The Longest Word in the English Language

pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
It's a lung disease. It's 45 letters long. I found it on "AskOxford." They claim, though, that it is one of the many "longest words" which are hardly, if ever, used. Here I am trying to innocently get the word "iconalize" (to make an icon of) into the dictionary and some idiot with a medical degree has gotten a lung disease with the word volcano smushed in before the "niosis" in. I'd like to know the usage rate of that word. No, actually I don't. The last thing I want is a pompous latin teacher to come in with a stack of medical books with highlighted pages full of this word and others like it.

You know what I'd like? I'd like some pompous arse to ask a spelling bee contestant to spell that word. And then? I'd like that spelling bee contestant to shove the microphone somewhere unpleasant. I'm not picky. It just irks me, the competitive nature of humans. And I'm not even talking about a region here. It isn't just in the U.S. that people fight for recognition. Though we, perhaps, perpetuate it more than others. Or maybe not. I don't know.

I suppose it's the result of being a social animal. It is of the utmost importance for humans to gain accomplices in life. Mutual accomplices that gain as much from you as you from them. Without these connections humans are left to fend for themselves, which, if you've seen any Discovery Channel in the last 20 years, means you're lion bate. It's an instinct to form bonds. Unfortunately sometimes this means competition to get the bonds you want or, in this society's case, the bonds that are deemed most popular with other people as well. If three thousand other people like So-and-So then So-and-So must be someone to be liked.

The trouble with all of this competition is that pretty soon though the lion isn't trying to eat you anymore you've become the lion. Which, in the full nature of the thing, isn't bad. Lions are just trying to survive, really. They're trying to protect their pride. Hm, interesting. That's what a lot of competitors are trying to do too, I imagine. Just a different kind of pride.

currently: Oh, for pete's sakes, who cares?

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The Longest Word in the English Language

pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis
It's a lung disease. It's 45 letters long. I found it on "AskOxford." They claim, though, that it is one of the many "longest words" which are hardly, if ever, used. Here I am trying to innocently get the word "iconalize" (to make an icon of) into the dictionary and some idiot with a medical degree has gotten a lung disease with the word volcano smushed in before the "niosis" in. I'd like to know the usage rate of that word. No, actually I don't. The last thing I want is a pompous latin teacher to come in with a stack of medical books with highlighted pages full of this word and others like it.

You know what I'd like? I'd like some pompous arse to ask a spelling bee contestant to spell that word. And then? I'd like that spelling bee contestant to shove the microphone somewhere unpleasant. I'm not picky. It just irks me, the competitive nature of humans. And I'm not even talking about a region here. It isn't just in the U.S. that people fight for recognition. Though we, perhaps, perpetuate it more than others. Or maybe not. I don't know.

I suppose it's the result of being a social animal. It is of the utmost importance for humans to gain accomplices in life. Mutual accomplices that gain as much from you as you from them. Without these connections humans are left to fend for themselves, which, if you've seen any Discovery Channel in the last 20 years, means you're lion bate. It's an instinct to form bonds. Unfortunately sometimes this means competition to get the bonds you want or, in this society's case, the bonds that are deemed most popular with other people as well. If three thousand other people like So-and-So then So-and-So must be someone to be liked.

The trouble with all of this competition is that pretty soon though the lion isn't trying to eat you anymore you've become the lion. Which, in the full nature of the thing, isn't bad. Lions are just trying to survive, really. They're trying to protect their pride. Hm, interesting. That's what a lot of competitors are trying to do too, I imagine. Just a different kind of pride.

currently: Oh, for pete's sakes, who cares?

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Sweet N'Low Swept Hairs and Kept Dust Bunnies off of the Clothes

I look out the stock room and what do I see
God I really want to go home
A couple of managers coming after me
Is time yet to go home?

SweetN'Low
Swept Hairs and kept
Dust Bunnies off of the clothes

SweetN'Low
Swept Hairs and kept
Dust bunnies off of the clothes

A good sized part of me wants to say that I'm going back to school tomorrow...erm...later today? I want to be talking about a dorm room or buying overpriced books. I want to be gathered together in that society of my peer group grudging through a part time job and homework and the social life of staying up too late and drinking too much. Going to school with a hangover or missing class because I couldn't get a day off of my job.

You know, normal U.S. college kid life. I've never had that. I've never had an obnoxious roommate nor have I, as glasshole puts it, been attacked by wafts of patchouli saturated hippies. Nor, also stolen from glasshole, have I come to nearly orgasmic sensations from a hot, high-powered shower. Not sure if that's specific to the college experience or not, but certainly regardless of its affiliation, I want it, yah?

Anyway, some bulleted points of the current direction of my life:

• I'm going to my cousin's wedding and therefore searching near and high for a dress.
• Thus putting off my head-buzzing until after my cousin's wedding.
• Yes, I'm geting my head buzzed.
• I'm in the market for a new, higher paying job. Then again, aren't we all?
• I'm a future dramaturg!
• I know what a dramaturg is!
• No, I won't tell you.
  
• Alright, I will. It's a secret agent that works within theatre who shoots ink at theatre terrorists!
• Okay, you got me, I'm lying.
• *humming mission impossible*

To my lj friends, I apologize for my entries being uncut, if you've friended me. I've yet to find out how to do so.

currently: Oh, whatchamacallit?

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On Doing Something to Only Fill Your Own Need

Here's an epiphany. Get ready. Hold onto your seats. I'm about to bust this thing wide open. Doing something (even with no other reason than) to fill your own need is not bad. I am sick of selfless "humble" people giving and giving and giving and apparently doing nothing to satisfy themselves because they protest when anyone accuses them of filling their needs, only their need even.

You know, I would be very upset to learn that my doctor had no need to be a doctor, that he was simply doing it because there was a need for other people for a doctor. Let me tell you something, Mr. PhD, if you don't need to help me get over whatever physical ailment I'm in then you shouldn't be a doctor. If there isn't a hole in your soul when you are not being a doctor then don't be my doctor.

I think we've "negatized" the word "need." We've stuck it in these ignorant offshoots like "needy" and "selfless act." You can't have a selfless act. If you have a selfless act then who's doing it? Can you separate that part of you that people identify as self and love someone? Simply loving someone is a need fulfilled to yourself. Me loving someone else gives me such great joy that I'd be clueless if I didn't think I needed to love.

So don't give me this crap about the only reason doing something is to fulfill a need being a horrid sin. I deny that. I push it away from my reality. That statement no longer exists, and if it does it makes no sense. People need to do things that they love to do. And if, for some reason, they aren't needing to do those things, then why the heck are they doing them? Stop doing that. Be selfish and do something you like doing, k?

And furthermore (yes, more further) actively doing something where you are the only thought in your mind of recieving the needed good of that event is fine. Now, I'm not saying that if this act were rape that you should go out and rape someone with no thoughts of what those consequences would be on other people. But if, say, you were acting in a play and thought nothing of anyone else except the needed good you would get from acting (not money nor fame as those are wants--we're talking the triangle heirarchy of needs here) then more power to you! Inadvertantly I assure you that others are profiting from your infatuated, obsessive love of the need to act.

So don't do that. Don't confuse those terms, need and want. Need is so much more than want. Want is usually an unhealthy craving for something that really has no bearing on your life. It's superficial. Need is something that helps you survive. Look in a dictionary. Think about what you're saying. Words aren't just there for decoration, they have a purpose. Don't be mean. Words paint pictures in people's minds. They can also act as paint thinner and destroy those pictures. That's not fair. Then again, the only thing truly fair is a day in the sun with rides, cotton candy, attractions, and unwinable overpriced games.

Internal Dialogue:

Now wait. If you're doing something and the only reason is fulfill a need...

Then that's fine! There's absolutely nothing wrong will fulfilling your own needs.

But for no other reason than to do that? What about other people?

What about them? You're not thwarting them from finding what they need.

But what if your journey to your need thwarts them.

If they need it they'll find it.

But you've thwarted them!

Name me one need that thwarts someone out of something they need.

Okay...the need for food. If you need food and someone else needs food and you get to food first--

Then they'll die. And they won't need food anymore.

That's a little harsh, don't you think?

No. You needed food. Let's even say you needed that amount of food or you wouldn't have lived. They also needed that amount of food or they would have died. If you had shared that food you both would have died. Would that've been any better than you or the other person taking the food and one of them living and one dying? And, expounding on that, is dying really a loss? Isn't it a gain for the other person if they die? They no longer have the need of what you gained. In a way, you both win.

That's a really ridiculous, unrealistic metaphor.

Not entirely. If you take someone that someone needs away the part of that person, be it physical or mental, will have to die. And when that death does occur, the need no longer exists and the point becomes moot. Want is much more complex than that. Wants don't die. Even when that object is no longer existing nor will ever be existing the want for it will still exist. Want morphs into the word "addiction," at that point. Addiction is an incredibly dangerous thing. It scews the realization of need and want. It makes you believe that you need what you want. It makes you think you'll die if you don't have it. That's a powerful motivation.

That's true. So are you saying that people with fetishes have needs or wants? For instance, if you're into shoes (genuinly fetishing not just I really like them alot) and you're suddenly drawn into a place where shoes no longer exist, will you die?

No. Fetishes are sexual needs. Your sexual satisfaction will die. Thus you'll have no need for shoes because you'll have no desire for sex. Granted, that's a horrid way to live, don't you think?

I'm a big proponent of sex.

You're a virgin.

I'm a supporter! Just call me a sex-hag.

Wow--we are really weird. Well, do you get what I'm saying now, though? The difference between need and want and the fact that there's nothing wrong with needing something?

I think. I still have my doubts, but I've always trusted you.

We do live in the same apartment.

Yes, and there must be some civility.

currently: disassociated

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We'll Feed Him with a Dohnut on a Stick

My cousin is getting married.

I found my Aunt Marie's ring she gave me.

I didn't work today.

Oh! I'm volunteering two nights at Black Box!

Oh oh! And Lesley and I (well, mostly I) have decided that the surefire way to keep Mr. Beuerlein here for the hopeful revival of Hedwig at World Grotto for Halloween or whereever else for New Years is to tie him to the Black Box Theatre sign dressed as Hedwig. This will not only assure his adhesiveness to whatever date it might be, but it will also add a little spectacle to the theatre, allowing more and more people to come in groves to see shows. Or Mr. Beuerlein. Whatever.

You ever have the realization that life could be going a little better than it is right now?

currently: disgruntled

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To Boldly Go...

Who's watching the roast of William Shatner? C'mon, I know you want to. It's like that last brownie that isn't yours. Take it! Take the whole dang brownie pan! Guilty pleasures. Put an apple in his mouth and shove him on a scewer! I love that man. Who can't love William Shatner? He's your drunk uncle who won't admit he's bald.

No, really, I do enjoy me some Shatner. Every once and a while I'll catch Star Trek on Spike or G4 and soak myself in good old fashion progressive television. No one had ever done a show like Star Trek. And, though a questionable actor, Mr. Shatner helped to bring in a whole new type of show with racy topics like gender equality (sorta) and racism (really more than the prior). But you got to see a woman, a black woman, in a position of power. Once I even saw Uhura beat up someone. I was like, hells yeah! Woman roars!

He was also in an episode of the Twilight Zone? The one with the thing on the plane. Beautiful. Perfect for that role. And he's probably very close to being a genuinly nice guy, too. I love those Priceline commericials. You can't hate William Shatner. At least not too long. You can have tiffs with him, but when you see him again he'll always make ya smile.

And anyway, every William Shatner joke ever told all in one place. Can't get any better.

currently: illogically giddy

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Baby, you know I love ya...

Baby shower today. Reinforced my desire not to get pregnant. A hundred onesies*, recieving blankets**, diapers, bottles, bathing supplies, and bobbles of bobbles and fuzzy fluffy things later I was staring at the bugs in the flourescent lights to get away from the plethora of powder blue boy's playthings and why didn't anyone get yellow ducks or green rhinosauri? And ohmycod, is that a Dale Earnhart onesie! What evil things has this child yet to see!

People tell me, you never know what the future will bring. You might want a child! You might have a child! And I tell them that my biological clock got lost in the womb. I don't want a baby. I don't want to buy belly heavy maternity clothes and feast on odd food combinations until a watermelon comes through the eye of a needle and starts anew my life of such blessed singularity.

I say, I've never been in love. And how can growth of such a magnitude of a baby's worth creation come out of someone who's never been in love? Call it a mental disorder. I'll bite. Give me pills, and make me sterile. I'll create with my mind, not my womb. My children won't strain my back, but pull a muscle in my brain.

It's a lonely, crowded life in here. And darned if this scrooge is going to dialate for oversized head drooler to come barreling through.

Gah. It turned into a rant. Figures.

For the babylingo impaired:
*onesie-a garment worn that is a one-piece outfit (usually cute peppered with animals of various cartoon creations
*recieving blanket-puke buddy, drool mat, burp towel, blech (also usually peppered with cartoon actors but more uselessly so considering the eventual soiling of the cloth)

currently: oily

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p.s. www.layreview.blogspot.com

I have to stop apologizing for things I shouldn't be apologizing for.

I...Had a Dream!

I had a dream last night that Alexsandr Petrovsky, the character from Sex and the City, worked with me in retail. But he was a lot better at it than me. He only had four pinstriped pants and one blazer that he was in charge of, but he neatened everything up really nicely and everyone was asking why I wasn't more like him. I also had a dream after that where large black triangles were coming after me and some other people. We found out that in the triangles were brainwashed soldiers. We helped them realize that they didn't have to be large black killing triangles anymore. Then we went to a flea store.

Isn't it odd how the subconscious works? Nothing makes any sense when you look back on it, but while you're in the dream, or even daydream, you seem to be lingual in "whattheferk" brain nonsense. It makes you think, what would happen if a circuit got hung between when you're awake and when you're dreaming? If all of the logic of the real world flew away to surrender itself to the logic of the dreamworld, what would happen? Would you end up killing yourself? Or would you actually be able to walk on air? Is it simply the thought that there are laws of gravity or breathing or any other thing that seems solid that makes reality or does reality exist wether or not we think it does?

Maybe dream reality and percieved awake reality tie in hand in hand, though. What if when we jump off that building we don't fly but we, instead, fall into a trash can or start walking on a telephone wire. What if our realities coincide in a way where everything that happens in the dream reality exists in the percieved awake reality--but clothed in metaphor and symbolism? Would it be interesting to decipher that? Or would it simply be a waste of time?

currently: asleep

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Hello Blemish, Welcome to My Cheek

I hope you find everything to your liking, you puss-filled bag of filth. You'll find this area fairly rural, with a few neighboors to the left of the nose, some forehead dwellers and far off sheepish bumps arising on the chin. There is even a couple of new settlements coming up from the temples. But be assured that this area won't get too populated. In fact, in a few days, I'm hoping you'll find this new location disatisfying and come back from whence you came. We don't like new folks around here. In fact, hopefully in the next few weeks this place will become a barren wasteland again, a moist and fertile playground for soft mountians uninterrupted by scoundrels such as yourself.

So be comfortable for now, but know that I'll kill you with a smirk on my face the first chance I get.

currently: bumpy

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The Luck of the Jewish

Have you ever written a character so real, so tangible, so interdependant with you that killing this character off would feel like removing a vital organ?

About, oh, three years ago I made a character like that. And for two years I've been fighting with myself if I can take her out of the environment of written roleplay and put in a novel.

Now I know what people think of when they hear the word "role play" nowadays. It's the same thoughts they have when they hear the words "star trek," "manga," "anime," or "sci fi." And while I don't boast to be above such accusations (nor am I, at least with the sci fi genre) I do want to make clear that when I say I'm in a written role play it has nothing to do with any of those words nor associations. Not that I don't salute those who are in life actions, point systems, cosplays, or anthromorphic role playing in various ways. But that it simply doesn't describe what I'm talking about.

Call it, a mixed melody of theatre geek and computer geek. Like Shakespeare on Myspace, if you will. Not that I've touting to be Shakespeare, but you get my drift, I think.

About three years ago I was just getting into internet groups. I had long been involved in a form of blogging and email and a little instant messenger. But for the first time I was actually joining all those groups I saw advertised. One of the first groups I joined was an Alan Cumming fan group. It doesn't matter the specifics of who Alan Cumming is only that he was the Emcee in a revival of Cabaret: the musical in 1998. I'm, sadly, no longer a part of the Yahoo group--but I was directed towards an interesting opportunity in writing. Stumbling in on the livejournal scene I premiered a character in a Cabaret based role playing writing group called "kit_kat_klub." The character who I premiered was called Ophilia (yes, spelled like that). She was a transsexual woman who always wore red shoes.

This character has leeched her way into every aspect of my life. Before this moment I was no more knowledgeable of transsexuals than the next computer obsessed girl. But after I researched about the lifestyle and challenges, I soon became enamoured with knowing everything. Her creation brought me to the open mind to accept films like Hedwig, Better than Chocolate, and other lower budget trans and nontransfilms. She also brought me to the realization that something existed out there that I hadn't known about before that needed to be known about.

But more than the trans aspect, Ophilia has been a part of me. Part of her that I created jumps out in me every once and a while. Her matronly attitude. Her fashion sense. Her confidence. Her ability to babble incessantly. Things that I might have posessed but weren't tapped into before. I think the thing that keeps me from writing her as a novel is the knowledge that in novel form she is more expendable, so to say. She will die just as she lives. She has a lifetime, yes, but lifetimes are mortal and I will eventually have the finalize a writing of her death. I know I will. I couldn't not.

And so I ask if anyone else has had this experience of fear and doubt in a character they've created, by whatever means. Have you ever gotten so intimate with your own character that you fear separation?

The Luck of the Jewish:
I found a check I'd forgotten to deposit in my car that's still good. Yowza!

currently: still hungry

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When Customers Go Nice or An Epiphany or Two.

I should be ashamed to say this. I disgust even myself with the autrocity of ignorance in this very unlikely epiphany! But, here it lies, finally unveiled from my consciousness. I finally, at last, realized the connection with the song Sugar Daddy from Hedwig and the story: Hansel and Gretel from German folklore. Hansel traces the trail of candy back and finds a large Sugar Daddy much like Hansel and Gretel making a similar trail of bread crumbs in the woods to eventually find a large candy house. The metaphor sort of takes a U-turn, though, when the witch tries to eat Gretel. Granted I'm sure there's some hidden symbolism somewhere.

I find familiarity in the Hedwig story, which has recently become my latest revisited obsession. I say obsession in the most tame way. I may be on a Hedwig kick, listening to the soundtrack on repeat in my car. But I'm not buying tomatoes to smash on my chest anytime soon. I don't like tomatoes. Well, I have grown a fondness for the smell of them due to recent events, but I digress.

The reason why Hedwig resonates with me so strongly is that I find a nearly impossible kind of kinship with the main character. We are so different, the fictional character and I, that it is incredibly improbable that anything familiar be identified. But, being able to tell that there are similarities makes me hope that, maybe, because I can find similarities in a character most unlike me maybe I'm not so odd nor strange as I first thought. Because I've perceived myself so contrary to everyone else it gives me a kind of lift that maybe because I can find familiarity in a character who I also find contrary to myself, maybe I fit in more than I thought I did.

You know, it's an entire misconception that the odd people want to be odd. The truly odd have this nearly illegal desire to be normal. To be able to socialize like everyone else does. To be able to connect in a way other than through the back door of people's personalities. Hedwig brings a very important theme to the forefront. This was brought up with Rocky Horror Picture Show, but in a different more abstract sort of sporatic way. I would never compare the two except to say they both give freaks (self titled and societal) something to grasp and belong to. Something that makes sense in a way that only they, okay 'we,' can understand. You can't tell us something. You've got to show us in vibrant colors of joy and pain. We don't get subtle hints. We usually don't give them either.

But who am I to speculate the freaks? And why am I going by the slang term? I should just use the scientific term: homosapiens. It gets closer to the point that way, I think.

When Customers Go Nice:
I'm struggling with an awkward box.

Let me take a moment to shush the perversions out of my head before I go on.

Ah, there. Released, all better now.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, it seems, a customer leaps out with kempt blonde hair and a pudgy, though helpful, hand. She moves the obstacle of my concern, a flap of a box where I am trying to put the box in my hand at.

Let me take another moment to shush the perversions out of my head...

Okay...no wait...

Alright! All clear!

She says, "There, that might be easier." I give her a sincere thankyou and go on with my life.

I think in this world of retail hell it is with the most sincerest of thankyous that we should give any customer going out of their way to prove that they aren't all controlling, impatient, ignorant, mean-spirited jerks of leeches. No judgement, of course.

currently: hog swaddled

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For All Those Who Wanted One for Christmas and/or Your Birthday

Driving down whatever turns into Vandosdale on my way back from work I saw the most curious sight. When you think of the animal kingdom you think of dignity. Respect. Nature! But society has banged it into our heads (I talk about society as a generalization way too much, sometimes) that nature is graceful and regal and, for some reason, appropriate. Why nature would be appropriate is beyond me. But taking all of this self-allowed conditioning into my head, you can imagine my amusement at a pony scratching its arse on the fence right in front of me.

This wasn't just a momentary pause at the fence. This little fellow had a deep down burrowing kind of itch that lasted even after I turned. And I honestly think that fart knew what he was doing when he picked the side of the fence that every human in their obtrusive automobiles could have a clear view of.

It's like if a fairy expelled gas. You would expect a cow or even a large horse to expunge themselves of an itch, but ponies are higher in the hierarchy of perfect animals. I just keep thinking of a little girl (or boy) who wanted that cute pink or rainbow pony seeing this determined little khaki colored mini-horse scratching its rear-end on that chain-link fence right in front of their cherry-cheeked little faces. It does my heart good.

currently: pigging out

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One Box, Two Box, Red Box, Blue Box. Big Box, Tack Box, White Box, Black Box.

I'm ridiculously excited about volunteering at the Black Box Theatre. It's certainly an opportunity to, for once, step within the mysterious biology of theatre that I've always wondered about.

Now, I am in no way an actor. And, admittedly, I'm frightened of any number of people looking at me no matter the activity. Remember? I'm the haphazardly painted chair on the side of the set. And though necessary to a certain aspect of the play, haphazardly painted chairs are not usually required to memorize lines or interact with actors except if the actor draws notice to the chair.

Like, "Why look at that fine chair! What a fine chair! Oh, but I'm much too excited to sit in this fine furniture speciman." Because it is painted, after all.

I used to act when I was younger. I think I would have had more confidence if I hadn't have had to say anything memorized. I've a horrid terrible memory. Or perhaps it was my fear that I would forget something that made my memory so bad. It's a quintessential chicken and egg metaphor. Does my memory fail first and then I get scared or does getting scared cause my memory to fail?

I'm not sure if anyone remembers Christy: The Musical. It played in Townsend for three years until it went flat broke. They made a tv series on it too. The entire shortlived hooplah was spawned by a best selling book about a young woman who comes to the mountains to teach in a school. A plague of typhoid breaks out and people die. And, of course, there's a lovers triangle.

In the musical I played a really bad dancer school kid. That wasn't my title, but I was a really bad dancer, so that is the title I'd given myself. I loved it and hated it. I got paid for it. So there ya go. I wasn't terribly social and my feet stank. But I think the entire experience taught me that when you I am faced with a decision to do something or simply quit I'll do it no matter how bad the outcome.

Why? Maybe I don't want to let anyone down. Or maybe it's simply that when faced with a challenge, even if I'm petrified, I'll try. Even if I think I'm going to fail, I'll try. Unless I see it's impossible or my passions lie opposite of the obstacle, I'll give it a go. And as I've gotten older it's gotten even more meaningful. I'll add, because what do I have to lose? I've already decided that my dignity is history for initially subjecting myself to such a seemingly impossible task. So what else do I have to lose? Unless it's an arm.

I enjoy all of my limbs.

currently: stinky

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Up Your Nose with a Rubber Hose

Oh work, how I love thee so--she says in bitter sarcasm laced with arsenic.

I had a chance, today, to sort out the holds to be sent back to their departments. I got a perverse pleasure from this act. This all goes back to when my shoes were shoved away unrelentingly and I, by pure chance, found them once again on the sales rack before they were sold to someone who really didn't deserve them as much as I.

With each rip of trashbag plastic holding a gluttonous bag of neglected clothing I got all the more furious at whoever removed my shoe's protrayal to me when I saw dates as early as my own shoved to the back of the hold shelf having lingered much more than the three standard layaway days. My face grew bitter in disdain for these people I only knew by first initials and last names.

Holds shouldn't even exist in stores! If one doesn't have the money right then to buy something that they believe they need, why should they save money for that same something down the road? (i'mahipocrit) If it wasn't important enough to have right that moment, why should one plan to buy it in the future? (i'mabighipocrit) It's all this material wealth, which really doesn't exist at all. People put on hold this bounty of clothing and pillows and stinky awful rugs and never come back for them. As if by putting them on hold they're buying them temporarily, because at least they tried to be hip and chic and hott.

"Oh, this shirt is cute."
"Oh! I think I put that on hold. I forgot all about it. But isn't it?"

As if their forgetfulness allows them the title of much too high up in their thinking to care for such things while they still remain tasteful and cool.

I opened a bag in fury and smelt the most disdainful odor I think I have ever smelt. It smelled of pooh covered in chocolate and burnt hair. It was a set of forgotten rugs. And this made me mad. How dare those people forget their stinky rugs. My Cod! If you're going to set aside a set of stinky rugs for your stinky enjoyment at least have the decency to buy them! Mr. Hip. Mrs. Cool. Ms. Sheek. C'mon, I know you want them.

Then again, I'm a hipocrit. Then again, isn't everyone who wishes to grow past their current situation, at some point, a hipocrit to their own rants?

"Excuse me! Miss! Your sign says bras that are 14 dollars are 6.50. I dare you to find a 14 dollar bra in there."
It's not my sign. But I look. No. There isn't one. The sign is completely wrong.
"I'm sorry, sometimes all the prices on the sign aren't in the bra set."
"Maybe the set is wrong. This place is a mess!"
I meant to tidy up, but you didn't call ahead. It doesn't always look like this, I swear. You are a stupid stupid woman. I'm sorry. You're not stupid.
(same woman) "Ma'am! I'm probably the customer from hell..."
Yes, you are.
"...But how do you figure this 60% off?"
I reread the sign.
"You take 33% off the yellow-ticket price."
"Oh, how much is 33% off of 18 dollars?"
Up your butt with a rubber nut.
"I'm not very good with math. But there's a price check--"
"Oh yes, we went there and it said it was 12 something."
Her mother figures it out.
"I think that's right."
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."
I'm very tempted to take back my 'you're not stupid' headvoice comment.

And, is it petty that I want to buy myself a yellow bra so my boobs will look like two large lemons? Just so I can say, "You can squeeze them in your sweet iced tea if you want."

currently: salty

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Yes I have one.

I do have a myspace. I was convinced that with my internet related addictive personality I would become absolutely obsessed with the convenience of the Myspace continuum. I was absolutely sure that in a couple of days you would find me with my fingers stuck to the keyboard and my mouth ajar looking at the all the possibilities out there.

I think it's too easy for me on myspace. You have everything right there at the click of a button. If I wanted to stalk someone, I'd know exactly where to go in order to stalk them. No, I like here because there is virtually no way to easily contact anyone you know on Blogger. They don't even have a reply option on comments people make to your journal. At least, not one that I've found quite yet.

No, myspace is too forgiving. It's too simple for my mind to wrap around it. I must have complexities. I must be baffled at every turn of my blogging experience otherwise I will suffocate in the mass quantities of friends who will never look at my blog but will be satisfied in knowing that they have earned yet another friend whom they most likely they will never talk to.

It's like holding a mirror up to a mirror and seeing thousands upon thousands of repeated pictures. You could turn all day and never actually talk to the next reflected image. But it is somehow satisfying to presume that, maybe, though you're standing by yourself in your living room, your not alone as long as you look in a reflective surface.

I went to Jodie Manross' Myspace a little while ago. I considered requesting friendship. But then I thought, do we know each other enough to become Myspace buddies? I don't even know her favorite color! How can I presume to ask someone to be my friend who I've only talked to in limited times between performances? Myspace is taking all the fabulousness out of the word friend and reducing it to a simple agreement that, yes, you can leave me messages. Gee, if that were true the penis enlargement people that have found my email address would be my lifelong buddies.

But I digress. For some reason I was spared the addiction to myspace that other people seem to have. I will say this one thing. There is a queer looking fellow on Jodie's myspace friend list. He wears a blonde wig and calls himself Hedwig. He must be a big fan of Harry Potter, hm? His profile is on private. Very mysterious. He must be a spy. *shifty eyes*

currently: bloated

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Just One of Those Introspective Thangs

Today at church an excerpt of my work from a book I'm published in was read as part of the lesson. It's one of those moments in life where your breath is taken away. Yesterday night my breath was also stolen as Hedwig kissed me on the lips...well...close enough anyway. But it's not the fact that I was picked out from a crowd of people that impressed on me so much, but that I meant something enough to be seperate in this amazing audience enough to be singled out.

Here I am. I'm a background girl all the way. If life were a stage I'd be the chair that was always in the background to create the scene but never acknowledged or even sat in.I might not even be a real chair, I might be a realistically painted facsimile of a chair on the wooden panelled set. Now, don't think I'm depressed and find myself insignificant. I don't. I'm of consequence to the situation. Usually. I have the honor of being the ultimate spectator. Yesterday was a rare day of spotlight. It was nice. Today has been similar, though with lesser flair and tomato juice.

I find my life suddenly moving foreward. And, even more significant than this, I believe I've found my life. I thought it was stuck in the back of the dryer, but here its been the whole time.

No one ever wants to admit their own successes. To do that would seem egotistical. Society deems such self-adorement over-bearing and extraneous. If you're good you'll know it by the paparazzi's direction and the amount of coke you snort in ability to regain confidence. Or, if you're well adjusted, you'll be a one-hit wonder.

And so something deep down in my psyche, conditioned with precise care, hurts and pains at the admission that my writing is something of calliber enough to effect someone. My ego shivers in anticipation at the brush to its tangled mess of contradictions.

But, I like my writing. And I want to paint with my words in that totally overused cliche kind of way. I want to effect people and maybe give them a new direction of looking at things. Turn things counterclockwise. Turn the page of life upside down. My talk with Mr. Beuerlein yesterday night and the fact that he's been reading gives me a confidence I can't explain except to say that if I mean more than a painting of a chair on the backdrop of some lesser than par level performance of some lesser than par level play, maybe I can mean more to everyone else in that same way.

I'm having a good day.

I'm going to buy some pencils that aren't piss-colored.

currently: I feel so...optomistic!

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On Killing My Giddy Laughter

Dear A.C. Moore...no, I mean--Entertainment...

Dear A.C. Entertainment...

Hm.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Entertainment...

Dear Sir and/or Madame of the Entertainment group known as A.C...

Hey! Yo Entertainment brotha's!

Hm.

Update on wig-making:

The foam and fabric outlet is, indeed, the place to go to make your very own Hedwig obsessive fanatical wig, which you well eventually get autographed in obsessive fanatical fashion. Here's what you do:

You traverse the craft stores in K-town until you decide to go to the foam and fabric outlet because if you just go straight to the store you need you won't have wasted enough time at the other places, nor gotten to buy that fabulous shiny silver shirt that you'll wear to the play. Soon after you find that perfect 16 by 16, 1.5 inch thick foam scrap piece you're going to want to make a wiggy sort of squiggly outline. Cut a lot of foam off of the squiggly outline. What foam on the floor? You're being creative, screw the foam. Soon after that denial you're going to clean up the foam.

Acrylic paint on foam. Spray paint will eat foam, any foam. You'll be left with a melted flat wig if you use spray paint. Though--that might be interesting too.

Buy plastic head bands. Don't use them. For Cod's sakes, you hardly have time to wait for the paint to dry, let alone glue on the head bands. Besides, you're quirky, your wig falling off will work for you.

Go to the play. Pretend you're going to wear the obese wig throughout the whole play until someone tap taps your mom on the shoulder and asks...you're not gonna--Oh no! We're not! *cheese*

On how to get a smooch from the fabulous lead actor:

step one:
look at him goofily because you're too damn excited to smile evenly with your mouth
step two:
write a nonsensical blog. pretend your an intellectual introspective person on it. being an intellectual introspective person is not required.
step three:
make obnoxious foam wig. the power of the wig shall not be ignored.

On how not to recieve a smooch from the fabuluos lead actor:

step one:
He's not just going to hug you.
step two:
Yes, those are his lips on your...lipcheek? Yeah, you turned cause you thought he was going to just hug you.
step three:
Lose your glasses on your chin. No, really. It's hot.

Dear Big A.C.!

Dear Ack!

Dear...dear.

L.E. Smith and I made wigs and went to the last Hedwig show where I was smooched in an askewed, awkward fashion (I'm really no good at kissing the boys) by a shirtless man.

Afterwards, high from the experience, I would giggle with girlish glee at memories of the interactions with the cast from the show. It was much like having tourettes syndrome of the girlish glee gland. I think the most surprising thing was that Mr. Joe B. knew who I was. I played it cool though...

Um. Sorta.

Dear A.C. Entertainment,

I'll...get back to you when I'm not exhausted...

I'm going to contact Miss Amy Hubbard. I really want to get involved with the Black Box actors co-op. I would love to be a part of the writing.

Oh, my shoes are fabulous. I think that needs reiterating.

The smell of tomatoes has a whole new meaning for me.

Dear ACE! Ventura? Pet...detective...

I'm disjointed.

Alright, you. Go to sleep.

Alright.

I'll see you in the morning.

Goodnight. Good dormancy everyone.


currently: afloat

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Home and Wig Making: Part One, Finding the Materials

To successfully construct a Hedwig foam wig L.E. Smith and I have decided to peruse the local craft stores for an appropriate foam material. So far, we've traversed Joanne ETC, A.C. Moore, and Hobby Lobby. For a good 12 by 18 inch piece of moderately thick foam we've found the best deal, so far, at Hobby Lobby (brand name FoamTastic as apposed to the more expensive Foamies.)

We've yet to go to the Foam and Fabric outlet, though, which might yield better results.

The color has also become an issue as there are two shades of yellow. One shade is bright, one hue below highlighter yellow while the other has more of a golden rod-esque theme. Both are 3mm thick and we surmise it will take two of them to make a suitably thick non-flemsy wig.

Will update eventually if a computer becomes available in the latter part of the day.

currently: geekwigged

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Womanhood half restored--and then some.

So here we are still moping around the Kohl's shopping center the next day lazily searching over various textures, sizes, shapes, colors, and styles of shoes ranging from tennis to sports to formal to casual, sandals, highheels, strappies, boots even. (No slingbacks quite yet.) My eyes graze over the clearance rack like a cow over dead grass when suddenly my eyes catch a blade. It is bright blue standing straight on its end. It is staring at me, urging me to its solemn rest in its cardboard coffin. Little blue bits of straps to cuddle sharply into my toes. They are--my shoes.

They've been in the shoe stockroom all this time! Hiding their little cute bohemian style from my grasp. I immediately put them on hold.

Along with:

*Three pairs of earrings
*Two skirts
*And a pair of black, wingtip, high-heeled, Mary-Janes that I will not buy, but will look at longingly before I put them back on the rack.

Granted, most of this (sans my savior shoes) is for my halloween costume. I'm going to be Angel from RENT. Which would be much more humorous if one knew what I looked like.

currently: vagina

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Is it Horrid that My Two Picks are Both a Bit Queer?

September
Black Box Theatre Unidentified Human Remains and the Nature of True Love
August 24-September 16

November
Clarence Brown Theatre The Laramie Project
November 9-19th

Yeah, I know it's only two so far. There were the only two I could find that really interested me.

currently: finicky

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To Mourn the Non-Birth of my Woman Half

Let me begin this by off-topic conversation.

I'm wondering if anyone else besides me thinks that the verse in Sugar Daddy (yes, I'm still on my Hedwig kick) that goes:

"I'll be your Venus
On a chocolate clamshell
Riding on a sea of
Marshmallow foam"

is hard to sing?

No worries on answering. There's a good possiblity that was a rhetorical question.

----on track----

I'm not a womanly woman so to say. If anything, I barely reach the girl-mark before I come tumbling down from the metaphoric womanhood symbol of stepping in mommy's high heels. I tell you this to show you the impact of my current semi-psuedo depression over the loss of the shoes I held hostage in the "hold" area (think "layaway," Wal*mart shoppers) until some meany took them back to the floor and they got sold.

They were beautiful. Like little blue strappy cupcakes for my toes to lick at. They weren't modern, I'm certain. Out of date, for sure. They were on clearance. Yellow-ticket yummies. And now some size six twit is squishing her smelly toes in my shoes. Or maybe some very small preteen transsexual is, let's not leave out that option. Or maybe a big pawed dog. I dunno. I don't care. I just want my shoes back. My cute Mudd brand clearance priced cupcake tastey shoes.

While they might not be my first interest in shoes they are my first depression over not having them. It may seem petty, and this too shall pass, but for now I am happy to gripe and live in the sulking of the loss of my outdated tootsie huggers.

Besides, I'm going to Hedwig on Saturday.

Without my pretty, delicious shoes...

I obviously need a little more mope time.

I should look on some Knoxville Theatre Page and see what plays are coming next month that I can invest in. That will make me the taddest bit happy, I'm sure.

currently: all a-mope

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