looking for my name.)
So this is the excitement of my life. The whole time I will be wishing I was one of those sporty, artsy, healthy young girls with bouncy shampoo-commercial hair who play soccer and go to expensive art schools and are brimming with creativity and self-confidence. Like the grass isn't plenty green over here in overweight medicated groupieland!
Why didn't I play soccer as a child? My life would be so different today, I just know it.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 12:31 AM | shower me with attention
Tuesday, April 09, 2002
Y'all need to:
1. Shut up.
2. Blame sarah c:
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:47 PM | shower me with attention
1. Shut up.
2. Blame sarah c:
find your queer
as folk personality!
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:47 PM | shower me with attention
As an assignment for her media ethics class, my sister has to have Newsday fax her a copy of their ethics guidelines. She called on Friday and got a promise from their communications director that he would fax it ASAP. It is now Tuesday and she is still waiting. The conclusion to be drawn from this: Newsday has no ethics guidelines. The guy is sitting there right now typing them up.
In my head: Smokin' on a night train, chewin' on a jelly roll...
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:36 PM | shower me with attention
In my head: Smokin' on a night train, chewin' on a jelly roll...
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:36 PM | shower me with attention
I firmly believe that fruit ruins the taste of yogurt.
It can be an accompaniment, but any sort of real mixing-- may god forbid any actual blending-- renders yogurt inedible.
I fully expect the smoothie industry to take a major hit after the publication of this blog post, but I can't say I'm truly sorry.
(Synaesthetically, the following words taste like plain yogurt: love, glory, glorify, believe.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:41 AM | shower me with attention
It can be an accompaniment, but any sort of real mixing-- may god forbid any actual blending-- renders yogurt inedible.
I fully expect the smoothie industry to take a major hit after the publication of this blog post, but I can't say I'm truly sorry.
(Synaesthetically, the following words taste like plain yogurt: love, glory, glorify, believe.)
Why are you in Tavie's head? 2:41 AM | shower me with attention
But I do. But it seems that, yes, we probably will not being to school together next year. And who knows what to make of that?
Oh please, oh god, let me stop living vicariously through people. Let me rejoice in other people's decisions to do what is best for them instead of wallowing in my own selfish fantasies that things will never change and Balki and Cousin Larry never take that last bow because their series is never cancelled due to lack of interest. This lord I do pray.
Repeat after myself: Anywhere Goose chooses to go to college is the best possible choice for her. I want her to choose the best possible choice for her. I want her to choose the best possible choice for her, not me.
Lighten up, lighten up: I wish this poet had a volume of work published before WWII, as he is my favourite and I could so easily write ten pages on him.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:05 AM | shower me with attention
which "monty python and the holy grail" character are you?
this quiz was made by colleen
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:34 PM | shower me with attention
Oh please, oh god, let me stop living vicariously through people. Let me rejoice in other people's decisions to do what is best for them instead of wallowing in my own selfish fantasies that things will never change and Balki and Cousin Larry never take that last bow because their series is never cancelled due to lack of interest. This lord I do pray.
Repeat after myself: Anywhere Goose chooses to go to college is the best possible choice for her. I want her to choose the best possible choice for her. I want her to choose the best possible choice for her, not me.
Lighten up, lighten up: I wish this poet had a volume of work published before WWII, as he is my favourite and I could so easily write ten pages on him.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:05 AM | shower me with attention
Monday, April 08, 2002
which "monty python and the holy grail" character are you?
this quiz was made by colleen
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:34 PM | shower me with attention
Shall we agree that just this once
I'm gonna change my life?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:30 PM | shower me with attention
I'm gonna change my life?
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:30 PM | shower me with attention
Because of the heavy traffic while driving us home last night, Tante Joan took a shortcut through the Bronx. We drove very close to my old school, Bronx Science, and I didn't feel anything whatsoever about that. I do recall laughing earlier this week at a letter I read in the New York Times Sunday Magazine last week, commenting on Margaret Talbot's February article about teenage girls and cliques. The letter was something along the lines of, "Well, at my school we're all above that and no one is affected by cliques, and I go to Bronx Science." I laughed and laughed, because if I didn't, I might have cried. (That was Hedwig's, I believe. No original thoughts.)
The only way to cure myself of regret is to move forward into some fabulous new reality. Oh, is that all. I'll get right on that. Tomorrow. Or the next day.
Repeat after myself: I do not regret, because I had no other choice. I can not blame myself because it couldn't have gone differently. I am not having much luck finding what I am meant to do. Today I had a lox and onions omelette for lunch and it was quite salty. Last night I took a Benadryl and 5 am to fall asleep and I haven't quite woken up since. About those I may feel regret. Not about high school. Fuck high school.
I need to type up a bunch of boring linguistics things now to study from. Things I already know. So I can feel like I'm doing something. Is this the point of school?
I almost fell asleep tonight in poetry. We're doing T.S. Eliot. I didn't know that; I lost my syllabus weeks ago and missed the previous class. I haven't read any of The Wastelands. Apparently few of my classmates got to it, either. I didn't even have the book with me. I spent the class in a state of near-sleep, perking up near the end to explain to the class something really obvious about symbolism that they didn't seem to be grasping, as if somehow I know more about these things than they do. I didn't even read the fucking poem and I think I can explain to them that one doesn't have to try and superimpose the images of an etherized patient and an evening sky on one another, just to accept the sensations they provoke. Poop.
Steve is 26, I think. Early-late-twenties. You, Kant, Always Get What You Want.
I need to expand my repertoire.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:28 PM | shower me with attention
The only way to cure myself of regret is to move forward into some fabulous new reality. Oh, is that all. I'll get right on that. Tomorrow. Or the next day.
Repeat after myself: I do not regret, because I had no other choice. I can not blame myself because it couldn't have gone differently. I am not having much luck finding what I am meant to do. Today I had a lox and onions omelette for lunch and it was quite salty. Last night I took a Benadryl and 5 am to fall asleep and I haven't quite woken up since. About those I may feel regret. Not about high school. Fuck high school.
I need to type up a bunch of boring linguistics things now to study from. Things I already know. So I can feel like I'm doing something. Is this the point of school?
I almost fell asleep tonight in poetry. We're doing T.S. Eliot. I didn't know that; I lost my syllabus weeks ago and missed the previous class. I haven't read any of The Wastelands. Apparently few of my classmates got to it, either. I didn't even have the book with me. I spent the class in a state of near-sleep, perking up near the end to explain to the class something really obvious about symbolism that they didn't seem to be grasping, as if somehow I know more about these things than they do. I didn't even read the fucking poem and I think I can explain to them that one doesn't have to try and superimpose the images of an etherized patient and an evening sky on one another, just to accept the sensations they provoke. Poop.
Steve is 26, I think. Early-late-twenties. You, Kant, Always Get What You Want.
I need to expand my repertoire.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 8:28 PM | shower me with attention
I would dearly love to live in a treehouse.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:42 AM | shower me with attention
Why are you in Tavie's head? 4:42 AM | shower me with attention
Sincerity is an apple hanging from a tree. Come, baby, and take a bite of my nice, juicy sincerity. -Bruce McCulloch, god help us.
It is, I am discovering, a rare thing to meet someone who loves us wholly for being as true and honest a self as we can be. There are not as many people in our lives as we'd like to think who are willing to do this. I think it's common to focus on the parts of people we love most and ignore the rest. I think that's just a thing humans do and it's a beautiful coping mechanism and that there's nothing wrong with that. But it means that when you meet the people who refuse to look away from the ugly parts, who accept them and love you for them, it's kind of scary.
I don't know if that made any sense, but it's my roundabout way of saying how glad I am that Steven Stewart is in my life.
He looks at a person or a problem from any angle, even the ugly ones where there's extra chins and you can see the crusty things in soeone's nose, and he goes, not, "Ewwww!", but "Ahhhhhh. I see. That's what makes x who x is. Veddy eenteresteeng."
I have as of yet gained little wisdom in my life, but I know enough to recognize this as a rare gift. It's why I know Steve is an excellent driector without having seen any of his work.
Happy Atlanta Steve Day, everyone.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:41 AM | shower me with attention
It is, I am discovering, a rare thing to meet someone who loves us wholly for being as true and honest a self as we can be. There are not as many people in our lives as we'd like to think who are willing to do this. I think it's common to focus on the parts of people we love most and ignore the rest. I think that's just a thing humans do and it's a beautiful coping mechanism and that there's nothing wrong with that. But it means that when you meet the people who refuse to look away from the ugly parts, who accept them and love you for them, it's kind of scary.
I don't know if that made any sense, but it's my roundabout way of saying how glad I am that Steven Stewart is in my life.
He looks at a person or a problem from any angle, even the ugly ones where there's extra chins and you can see the crusty things in soeone's nose, and he goes, not, "Ewwww!", but "Ahhhhhh. I see. That's what makes x who x is. Veddy eenteresteeng."
I have as of yet gained little wisdom in my life, but I know enough to recognize this as a rare gift. It's why I know Steve is an excellent driector without having seen any of his work.
Happy Atlanta Steve Day, everyone.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:41 AM | shower me with attention
Sunday, April 07, 2002
Whoop-de-doo, Curly Sue!
Today. Nothing interesting happened. I had Mexican food at a restaurant in Westchester, then watched my family eat some sort of banana-cream monstrosity in honour of my uncle's 50th birthday.
Now I am home, doing nothing interesting.
Can't complain.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:30 PM | shower me with attention
Today. Nothing interesting happened. I had Mexican food at a restaurant in Westchester, then watched my family eat some sort of banana-cream monstrosity in honour of my uncle's 50th birthday.
Now I am home, doing nothing interesting.
Can't complain.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 10:30 PM | shower me with attention
Below should read "Dance Par-tay", not "Dane Par-tay". There were no Danish people present. (Well, my great-grandfather was born in Copenhagen.)
It feels weird to be home on Saturday night. It's not right. It's wrong. I shan't be able to sleep. I'm getting separation anxiety for Gina.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:46 AM | shower me with attention
It feels weird to be home on Saturday night. It's not right. It's wrong. I shan't be able to sleep. I'm getting separation anxiety for Gina.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:46 AM | shower me with attention
In a rarely-precedented surprise move tonight, I left the cool embrace of Mint Manor early and returned to the great city of my birth after an invitation to The Rockinest' Dane Par-tay That Ever Was, featuring DJ Jazzy Jeff and The Fresh Prince, with special guest DJ Tatyana Ali. (An out-of-date link but the best I can manage.)
It was really sucky and horrible and boring, of course, and all I did all night was sulk about having to leave Gina. (Not really, but I don't want my heterosexual lifemate to be mad that I left her. I wouldn't have were it not for my need to get up early tomorrow and sign something in front of a notary, and then celebrate my uncle's fiftieth year on the planet earth.)
Actually, it was a barrel of bonobos. I laughed and laughed and laughed, as I did that time {quotey fingers} "with Scott" {/quotey fingers}. My favourite part was the choreographed dances to music I've never heard of, followed by the frank discussions about human/fowl sexuality, from which I learned a great deal about the workings of the world. (The oldest person there, I was also the least sexually experienced, which made for some too-loud giggling and inappropriate eyebrow-waggling on my end.)
I always feel a little more worldly when the cool kids let me hang out with them.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:40 AM | shower me with attention
It was really sucky and horrible and boring, of course, and all I did all night was sulk about having to leave Gina. (Not really, but I don't want my heterosexual lifemate to be mad that I left her. I wouldn't have were it not for my need to get up early tomorrow and sign something in front of a notary, and then celebrate my uncle's fiftieth year on the planet earth.)
Actually, it was a barrel of bonobos. I laughed and laughed and laughed, as I did that time {quotey fingers} "with Scott" {/quotey fingers}. My favourite part was the choreographed dances to music I've never heard of, followed by the frank discussions about human/fowl sexuality, from which I learned a great deal about the workings of the world. (The oldest person there, I was also the least sexually experienced, which made for some too-loud giggling and inappropriate eyebrow-waggling on my end.)
I always feel a little more worldly when the cool kids let me hang out with them.
Why are you in Tavie's head? 1:40 AM | shower me with attention
