oh no. oh no. Sleater-Kinney calls it off.

I have finished my 3 part series on avoiding crazy exes. I am leaving for Aruba tomorrow, so as a parting gift, here is the series. I warn you, it's not the best written or most articulate analysis in the world, but it will do as a rough guidline:
Introduction
The Crazy Girlfriend
The Crazy Boyfriend

Best exchange thusfar on the Aids blog:

Comments:
---laks said...
ok seriously, how do you people eat so much? my problem is that i literally cannot fit large quantities of food into my stomach.

---M. Wesley, Esq. said...
We aren't WUSSIES. You need to get yourself a funnel, bitch, and learn to take it like a man.

It's official. North/Damen/Milwaukee = no longer cool. If I want to get elbowed in the head by guys in striped shirts, I'll go to Wrigleyville, thanks.

In my ongoing attempt to pull your time away from other endeavors, I present one of my favorite comics: Demetri Martin. I just may be in love

It's nearly midnight. I've not packed a thing yet. My room is a disaster. And a colony of dark green mould is slowly making its way up the bathroom wall. If I leave it to do its thing for the next two months, by the time I return, the colony will have taken over the bathroom. Best bleach the life out of it now.

But I am working tomorrow 10-2. At 4 pm, I'm scheduled to have some more fun surgery on my right shoulder/back. After the surgery, my right arm/shoulder movement will be severely restricted and I will be loopy from the first round of painkillers. The second round of painkillers will leave me feeling a bit off, and the third round of painkillers will make me ill. As always. So I can't eat anything after 4 pm tomorrow unless I fancy spending the night (and the bus ride to Glasgow the next morning) with my head over the loo.

Alternatively, I can eat, but only take the first round of painkillers. But then I will be in a lot of pain, and won't be able to sleep anyway. So it's a toss-up between awake to vomit and awake in pain. My flight leaves from Glasgow on Thursday morning. I live in Edinburgh. So cleaning/packing post-op is out of the question. No time. Too bad I'm not flying out on Friday or over the weekend.

Thing is, I'm simply not in a packing mood right now. Or a cleaning mood. I just want to sit. And watch music videos. And feel nervous about tomorrow. Last time, they gave me six injections, and I still felt half of what was going on. It made me cry. So I'm not keen on going back and having it done again. But, as an optimistic friend advised me earlier this evening, at least it's summer, so I can wear slutty tops while my back heals. Slutty tops accessorized by stitches and bandages. *hot*

I didn't schedule the surgery for tomorrow afternoon! I simply inquired mid-May if the procedure could be done. That was it. Can you do it? Then the medical centre that does these kinds of procedures sent me a letter, which I received last Friday, informing me that my procedure is scheduled for the 21 June at 4 pm. In bold! Nevermind that I've already been scheduled for months to fly to Chicago on the morning of the 22nd. And if I don't have the procedure done now, then when?? I'll not have the time to re-schedule something like this until next spring or summer. And I don't want to wait that long, because waiting the first time meant a big abscess and proper surgery and an overnight in the hospital and a nasty hole in my back for three weeks. Much less fun than the little surgery. The little surgery doesn't leave an open wound.

I was so organized last week...I was going to be completely packed by the beginning of the week. But then Friday came along, and suddenly both Monday and Wednesday were claimed. And I spent most of today hanging out with the people at work that I won't get to see tomorrow. *sigh* I've made a packing list, but it's a bit general in the clothing section. "tops" "skirts" "shoes" Not particularly useful. I'll just shovel a load of clothing into my bag and hope for the best. If it turns out I've not brought back anything that matches, then I'll just have to go shopping. hmm... ;->

I stole this from Lauren Simpson's "About Me" page on myspace, because it was hilarious.

I'm scared of zombies, I'm always cold, and everybody does not love Raymond.

"worst show ever"

synopsis:

"Oh my gawd Raymond! I'm here to meddle!"

"Raymond! She's meddling!"

"Oh oh!... I'm so whiney."

"Hey! What are you guys?... like, 4ft 2?"

"My wife's crazy! Isn't that funny!! That I'd marry her. And I think she's crazy! I'm old!"

*audience erupts into forced laughter at gunpoint*

[...]

The latest Jason Mulgrew post about getting engaged better be a joke, because I'm going to flip out if that tubby man can trick someone into marrying him before I can trick someone into marrying me. He masturbates into chicken breastes, for crying out loud! And he got a woman to sign onto that crazy train.

I'm going to be ill

The HellBound Saints Show


There's nothing really to say too much--it was Margaret's first night as bassist, and it was sort of a last minute show, so the gig was small--maybe 100, 150 people. Kirby (lead singer, guitarist, crush) wore a baptismal dress and veil which he then started soaking with a micture of fake blood he had mixed himself.


By the end of the show, he had gone from the white dress to a black leather skirt to (my personal favorite) red satin underwear, fishnets, and lace gloves. Someone after the show approached Kirby to compliment him on finding a pair of women's panties to fit him, to which he replied, "No way, dude, these are for guys. I had to give up wearing women's underwear because of the ride up." Love it. My father is right. I'm attracted to freaks.


I made my sister her outfit from an old suit we found in a thriftstore. I turned the pants into ahorts, sewed the vest to fit her body, bought a tie, and wore sky-high heels to top it off. She was so cute--her boy toys were completely in love. She even had her own posse of guy fans who cheered far too loudly at hung out stage right the entire evening.



Kirby and the blood. So cute!


No broken instruments--but plenty of blood, dancing, and rock-n-roll. Plus, I got another guys phone number. I may actually have a dating life if I moved to Provo. Shocking!

The Great Salt Lake: Swimming with Death
Margaret and I have never swum in the Great Salt Lake. Neither had any of our friends. Yes, we had heard rumors of filth, flies, and fury; we had heard Mr. A's story of contracting gangrene while swimming in the nearby Utah lake. But we figured, and I still believe rightly, that geographical challenges must be met--mountains must be climbed, seas must be swum. So we called a bunch of people to try and make it happen.

Waiting for Godot.

For a place such as Provo where there is nothing to do, it's shocking how few people jump at ANY opportunity to do ANYTHING. We probably asked 50 people to go swimming with us, and by the time all was said and done, 6 of us made the drive. This did not include Mr. A, who fagged out and stayed in bed, no matter how loudly I played Franz Ferdinand by his ear. So Margaret, Jordan (her sorta guy), Myself, and Friend X (I can't remember her name. Let's call her Karen) piled into the back of Jordan's pickup truck, drove 2 hours to Saltair, only to be greated by the lone chair.


Saltair is an old resort built in the Victorian period for seabathers. In the last few years, the water has pulled away, and what's left is a shoreline covered in dead gulls, insects, and smelling like Hell itself only could.

Karen, Jordan, and Margaret leaving the shore after a valient effort.

I had stayed back from the group to take pictures, so outside of the dead birds, I hadn't noticed anything particularly peculiar about the area (my sense of smell has never been the greatest). I look up, only to see the rest of my party retreating quickly from the shoreline. When I ask what it was, they muffle through terrycloth, "flies." I approach to investigate.

See this photo? See what looks like whole grain rice or bran sprinkled over sand? That is a sheen of flies sitting on the top of an inch of water. You can see a dead butterfly near the righthand side of the photo. I took one look at the shore of flies and I went back in the car. I can do just about anything for love, but I won't do that.

So the beach of death didn't pan out, and Jordan felt awful about it. The sisters who had followed us in a seperate car, we'll call them Paris and Nicole (they looked slightly like Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie, but sweet and competent) suggested we go to some island a bit further north, and we being ridiculous said "Sure!" without bothering to figure out how far it was. It was far. I'd say an additional 2 hours because of traffic.

Jordan with Paris and Nicole

The new beach, though it took a while, was worth the commute. It was cleanish, there were families, it had showers, no dead animals: great. The clay/sand was slick and covered in some sort of strange algae, but it wasn't as unpleasent as lake swimming usually is--it was much more like sea swimming.


The buoyancy was fantastic--we were sitting cross legged and floating or on our tummies looking like Viking longboats. Plus, our skin got super slick from all the salt water exfoliation. I was a bit weirded out that the topography was EXACTLY the same as the dead sea basin--in fact, the only thing that made me sure I wasn't in the dead sea was that every orifice wasn't on fire.


We got out, enjoyed the sunshine, ate some food. Afterwards I found all sorts of horrid brine shrimp stuck to my stomach and breasts. I probably spent 30 minutes scrubbing myself from head to toe when I got home. But thumbs up for adventure. Nature is there for the conquering, my friends.

Salt Lake Pictures--Encore une fois!

Fishing

The day of Margaret's Hellbound Saints show, we decide to go fishing. It was pretty awful. Firstly, the lake was seeded with fish, so they were puny and weak. Second, we were using cheap Walmart tackle and bait, so that wasn't working either. I felt cheap, not at all as I had felt that summer working for Jack LaFontaine.


Margaret and her friend Jordan kept trying new spots, each with increasingly higher levels of insects in the air, and that wasn't helping anything. We were especially discouraged to find a troupe of lesbians around the corner whow ere using some sort of cheese bait to land fish after fish.


Margaret pondering where it all went wrong


I spent the afternoon fishing with Joey. If I wasn't busy untangling my thread, then Joey was busy breaking his pole. Plus, he loves "A People's History of the United States" and I love Palmer's "A History of the Modern World," so we had little common ground.


The entire gang, making one last-ditch effort to catch something on the dock.

The Red Rockets House Party / Punk Rock Show

Provo's punk scene is small, and as a result, punk bands do a lot of house parties. My sister's band the red rockets (or as my mother calls them, the dog dicks), played a short 30-minute set. The band is made up of (l-to-r) Joey, Margaret's one-time boyfriend, songwriter, singer, and guitarist; Ethan, the PBR-loving drummer, and Margaret the bassist. You can't see this, but Margaret is wearing a Tupac shirt. I took Mr. A to the shindig; we spent a lot of time talking to Margaret's former boyfriends and the Hellbound Saints, who were nice enough to come by and tell us stories of the Worst Morning After Ever and cheer Margaret on.


Mr. A and I decided to bail early since we didn't know the rest of the bands, and it turns out we missed an extraveganza. Ethan drank too much and started sending me drunken text messages about why Margaret shouldn't have to leave Provo for the summer. I'll transcribe one from my cell phone:

+1801380****
Dont steal marg away from the band we need her. Tell your mom ethan needs her and it will be ok
Sent:
11:23:08pm
03.06.2006

Then, as the night war on, Ethan got really drunk, so when margaret started play-fighting with her, he smacked her full force in the face, so she turned her fury on him, kicked him in the groin, he headbutted her, and then she went for his eyes until he called a truce. Then the party moved over to the Hellbound Saints's house, where someone cut something and a neighbors car windshield was smashed out with a brick. Rock-n-roll, baby.

Hear me out. My sister sent me these "german class videos", supposidly made to help teenagers learn German. I don't know why, but I find them hysterical

Sigh. My ride is here.

Margaret's Lab and the Chemists Therein:


A lot of time in Provo was spent at the lab, where Margaret works with different types of mold for cancer research. I have never seen so many new and exciting molds in my life. I only wish I could have shared it with my father, who would have run away shreiking like a little girl


These are all Petri dishes full of mold, beakers full of mold. It's pretty awesome. I would sit among all the filth and listen to Queens of the Stoneage, sewing Margaret's Hellbound Saints costume


Margaret works in a lab full of geeks--geeks who i love. Her partner is a huge Samoan guy who talks like a Carolina hick and looks like a football player, but who happens to be one of the most brilliant PHD students in the chemistry program. Another boy, a thin anemic looking thing who is enslaved by his girlfriend, is incredibly absent-minded and has a habit of whispering under his breath at the worst possible moment ("hookers are dirty").


C'est jolie, non?


The chemists took us out for pizza and X-3 up in SLC. Them they slagged the movie all the way home. By far the coolest kids ever. Hats off to biochemical researchers!

I’m trying to bang out all my blog entries about the SLC trip, but seeing as I only have an hour before Laura picks me up and we start arguing about the amount of high fructose corn syrup in my diet, I’ll see how far we get.

For brevity, here is the outline of the trip:
1. Sunday-Bonfire, meet Mr. A, start fun and flirty 2.5 week friends + benefits agreement
2. Monday—Watch Margaret’s band the Hellbound Saints rehearse. Have First date.
3. Tueday-Thursday—watch movies with varies friends of Margaret’s. The movies include “Wet Hot American Summer, Can’t Hardly Wait, Pulp Fiction, Kill Bill Vol. 1 and 2, Little Britian, Strangers with Candy”
4. Friday: X-3, party with Margaret’s chemistry friends
5. Friday-Sunday—Mormon double dating, V for Vendetta, church, makeout party, Sage’s Wedding, shopping in SLC
6. Monday-Tuesday—Tanning, visits to the chemistry lab
7. Thursday—swimming in the Great Salt Lake
8. Friday—Fishing. Hellbound Saints concert.
9. Saturday—Margaret’s second band, the Red Rockets (ick), play a gig at a house party which turns violent shortly after I leave.
10. Sunday-Wednesday: chores, cleaning up, packing up, laundry

Now, photos!

Sage was a friend of my sister's (they went to Italy together), the daughter of my mother's good friend, and my neighbor in Dallas. We grew up together, and while our relationship has frozen over in recent years (we will blame this, to be brief, on her involvement in the Provo hipster scene and the hierchy of cool therein), it was still important that we attend. So I packed up the boy (if Monica's wedding taught me anything, you must bring a date to a wedding), and headed up to American Fork on a cold Saturday.Above: The wedding cake. Right away, you can tell this isn't going to be a typical Mormon wedding. This be a classy affair. The other giveaway? The badmitton match. Not really a Mormon sport
There wasn't a high turnout for the sports, given that it was freezing, windy, and cold. They did their best, bless them.


Margaret mingles inside the tent with Squarehead. I don't know much about squarehead, save he likes interpol and has a habit for boring people's stuff and mutilating beyond recognition, always in some sort of freak "one-in -a-million" occurances

Sage, in her pink wedding dress, chatting it up with her guests.


It's a well-acknowleged but seldom spoken truth that Sage and her husband aren't exactly crazy for each other. It's sort of a marriage of age and convience, much like my grandparent's was. This picture I think represents there union quite well.


In one of those funny little freak occurances, it turns out Mr. A was related to the groom (cousin), and Mr. A's relatives showed up to the party (some are above.) I call this photo "Table 9."

My father is very big into gender. For whatever reason, it’s always been very important to him that boys looks and behave like boys, and girls look and behave like girls. For a long time, I figured it was just his preference—the way some people prefer Asian aesthetics or burger king fries. He hated it when I shaved my head because it was a display of masculinity. His favorite thing about my mother is her cute appearance—her long hair, her fluttery outfits, her eyes and smile. And I mean, they have one of the most successful and passionate relationships I’ve seen, so they must be doing something right, which makes it all the more surprising that I can’t stand my father’s insistence on gender and ESPECIALLY his attraction to cuteness.

One of the biggest insults anyone could give me is to call me cute. Not like, “Thanks for doing the dishes, that was so cute,” but “You’re a very cute girl,” or “you’ve got a cute look.” Cuteness is really the personification of all things young, innocent, and in need of protecting. Jeanette Winterson wrote in “The Passion” that innocence is not a virtue, innocence is ignorance. To me, cuteness means dependence, inexperience, vulnerability, in a word: weakness. I cannot abide weakness in any way.

I’ve never sat down and tried to reason out why gender roles bother me so much. I mean, come on, it’s no secret I love making huge sweeping generalizations, then chopping them up, reassembling them, reusing them in a different context. It’s no secret I think stereotypes have moderate validity, and I feel men and women are born with different chemicals making them, essentially, different creatures. So why then wouldn’t I be attracted to a standard of behavior or beauty which a) makes generalizations about male female behavior b) makes those sexes adhere to those generalized sterotypes, and c) acknowledges the differences that I myself believe in? I guess my only answer to that would be that I believe in strength, and no matter what may or may not be inherently or stereotypically true about someone is no excuse for weakness.

Looking through my dad’s collection of books (Robert Bork, Anne Coulter, Kate O’Brien’s “Women Who Make the World Worse”), there is a pervasive theme of “feminism has ruined society.” As a feminist, such an attitude annoys me. But then, what feminism has become annoys me as well. Rather than move towards an ideal of a strong individual with genetic differences, feminists either tried to move towards the idea of female superiority, the idea of negligible genetic differences, or the idea of masculinization to be equal. This last one is especially obnoxious, as it’s how most women play the ‘empowerment’ card when they view porn, go to strip clubs, or behave in ‘traditionally masculine sex roles.’ They aren’t degrading themselves—they’re becoming more like men, hence, becoming stronger or more powerful or whatever. All of these pushes towards gender equality are wrong; they all have androgyny wrong.

To get androgyny (or for that matter, multiculturalism) right, to get it productive and beautiful, you have to acknowledge differences, then play with them. You fill whatever strengths you may be lacking because of birth, and you nurture yourself into a well-rounded individual, rather than say a well rounded woman or man. Getting back to stereotypes, what are traditionally spheres of power for gender?
MALE:
1. Sport / Physical Strength
2. Boldness / Ambition
3. Compartimentalization of emotions
4. Reason (Ick, I know, but stick with me—we’re talking historically)
5. Leadership

FEMALE:
1. Empathy / Care for others / Kindness
2. Grace / Elegance / Physical beauty
3. Communication / Verbal alacrity
4. Emotional Intelligence / Tact
5. Deference / peacekeeping

As a woman, I can acknowledge that I have a lot of these traits inherently, due to nature and nurture. But for me, if I stuck to that definition of gender, I would be terribly boring and uninteresting, because there would be an entire section of values I was forgoing. So, rather than working on being a better woman, I’m working on combining the values to be a better, albeit androgynous, person. As an androgynous personality, I think I’m attracted to androgynous personalities because they balance me. Rather than being a negative charge searching for a positive charge to unify with and create hydrogen (or whatever), I’m a complete atom, searching for another complete atom to form a molecule.

Of course, this analogy doesn’t really work since the bonds between nuclear particles are stronger than the forces of molecular bonds, but you get the general idea. Two complete individuals seem to me much more beautiful than two half individuals, which is why I’m attracted to androgyny. Yes even the look (there is nothing strong and powerful about frills and bows, or chinos and loafers.)

Anyway, It’s Friday. I’m just tossing out ideas. Just don’t call them cute.

The horror and the hilarity of my week continues ...

My mom wants me to get this for my new apartment. I guess I'm never going to have sex again.

This is intended almost entirely for my sister Julia. Courtesy of "Best Week Ever", I present:

7 Ways To Fool People Into Thinking You Actually Care About World Cup Soccer

We’re only one week into the World Cup and I’m already exhausted. It’s not easy to pretend to care about soccer day in and day out. As an American I know that none of us actually care about soccer, but for some reason during the World Cup we all have to pretend. It’s our duty. That’s why I made this list: Here are 7 tips to help you fool the people around you into thinking you actually care about World Cup soccer. I hope it helps.

1. Pick a favorite team. You can either go with your country of origin, your parents’ country of origin, or one of those countries in South America if you want to look like you know what you’re doing and be a dick about it.
2. Be disappointed in the U.S. I mean, I was expecting BIG THINGS from this team, and then they went and blew it against the Czech Republic. Can you even name one player on the Czech Republic? Me neither. Of course, I can’t name one player on team USA either, but that’s not important. We choked and I’m so disappointed.
3. Buy a soccer jersey. Casual friday is coming up. What better way to let the people in your office know that you’re a big time World Cup junkie than wearing khakis and a Ronaldo jersey to work?
4. Constantly check your cell phone in public for scoring updates. Make sure you do this roughly every two minutes, because you never know when that ONE goal in the game is going to be scored.
5. Call it ‘football.’ Though if you’re American and you do this within ten feet of me, I’ll probably punch you in the throat.
6. Watch games that involve countries you couldn’t find on a map. Oh man, I am so psyched for June 21! Cote d’Ivoire is taking on Serbia-Montenegro. It’s going to be such a great game! I hope I don’t forget to set my Tivo!
7. Make casual conversation with busboys and/or anybody who’s ‘Spanishy looking’ that you pass on the street. Because if World Cup soccer does one thing, it’s bind us all together through our mutual undying world-wide love of soccer. Except when we riot and kill each other over bad calls.

I have a strong feeling that The AIDS Blog is going to entertain me forever.

All of my major regrets in life stem from two things:

> times I've puked from drinking
> times I've been unprovokedly mean and/or critical

These are such avoidable things. I should just remember how bad they make me feel so as to avoid doing them again.

Oh yeah. My grandfather died yesterday. I won the death pool (mom guessed Wednesday, Marg Wed/Thursday, Dad Sunday). My grandfather will be put in a freezer for a month so my uncle won't have to cancel his plans to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. And I couldn't be bothered to type the words "oh yeah, my grandfather's dead" during any of my updates yesterday.

I may explain the reasons for these things later, but I may not get around to it. Before you call me a bastard, I refer you to Death Cab's "Styrofoam Plates".

This is shaping up to be a hilariously bad day. I've made two horrible faux pas in the past three hours. I don't know why I'm so effing grouchy. New philosophy: kill 'em with kindness.

Here you go, Anne. They didnt have the white scarf I wanted, but you get the idea.

I had some extra time. Observe, Adele, your Elouai likeness. Anne, you're next my friend

The Flynn's depiction of me in anime, as created on Elouai:

*argh* I've just been a rubbish granddaughter, and completely forgotten to email my grandparents to thank them for sending me birthday money...a month ago. But, they went on a cruise right after my birthday, and sent the money to my mother, without telling me they had, so I didn't know they'd sent me anything until a week or so after my birthday, when my mother mentioned it. And by that time, they were off cruising, so there wasn't any point emailing them then, because they'd probably not check their email until they got back home anyway. So I didn't email in May. And now, it's the middle of June, and I've still not emailed my lovely grandparents to thank them for sending me some lovely money. Which makes me a totally rubbish granddaughter. Who's going to have some ground to make-up come July. My four blonde cousins are so much better at being grandchildren than I am. Maybe because they're blonde? And tanned? Or not. They may be blonde and tanned, but three of them are also borderline homely, and the other blonde/tanned cousin is kinda fat. Maybe I should stop posting utter shite, and just send my grandparents an email thank you right now. Yeah. I'll do that.

Its more than a feeling,
when I hear that old song they used to play
I begin dreaming
(more than a feeling)
till I see marianne walk away

Perhaps the greatest rock song ever? Perhaps.

I returned to my computer to find the following conversation:

AlexiaIscariot: ERIN THIS IS MARGARET
TheFlynn: HI MARGARET
AlexiaIscariot: i am so excited for you to come home!!!
TheFlynn: i'm excited to see YOOOU i'm so glad you'll be around for my pokings and gropings
TheFlynn: how's provo been treating you?
AlexiaIscariot: oh good good
AlexiaIscariot: you know, living the rock and roll dream
AlexiaIscariot: ERIN! did you know that the short-finned mako shark can jump up to twenty feet out of the water?!
AlexiaIscariot: twenty feet!
TheFlynn: I DID NOT
TheFlynn: that is insane. i wonder what they did to provoke its jumps for measurement
TheFlynn: i am guessing it involved chum
AlexiaIscariot: that's hardly scientific to provoke it. i'm sure it just came from observing
AlexiaIscariot: it and the great white are the only sharks that come out of the water
TheFlynn: "HOLY FUCK DID YOU JUST SEE -- get the fucking tape measurer!!"
AlexiaIscariot: QUICK BEFORE IT...
AlexiaIscariot: great gary, you missed it
TheFlynn: : ploop :
AlexiaIscariot: now we'll have to sit and wait for another six months
AlexiaIscariot: great, mary's here. call me as soon as you're in town and can hang! pleeeeeease
TheFlynn: kaaaaay
TheFlynn: <33333
TheFlynn: those are balls
TheFlynn: sideways
AlexiaIscariot: ew
TheFlynn: OF LOVE
AlexiaIscariot: i thought those were hearts
TheFlynn: OF LOVE
AlexiaIscariot: oh okay...i can't stay mad at you

You know that scene in "Pulp Fiction" where Uma Therman is in the bathroom doing a line of coke and pops up and cries "I said gaw-DAMN!"? I totally feel like that. Only I would never say that, because that would be swearing and we all know I can't swear.

Laura hung up on me the other day because I fagged out on our weekend plans because I got swept away. I met this Mormon boy in Provo, was charmed, and allowed myself to just get caught up in something new. I am not a fling kind of girl, I am not a warm and caring kind of girl. But dangit if I didn't say, "what's with all the personal drama? Go for it." And I went for it. And I got this:

Look, I'm not going to say this relationship started out because of intelligence. I think it's pretty easy to take one look at this photo and see that I was not immediately attracted to personality, intelligence, and his work with charities. That's not to say in the end, I was n't totally taken in by his personality, intelligence, and work with charities. But I am rather proud of the fact that for once in my life, I saw a situation where I couldn't predict the outcome, I couldn't predict the motivation, and I still shrugged and said "screw it." And you know what was awesome? It was amazing. It had the lowest angst to happiness ratio of any relationship--serious or otherwise--I've ever had. I've made a friend for life, I made someone happy, and I got some seriously amazing action out of it, so all in all, hurray for new things.

But don’t worry--It's not like I'm becoming a mothereffing hippie and going to start taking every experience as it comes or whatever the frick those irresponsible people do. But I have learned that for me, sometimes, I have got to let people into my life. Especially now.

I have photos of the Provo trip I'll put up as soon as I can. I spent a lot of time watching Quentin Tarantino movies with boys still stuck in their puberty stage of development. I spent a lot of time watching my sister play "Guitar Hero" and hanging out at her band practices or with the scene kids that hung around her band practices. I did a lot of photo shoots for a lot of pretty people. I rode on a bike to Denny’s and talked about tattoos. I went to church activities and meetings. I took out a lot of kids to dinner and watch them trip over each other to flee the tab. Mormons are so cheap dude, seriously. You’d think they had broken fingers the way they avoid picking up the check.

I’m sure I’ll get into the details later, of Margaret’s debut gig and our fishing trip, and the gory, Mormony details will be where they belong (MMM), but I’m just so fricking happy I’m letting it spill over to the CM. I’m sure I’ll take this blog entry down for shame of the maudlin sentiments. Look, I know I’m retarded. I know I’m going hot/cold lately—up one day, crushed another, and I’m melodramatic on these blog entries, especially lately, but this is still a stabilizing period, and it’s not going to be pretty, so I ask for your patience.

It’s odd that someone I don’t expect anything from, whom I will probably never see again, could make me this happy. It’s odd I’m not especially bothered if I see him again, hear from him again. I mean, I’d love to stay friends, I’d love to be part of his life, but that isn’t what’s important to me. What’s important is that I feel like things are full of possibility. The last two weeks were clean and nice and sweet. And there have been so few things in my life that are clean and nice and sweet, especially lately. I said Gaw-DAMN.

Some people walk large, scary pitbulls. I carry an umbrella.

Today I am fueled by tacos, warm weather, Jeanette Winterson and vodka.

I truly feel that I could break every pane of glass in the city limits with my bare fists right now. I will start with the front windows of Corosh and work my way out.

julia jones: you could literally spend days exploring my facebook.
julia jones: it really is... a book.
AlexiaIscariot: the book of julia
julia jones: INDEED.
AlexiaIscariot: what will it teach me of the human condition?
julia jones: that germans are hot. and. it'll teach you that being me is fun. and also it'll teach you. discipline and respect. and that ninjas can be leathal.

I'm not going to say that I've had a good time in Provo--that's like saying one has a good time at the dentist getting an extraction. I will say that it has been good for me.

Because I am quickly becoming one of the palest people in Scotland (!), I yesterday decided to try sunless tanner. One of the new sunless tanner-enhanced moisturizers, to be precise. My manager recommended it. She is also very pale and blue-gray eyed.

Tried it for the first time last night. Normally, sunless tanner-laced moisturizers take a couple of days to make a noticeable impact on skin colour. But I figured that on skin as translucently pale as mine, the sunless tanner would yield a noticeable result much more quickly...

Or not. The only "tan" area on my body this morning was a splotch-shaped patch on the top of my left wrist. :-/ Maybe I should just give-up on having skin colour, and move to Finland, where everyone is translucently pale and blue-gray eyed.

And why do they make sunless tanners for people with "dark" skin? The existence of sunless tanners for the dark-skinned is insulting to the translucently pale!

Margaret's band, the Hellbound Saints (a pyschobilly outfit) asked me to take some pictures of their new lineup. Here are some of my favorites:

The rest are here. You know, it's so much fun to shoot bands, it's a shame I can't get paid to do it. Or be talented enough to get paid. Either way.