Suck it, finals! Suck it!

In the weeks leading up to winter break I have be way super busy with writing papers and school stuffs.

After I completed my research proposal, I had to write a paper for theory. I considered throwing myself down a flight of stairs.

...But then... today... it happened... I finished! SUCK IT, FINALS! SUCK IT! No better way to start my vacation than by going to the Federal Reserve to make gold angels in the vault.

Eh, whatever.

The past few months have been tumultuous. Things were okay and then they were not okay and then they went back to being sort of okay, followed by a brief bit of not okay, and then okay. Being an adult is super majorly difficult at times but not always though sometimes usually. Eh, at least I have my health, right? But because I am a paranoid person I am getting my annual check up three months early just to make sure that "at least I have my health". Even though when I said "at least I have my health" I knocked on wood to prevent jinxes, I still think a blood test is more assuring. Well, since the last post all this happened:

Yes, a lot of stuff went down. These visual representations might seem confusing, but hopefully you will be able to interpret them correctly:

"Was she stabbed by a centipede-dragon? If she is so scared of centipedes turning on her why would she leave swords around the house?  Is that a turd? Gross. Was her tooth really anthropomorphized? Why is it so sad? Does she have an indifferent phaseolus lunatus with a face and arms? If so, shouldn't that be in a Ripley's museum for the rest of the world to enjoy? Did she throw-up turtle? God, this girl has digestion issues. If she has stomach problems she really shouldn't have gotten that cotton candy machine."

Yes! Yes to all of it! As for the why questions: "Eh."

Despite all of my really awesome and questionable adventures with violent ten feet tall centipedes, turtle vomit, and legumes these past few months, the greatest one of all is probably grad school (shut up, I am not lame). I seriously love graduate school and my new friends. Look, we even go out together now:

Just look at how my face is contorted to express happiness! In addition to all of these wonderful people, I befriended my neighbor. Prior to the big centipede incident all I knew was that she and I both replace real people with TV after work/school. As you can guess, that is not enough material to build a friendship. Real friends have more stuff in common. Real friends watch TV together. Well, one day I had an emergency. I came home to find that a centipede had broken into my apartment. When I heard her keys jangling I threw open my door and screamed for help. My heroic neighbor valiantly marched over with a bottle of bleach and destroyed the monster. At that moment we went from being adjacent TV murmurs to face-to-face people friends. Actually, I have not seen her since the centipede incident but I am sure that if I ever wanted to I can ask her to join me for dinner. I can defrost fish sticks and personal pizzas like nobody's business.

My Charmed New England Life: Too Much Nature. Gross.

New England, the birthplace of witches, lobster, Fall-time trees, and deadly animals. I kind of get to live here! yay... Moving beyond the ghosts and rats that live in my walls, there is way too much nature out here and someone should do something about this problem. Nature is freakin' everywhere and I can't seem to get rid of it--there is only so much of it I can eat. While the rats and ghosts may just be ontologically real, the family of centipedes living in my bathroom sink is materially for-realz-for-realz. Centipedes live in my sink tubes and at night they crawl out, staying in the basin until morning. They scare the crap out of me, so before I go to bed I close the bathroom drain to avoid this:

My campus seems to be filled with the nature as well. The other day a gaggle of geese (gaggle, right? Bevy? Eh) landed in front of the athletics center. I wanted to chase them, but I had to save all of my running energy for the elliptical. Prior to the geese encounter, I saw a HAWK! SQUAWK! It was raining out or something and from the graduate lounge window I saw a beautiful hawk the size of a three-year-old human. It was just chillin' on the lawn like, "eh... no big deal. I'm just a hawk chillin'". I tried to exhort my peers to share the enthusiasm, to absorb the glory of this magnificent bird--no, just kidding, I tried to get them to come outside to watch me chase it. Only one friend followed me out. The hawk was even more enchanting without a glass window dividing us. I felt such a connection to it. It was my spirit animal, my Hedwig.

I debated whether or not to chase it. After all, it was a pretty flippin' large bird with talons and a beak. Before I was able to make up my mind

it kind of flew at me and I grabbed a girl with crutches to use her body as a shield (I learned how to do this in Civil War reenactment games during 7th grade). Yup, I am a terrible person. Thankfully, the hawk decided to land in a tree instead of my face. All was well again in my charmed New England life.
Next time I decide to chase a large bird I am going to chase a turkey because... YES there are wild turkeys that roam free around New England! They are bigger than hawks.

I asked one of my new school friends if it would be possible to have her drive me around town so I can hunt turkeys from the passenger seat. She said no. Well, until I can find a gamely person with a car, I am going to enjoy the taste of New England nature the legal way.

How to Ride a Bus

My double life between Boston and New York has taught me many things about riding a bus successfully... dominantly... strategically. The 4.25-hour trip sounds tremendously long because it is, so I have a few tricks to optimize my chances of a double-front-seater trip. First, I signed up for Bolt Bus rewards, which ensures me Class A boarding status. If the Bolt Bus ticket collector has any sense of order, hierarchy, and justice... he will announce Class A to board first. Recently, a ticket collector announced Class A but then allowed a bunch of lowly Bs and Cs to board anyway, I had to push a C-er into a planter to quickly get my bags in the trunk so I can call dibs on my special seat. Which one is the special seat? and why is it so special? You may ask. Well, the best seats are the ones in the front.

The front seats are great! The benefits are (1) the panoramic view of the freeway! (2) no one reclines on you! (3)  the privilege to get off the bus first when the driver stops at the Burger King (or Roy Rogers, or Arby's)! and (4) extra leg room! However, being Class A does not always guarantee front seating because there may be many other Class A-ers rivaling for the special seats. Now, yes, there are FOUR front seats, but if either pair has an occupant, it is inappropriate to double up before all the other pairs on the bus have single occupants--by this rule, I have to be one of the first Class A-ers to board or one of the first Class C-ers. To increase my chances of reserving one of the four front seats, I shove when it is time to board. I have been told to "chill out", but what does a bus driver know about being on a bus for an extended period of time?

Think all the effort is over after I get one of the four front seats? Guess again. Now, it is time for me to protect the adjacent seat. Yes, I want TWO front seats for maximum comfort. To discourage people from sitting next to me, I put my backpack on the seat and take out all the books and folders, spreading everything all over the place everywhere. Then, I scowl to look dangerous.

Often, this does not work well. I tend to attract young Asian females who take one look at me and think, "oh, we have the Asian-connection, so it must be safe to sit next to her!" Sometimes they hover over me for a second, hoping I will look up and acknowledge them. I don't. Despite my busy demeanor, they dare to interrupt me with stupid questions like: "is anyone sitting here?" No, but my all my school books, notes, syllabi, and other things that appear like important business are; "do you mind if I sit here?" Yes, jerk; and the classic apology followed by an ellipse as they move toward the seat, "sorry..." Awful.

Think taking a bus is simple? You are wrong. It is full of strategic mind games and physical aggression. I am winning.

Boston, you scare me.

Recently, I relocated to Boston to go to school. My studio apartment is located in the North End, a community rich in history (Paul Revere rode through my neighborhood!--not recently or anything), Italian restaurants (why don't any of you take card?!), dumb tourists, uneven/narrow roads, tiny side streets, and notable landmarks that I haven't really checked out yet, but they are definitely there. People tell me there is much to love about this place because it is cute and has that "European"-feel. If "European" means "someone is going to stab you in a dark alley" or "ghosts are going to eat you" or "this street is just quiet because the person who was here before you is now locked in some car's trunk and will soon be harvested for organs" or "this sewer leakage is actually human juice from the funeral home", then yes, North End has a "European"-feel.

My walk home from school involves me crossing a funeral home with business at all hours of the day and a cemetery as old as this country (which is not THAT old, but old enough to look extremely creepy). This is bullshit. What the freak, man?! My quarter-life crisis obsession with and rejection of death did not ask for exposure therapy. I was going to go through the more conventional avenue of cognitive behavioral therapy.

I do not enjoy this. Fortunately, about two hours ago I discovered a new, longer way home to avoid this nonsense.

The first night in my new apartment was, to say the least, horrifying. The building I live in, like all others in the area, is flippin' old. Ancient! Built in the late 1800s, this little brick building has seen some major stuff go down, such as the molasses flood of 1919. My squeaky floors are distorted and slanted. It is like living in a fun house except the fun stops when I realize this is actually where I live. Anyway, the first night--I was startled awake by sporadic scratching sounds. My echolocation told me that the sounds were coming from the closet. Yes, of course, the closet! The source of all nightmares! In my blurry dream-conscious state, I was briefly concern that the scratching noise came from a ghost, or possibly ghosts. This scared the shit out of me for two reasons (1) what if it tries to kill me? (2) I don't believe in ghosts! This is not in line with my beliefs! There is no scientific evidence supporting ghosts! Why am I even considering ghosts as a possibility?!

I oscillated between fear and humility for about three hours throughout the night.

I concluded that the sounds were probably coming from rats, rats living in the walls of my apartment. At three in the morning this made sense. I live in an area with tons of restaurants=rats are living in the walls of my apartment. I was not as scared after concluding that the scratching sounds were produced by rats trying to break through the plaster. I figured that once the rats get into the kitchen they will see that I don't have any food. They will then promptly leave without hurting me. They will only hurt me if they know I am awake and watching them. I will pretend to be asleep, so they can carry on their business and leave me be. I will kill them tomorrow.

In the morning I investigated. With a clear head, I was skeptical about my rat theories and still pissed at myself for truly believing in ghosts haunting the apartment.
Let me get to the ending real quick before my laptop runs out of power.

It was the blinds. The window was open and there was a storm and a crap ton of wind... The sounds came from the blinds. I even reproduced the scratching sounds.

ARGH: A Story About Forgiveness.

This morning, like most of my unemployed mornings, I woke up super late and watched Seinfeld for an hour while getting dressed and ready. While applying crap-tons of makeup onto my face, I thought about purchasing bus tickets to see the Vans in Boston, moving the black shirt I have sitting out in the dining room to the hamper, having breakfast at N&Wu, needing to text Lauren about dinner at some point, buying new liquid eyeliner, figuring out what NARS stands for if it stands for anything at all, finishing the last 527 pages of that Franzen book later, charging my laptop in case I decide to go to Hungarian, and for all you labor department people out there, finding a job because that is also very important, if not the most important of all the things that I need to be doing, yes--my brain is just full of thoughts on everything all-the-time-always-about-everything-all-the-time like nobody's business.
But then suddenly, breaking my usual routine, a smell... I was in the dining room when struck with a pungent, noxious stink. I checked the litter box but it was clearly clean and empty. I walked around sniffing the air, wondering, "where the fuck is that smell coming from?"

Like a hound dog I scampered all over the apartment determined to identify the source of the offensive odor. For a moment, I entertained the idea that it was a metaphorical manifestation of my unemployed uselessness. In an overly dramatic manner, the universe was trying to tell me that my lazy-ass lifestyle is deplorable. Then, I crept toward the hallway leading to the front door. Suddenly, there it was... next to my precious shoes... my precious, precious shoes...

Bio-terrorism!

I screamed for Josh to come "help" me clean it up--or if we are not speaking in code, "clean it up entirely". A LOT OF POOP!!! EW!!! I knew exactly who the culprit was, no doubt about it. Luna-cat is far too concerned with hygiene to ever do such a thing, but Sri-cat, well, Sri has a history of vile shenanigans. Without any signs of remorse, Sri watched me run around the apartment, my arms flailing with anger and repulsion (like those wacky advertising wind dancers in front of car dealerships). Perfectly aware of the limits to his intelligence, I lectured anyway. I was so mad! It was obvious that he was trying to poop inside my brown heels (Oh, Sri, you are a clever color-coordinating schemer) because both shoes had fallen over, most likely from his attempt at squatting on them. I have some baller detective skills.

Once I said everything I had to say and made all of the ridiculous groundless threats I had to make--"What's wrong with you? I'm going to put you out on the fire escape! How'd you like that? Why did you do this? Are you mad at me? ARGH! There are plenty of cats out there who would kill to live like you! I fed you a can of tuna in addition to dry food two nights ago! CHUNKY TUNA! Next time I am going to spray bottle you! SPRAY BOTTLE!!!"--I gathered my things in a rage and left. The walk to N&Wu calmed me down a bit. As I schlumped down Broardway, Sri was probably lounging in his usual spot behind the door in the bedroom without a clue that I was furious.
I suppose having a cat is a lot like having a kid. He does major-crazy-ballz things, but you suppress the urge to spray him with water from a squirt bottle, and instead, get some coffee, have some sympathy for his cluelessness, and move on because unemployment is short and 527 pages of Franzen is long.

What have I been doing?!

My 25th birthday is coming up this Tuesday, as most people might know from of my constant reminders and messages and emails and texts, and now, this post. A whole quarter-century has passed and what the flip have I done?

Ugh, twenty-five, that is an actual grown-up age. When I was a kid I thought by 25 I would be working as a glamorous pharmacist, married to either Freddie Prinze Jr. or Prince William or Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and buying stuff with my own money, like land and patio furniture and a laserdisc player and the Spice Girls album and corduroy overalls. I also dreamt of purchasing an old power plant and living in it because I had so much money I needed to be humbled... JTT and I would sew our own clothes and I would say stuff like, "did you bring home coal from the coal forest to heat our stove for dinner?" Whatever.

Our neighbor's tortoise used to get lost in our front yard... tortoises live longer than people. I don't know exactly which species of tortoises, but there are definitely certain kinds out there that can outlive humans--up to probably 150 years or something. Our neighbor's tortoise was probably not one of these super tortoises, and if it were--it was too adventurous, so it's most likely dead now--or lost, or soup, who knows. I think many people, particularly Josh, Kyle, and Radim, have heard this complaint. It makes me sad that I cannot live as long as tortoises. Tortoises are not worthy of such long lives! Death is--oh my god, Sri (the cat) is trying to dig a cheese puff out of my loafer, so cute!--death is going to happen one day and it makes me sad that I have already spent 25 years of my life. If I am lucky, I will live up to 95... or up to whenever I completely lose control of my bowel movements, which will probably be around 90 or 95. However, there are crap loads of things that can kill me before old-age.

AND to make matters worst, I do not have an afterlife or a religion to calm my nerves (disclaimer: this is not an invitation to convert me, people). It is straight into the ground after all this! Crap! I refuse to be compost! Something about becoming 25 is really making me think about my own mortality. Some people will argue that I am being ridiculous and that 25 is not old... well, I am not saying that 25 is old, jerks. I am saying that it is the beginning of adulthood (none of this 18 year-old business, no one is an adult at 18 or 21! That's nuts!) and adulthood leads into geriatricism, which leads to death. Major companies now agree that I have gathered enough sapience and real-world experience to rent a car... a whole flippin' car... a machine as big as a rhinoceros. People trust me with rhinoceroses!

 Well, on that note, I look forward to my birthday party Tuesday. And if I have not said it enough... there is going to be

a pinata to distract me from the fact that I am getting old and will die in 70 years if I am lucky enough to avoid assassination, disease, freak accidents, and dangerous animals/insects.

Funemployment (stole the term from Jared)!

Three weeks after putting in my resignation letter, I got laid off. I saw it coming because three days before my awkward lay-off, the administrators called us in for an emergency meeting. While others sensed impending doom, I thought we were going to get an elevator installed and was really excited. "We are going to have to evacuate and not work while they install the new elevator! YAY!"

Nope. Budget cuts. In the words of Liz Lemon, "Shut it down." Well, shut half of it down. I knew I was going to be in the shut down half--it would only be rational. I went through a small roller coaster of emotions: ambivalence, concern, and then extreme excitement.


The next Monday I was called into the office. It felt very official... and awkward.

I put on a sad face because being laid off is generally a bad thing. It was hard.

I shrugged a lot and thank a few people for the opportunity, "Thank you for the opportunity."

Since then:

Yes, I am currently looking for a new job everyday all the time everyday, Mr. NYC department of labor.

Children and Pigeons: carriers of diseases

Today I am sick and I will not be going to work. I am pretty sure I called in to tell them that I will be absent, but I might have also imagined it... if that is the case, I might be out of a job tomorrow... but I am pretty sure I called in. Right? I don't know. What have I gained form this experience? Children are like pigeons.

I thought I was invincible. Children's germs turn out to be very potent. Just because I am larger than the children I work with it apparently does not mean that I am above whatever virus or disease they may carry. Like pigeons, children are small but their nastiness knows no bounds. Like pigeons, children are efficient vehicles for a range of diseases. I feel so fragile... Oh, how the might has fallen! I do not let pigeons lick my hands because I think it is unsanitary, so, I should not let children do so either for the same reason.

What should I do with my sick day? Staying home all day will give me cabin fever, which will cause ridiculous food delivery orders, which will cause stomach ache, which will cause another sick day, which will cause an endless cycle. I think I will take some drugs and go to the movies. I might smuggle in my Snuggie.

You invited to my Royal Weddin'

Many of us are very excited about the upcoming Royal Wedding between Prince William and the Catherine that is not me. Some of us might even wake up as early as 4am est this Friday to watch the thing. I know I will try to--my vision might be obstructed by tear-soaked tissues, but whatever, I am totally over him, like, totally, I don't care anymore, just watch me throw away all of the pictures of him that I had clipped from Time magazine (my parents only allowed me to subscribe to Time and Newsweek). While many have been anticipating this ceremony since the engagement was announced--some time after my brilliant idea for a taxidermy workshop--I have been waiting since I was fourteen. However, running completely counter to how I had envisioned this wedding so long ago, I am not the bride! What the fuck?! At the sweet, deranged age of fourteen, I really thought I was going to marry Prince William one day, or at least hook up with him, you know? I knew there were going to be obstacles because of the distance and the age difference... I was fourteen and he was, like, eighteen. I consulted my French/SAT tutor about my situation and he said that it was not impossible for me to date Prince William. With that glimmer of hope, I started planning my future with Prince William. I decided that I would have to meet him first so he could fall in love with me at first sight... Looking back... was he really going to fall in love with this?

No, this business took time to love. My love for Prince William blinded me of what I looked like...a dorky swamp monster that almost failed fifth grade because she made a pop-up book instead of writing an essay on John James Audubon. So, I continued on with my wedding plans. I decided I would have my parents take me to the UK for a family vacation. Once there, I was going to get all dressed up and get hit by Prince William's car--not badly hit, just enough to knock me unconscious. I logically reasoned that the fear of press coverage would force him to take me back to the castle, instead of a hospital. There, he would wait until I woke up to sign a confidentiality agreement. While waiting, he would fall in love with me. I figured, after waking up, he and I would have a meaningful conversation, a type of conversation that would make him think, "wow, she is really cool. I want to be her boyfriend and kiss her with my eyes closed and my hands on her waist like a slow dance."
Had he asked me to marry him for realz, I would have thrown a baller wedding. But hey, dreams can come true... which is why:

YOU INVITED TO MY ROYAL WEDDIN'!!!
My bridesmaids are: Jon Hamm, Anderson Cooper, and the guy from all those Mentalist posters. The wedding in my parents' backyard will be followed by a reception of bagel bites, Zing crunchy snacks, dosas, and cheese. Hope you can make it!
If you can't make it to my royal wedding, then please come to the taxidermy workshop on May 28 at 10am. Admission is $375.

Work physically hurts, but I am okay with that.

Work has been going well. While waking up at 6:30am seems like a sick and inhumane form of corporal punishment, I learned how to deal with it... oh, how humans can learn to adjust to almost anything! What keeps me going is the fact that in 6 months I will be back in school. Until then:

I will be bitten.

I will be scratched... scratched so bad that strangers stop me on the street to ask what happened (yes, this happened).

It is fortunate that the feistiest child is also the most good-looking and likable.

I have told a few of my co-workers that I will be leaving in half a year. I did not intend to tell anyone at work, but I am bad at lying and we have an alliance now. During lunch, the day after I had called in sick to go to a graduate program's meet-and-greet, a co-worker asked me how things were yesterday and where I was. My answer was vague, which made him ask further if I was trying to be secretive. I did not want him to think that I was absent because of something embarrassing like... diarrhea (my bowel movements are healthy), so I told him the truth--eh, screw it, he's in school himself. As I am slowly observing, there is a high turn-over among teachers at this school, so my eventual resignation will be statistically consistent and inoffensive.

Looking back to September-now, back to the stress that I was undergoing while researching, GRE-preping, Statement of Purpose-writing,  application response-waiting (hurrah www.thegradcafe.com which made the wait both tougher and easier), I feel accomplished, which is not something that I can say very often... because I am so flippin' modest and stuff. It was hard work! It took three application seasons to get me into grad school! Hell, I had to go through a master's program to get into grad school! Yes, that translates to: going to grad school to go to grad school. And now, all of it is done and I am finally going to go to school. I am pretty happy and grateful.

What could only make me happier now is... going to Mars 2112 (a Mars-themed restaurant) with Jessica... Oh, wait, that is what I am doing tonight! Wohoo!

Interpreting interpretive dance and hell... a flashlight into the abyss

Last night, Josh and I went to City Center to watch Paul Taylor's three-piece modern dance production. It was flippin' classy, people wore gowns and tuxedos, so I wore my Celebrity Punk Jeans with yellow stitching, which my mom bought for me from the Macy's Junior's department (thanks for telling me this was some freakin' gala, Josh!). The entire time I was expecting interpretive dance... but then learned that modern dance and interpretive dance are not the same thing (but can be sometimes? Whatever.). Part one was, what I can only guess, a story about a group of friends who go out for dinner and all come home with horrible salmonella poisoning.

The poising is so bad that they become delirious and take part in an orgy, creating opportunities for all the men-folk to enjoy each others masculinity without any inhibitions. The next morning everyone is hung over and wondering what happened the night before. The End. 
Part two was about a threesome of a woman and two men who are abducted by aliens from an advanced planet where 80s style and synthesized music are popular. On this planet the two men realize that they are not rivals; they were only fighting over the girl to prove their masculinity to each other. They get it on. The girl is pissed. This End.
Part three was just okay. At one point, four people dressed in KKK ceremonial head gear came out to prance and stuff, which at first made me feel uneasy, but then it became silly, so, okay, but then I went back to feeling uneasy at the end.
Thank god dancers get tired super fast, unlike those damn Met opera singers who can go on for four hours, lulling me into a light sleep (which is embarrassing because sometimes I suddenly wake up and wonder if I had farted or something). Operas make me gassy.
After the show ended, I convinced Josh to take me to Mars 2112, a themed restaurant. Much to my horror, the restaurant had closed four minutes before our arrival. I felt very sad. Remember, at this point we were dangerously close to Time Square, the turd of the devil. So sad, I hastily pointed to a diner across the street and said something like, "screw it, let us go there!" Oh... how little did I know what I was dragging my disappointed butt into.
We cross the street and entered Ellen's Stardust, a 50s diner. The host walked us through the crowded restaurant to our table. I sat in between two fat tourists. It felt like a family-friendly strip club. It was a spectacle, as most things are in and near Time Square. The lighting was bright and flashy. The music was disturbingly loud. The waiters and waitresses dressed to the era and impressively karaoked pop songs in between taking orders and serving patrons. Oh geez, it was what I imagined hell to be for performance artists. The staff exemplified: shattered dreams, depression, shame, and struggle. It was the saddest display of compromise I have ever witnessed. 

The staff was a group of young, talented singers and actors waiting for their break and wasting their years of training and practice on a bunch of tourists who wanted to hear them sing Ke$ha and Jay-Z. I wanted to go, but Josh:

was fascinated. So, I ordered a drink.
The most raw, heart-breaking, Oscar-winning moment was when waiter "Beau" took a break from requests to operatically perform Puccini. His voice was incredible. THIS was the real Coyote Ugly.

His face was wrinkled and twisted as he sung at the top of his lungs. The depth of his misery, the preponderance of nachos on my plate, the circumference of the woman sitting next to me made Ellen's Stardust the saddest place on earth. So, to our waitress, Jamie Rae, and Beau and the rest, I hope life will suck less soon. The End.

Katy Perry believes in me.

I have this week off work and will hopefully get some writing done. This has not been going so well. In fact, it is not going at all.

My writer's block, I believe, can be attributed to my recent rejection from round two of submissions, and Snookie. Considering that the literary climate is currently at Vampire, non-fiction, memoirs, and chick-lit, I am not surprised that editors are as interested in publishing my book as they are in... are in... god, I don't know, I have writer's block, lets pretend I wrote something wry and clever... eating boogers. Perhaps I should just change all the characters in my book into vampires and Justin Bieber and stuff Americans are into--Bridalplasty, and it hand over to my agent for another go.

It will be a huge success.

Sometimes I can feel the dark side whispering to me in the voice of Voldemort (and sometimes Anderson Cooper for when I am feeling both desperate and sexy)... "hey, you, 'writer', I can make your dreams come true. You can get published... you can do it. It is as easy as 1, 2, 3... credit card information." What are you saying Voldemort/Anderson? "SELF PUBLISH!" NOOOOO!!! I can't! I can't! You can't make me, Voldemort! Maybe, Anderson... YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!!!

Really, I can't self-publish. Sometimes, it feels like that may be the only way in which I can ever get printed and bound, but I am as interested in self-publishing as I am in... in... eating boogers. So, I guess I will push through this writer's block, write another book, and years from now, I will try to get it published. And then if my agent tells me that I have, for the second time, failed. Well, damn it, I will write a third book! I will write ALL THE BOOKS!

I only feel optimistic because I was just listening to Katy Perry's song, Firework. Lemmetellya, that is some potent stuff because I know I'm not PMSing, so... I guess what I feel from listening to Fireworks are just emotions, regular. 

Valentine's Day

Josh and I celebrated Valentine's Day on Sunday. I was very excited to give Josh the present I had customized and pre-ordered weeks in advance. Before he was able to brush off all his eye boogers, I shoved his unwrapped gift right in his face. It was a coffee mug with this image printed on:

It's my faces! It's a mug with two of my heads fused together with MS paint to form a super-conjoined-twin me!!! In addition, I gave him a hologram bookmark--also with my faces.
I think he really liked it. His mouth uttered, "Thank you. I love it." But his face read, "Seriously? This is the fourth mug she has designed this year." After the mug and hologram exchanged hands, I demanded my gift... because as much as I like giving presents, I really like receiving presents. I like presents like nobody's business. I like surprises. I like tearing gift wrapping paper. I like coiled ribbons. I like confetti gratuitously stuffed into boxes and gift bags. I love presents!!!

 Josh did not have anything for me. He said he had gone down to the Bowery earlier last week to look for some duck I had said I wanted (whatever, dude, I have no memory of this stuffed duck). He looked sad and embarrassed, so to comfort him--to be a good person--I said something lame like: "Oh, it is the thought and... you know, the effort... that counts. Yeah. That's it. Your present counts so much to give to me in an imaginary thing that so much effort and all thoughts so it is so that thus is a present that is both full of mind feeling nice which makes me so good." I was disappointed. I like surprises. My surprise was stolen from me! and of all people... who knew it would be the person who was supposed to give me a surprise that stole the surprise from the person who was supposed to give me the surprise but could not give me the surprise because it was stolen from the person who was supposed to ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I felt rage.

Josh suggested that we go to the Columbus Circle mall after watching the Justin Bieber 3-D documentary at Lincoln Center Lowes. Damn right we're going to the mall after Justin Bieber! Not a bad movie, by the way.
However, when we got to the mall, I did not want anything. I was sad that I did not get a surprise. Too sad! Kind of pissed. More sad. Josh really wanted me to pick something out because he sensed my agitation, but I do not like knowing the cost of my gifts (I like guessing the ballpark)... and what I really wanted was a pre-planned surprise.

Eventually, I found a sale and did not feel guilty about picking out some practical sweaters. We at at Avoce for dinner. There, I got pretty drunk off of gin and lavender-something. After dinner, I ran wild at Whole Foods, looking for 365-brand Oreo knock-offs and the glittery kitchen sponges we normally use. "They do'n hab our sbonges!" I loudly slurred. "I neeb coffeeeeeeee..."

On actual Valentine's Day--today--I got a call from my agent. She informed me that our last publisher had rejected my novel and that my best bet is to write a second novel, get that one published, and then publish the first one. I am feeling pretty sad. Yes, I am not getting published this year... but Snookie did. Anyway.