I have the most amazing friends. Ever. In the whole world.

The rest of my photos from the weekend of birthday celebration are here. If you have any, email them to me at capitalistmafia@gmail.com, and I'll add them to the collection. And thank you all for being so wonderful. I love you all so much

While you're all off having fun in NY without me, I am reduced to reporting on our referral logs. This one is funny:

> an ask.com search for "chris carrabba's accomplishments"

interesting googles that have recently led someone to visit the CM:

> who is the smartest man alive?
> how to start an inferno
> where is pain ultimately felt?

I ordered one of these, because I need more instruments that I can't really play.

If I have to read one more album review that says a female alto (who sounds nothing like Liz Phair) sounds uncannily like Liz Phair, so help me, I will fling myself out the window.

I have seen many things in the past week. I have seen a grown man imitating a character from Office Space in front of hundreds of people. I have experienced a desert windstorm. I have worn a suit and held a glow stick ... at the same time.

Also a game:

www.lost.eu/3e24e

I discovered youtube has nearly every "tales from the crypt" episode ever mande, so guess who wasted all of her one day off pretending she was fifteen years old again? That'd be me. But seriously, so entertaining; they completely stand up to the test of time.

So sadly I have been spending the last two weeks working on this tremendously long (re 45 pages) paper on Jonathan Swift, scatology, and 18th century proto-feminism. The thing is, there wasn't a whole lot of new ground to raise on the scatology front, but Swift is always considered a misogynist in modern criticism, so I figured I wanted to try and vindicate him. And it ended up being way too long and I had to do a ton of research as to why satorists are always associating women with excrement.

In between waiting for my carpel tunnel to heal, I've been actually going out and doing things--real things! I went to a poetry reading at the cathedral by Columbia--what is it, St. Peter's? St. Vincent...ST. JOHN THE DIVINE! That's what it was. Anyway, they do a midnight mass-y thing, only instead of Psalms they read from Dante's Inferno to usher in spring. I like the way the notes of the voices bounced off the stone. Most of the readers were pretty pedestrian, but there were a couple really beautiful readings in the Medieval Italian, and a few older poets who had wonderfully expressive, dark voices. I also learned two important rules about professional female poets:
1) They are thin
2) They love scarves.
And speaking of poets, here's an article in the new yorker with my old teacher/mentor Christian Wiman. They ask him about poetry magazine's multi-million dollar windfall, and how it feels to be our generations cowboy poet. It's weird when people I know get famous

I also met a friend at church (I know!) who invited me to go see a modern dance receital at Marymount College. It was student choreographers test driving their works in progress. Some were really very beautiful. The best ones were the ones which tried to interpret a relationship or a mood, rather than trying to be pretty. Some picked perfect music, some were very violent, some were terribly dull (mostly the faculty choreographed pieces), but I was impressed. It made me feel terribly self conscious in a way, because the dancers had such brilliant bodies. That isn't to say that they all had thin bodies, because some were my size or larger, but their movements showed such expert control, such awareness of every limb and gesture, that I felt a real loss. It occured to me that I have never been the kind of girl who would be comfortable dancing or performing in front of other people--even one on one. I have no confidence in my limbs or my movements. That isn't to say I don't think I'm pretty, or attractive at all. I think I'm mildly attractive to a certain type of man, certainly. But I just don't have that body awareness, that inherent sexiness that seems to exist in the elbows and knees of a dancer.

One of my favorite dances I liked because it completely defied my expectations. The theme was rediscovering nostalgia when finding a misplaced letter or card, and it started with the dancers in raincoats reading out letters in the most horrible stage-y theatre voices and doing these awful, jagged, robot dances. I rolled my eyes because it was, i kid you not, the most pretentious and awful thing ever. And then, suddenly, all the dancers get in a line and start receiting their letters en masse, until there' sthis shouting cacophony, and they all throw down their coats and pull of their pants. Underneath they were all wearing these brightly colored tights, lacy slips, tutus, and leggings, and they all started running around in these bursts of colors like little kids. It wasn't chaotic though--it had the appearance of chaos, but they would break apart and then come together again in these swirls like dandelion seeds, everything perfectly fractoral and not, and the piece ends with them in a group, pretending to catch fire flies in their hands. I gasped and laughed and clapped like a little girl. It was wonderful

I feel like it's my job to at least entertain you with random internet videos if i am too busy with papers and exams to type.

While I don't necessarily approve of forcing toddlers to swear, this has kept me entertained all afternoon.

I'm working on finals, etc. HERE!

Also, as a Rutgers students, may I point out the terrific irony that of all the school's Imus chose to take on, he took on the most racially sensitive school in the country? Howard has nothing on us, baby. Our Dean was recently quoted in the school newspaper saying we need to do something about "the white problem" at out school, stem the tide of caucasia and whatnot, even though there is less than 30% of the school who is actually white. Everyone ahs a chip on their shoulder because of race here, and you better believe everyone was thrilled to have an opportunity to whine on a national platform. Which is not to say Imus wasn't a dick, but come on! Can't we live in a country where people can say stupid things and we can laugh at them and move on? Must we force apologies from everyone like blood from a stone? You should see the letter Rutgers sent me! It was a blanket email to the whole school, about how we all needed to take a stand against sexism and racism. I was like, wow, you want to take a stand against sexism? Maybe protest the Hollywood establishment that uses our naked bodies to sell movies and Rolling Stone covers. Maybe combat racism by encouraging rather than discouragin education in all communities, and don't refer to a third of your student body as a "problem."

I had trouble sleeping last night. I was researching things for my paper, and "Taxicab Confessions" was on TV--I think Bravo's decided to rerun it. People were telling stories about what they were doing and who they were, and it was so depressing. I mean, some of it just made me incredibly sad for people in general--like the 80-year-old man who was going to bingo because he couldn't be alone after the death of his wife, like the 24-year-old former-Mormon "model" who's father started molesting her when she was 6 (like, full on intercourse). Then there was the woman who had been in two snuff films. I went online to learn more about the whole snuff film thing--and industry that the FBI says unilaterally doesn't exist--and found the kind of stuff that really turns my stomach. My stomach doesn't really get turned often, I really do believe in the inherent rationality and goodness of people (deep down), and I'm confronted with all of this gore-for-hire culture, "Faces of Death" and execution films. The actress on "Taxicab" said she'd seen real snuff films, which is why she had off-duty cops come with her to the set, so there wasn't an "accident." But I thought wow, even in the best case scenario, even if all these films were fake, they're still shot so realisticly that the FBI has to investigate if they are faked or not. And that level of gore and carnage--and the fact that there is such a market, and the fact that it's considered porn--I mean, I started getting really scared that there are people like that out there, people I've been nice to or people I sit next to on the subway, I don't know, I kind of freaked out.

The things that kept me up, though, were the film "Snuff" and the "Guinea Pig" film series. The ending of "Snuff" is described as having a "Behind the scenes" moment at the end of the film where the director takes a pretty production assistant and starts making out with her on the couch. WHen she realizes she's being filmed she struggled, but he pins her down, has the crew pin her down, and proceeds cut open her shirt, then pull of her fingers with pliers. As she's whimpering, he then takes a knofe and garrottes her, ripping her intestines out. Now while this was proven to be fake, the image of it was so real in my mind, and the potential of it actually happening was so palpable, I was nauseated. Add that to the story along side it about the Japanese serial killer Tsutomu Miyazaki, who murdered preschool girls after watching a fake snuff film in the "Guinea Pig" series called Flower of Flesh and Blood, (a drugged woman, is chained to a bed tortured and dismembered by a man in a samurai costume), and I was legitimately sick to my stomach. I kept picturing all these horrible things, and imagining the ease with which I could be hurt and killed, and facing up to the possibility that some people were simply evil, and you never know where they could be, or if it will be the day they decide to do something evil. I don't know--I'm aware all these sentiments sound cliche, and all of my fears quotidian, but I wasn't thinking of that at 1 in the morning.

PS--I hate Rachel Ray. I hate her mouth, I hate the way her eyes roll back into her head whenever she tries something "delicious" that looks terrible, I hate her restaurant recommendations. But dangit if I can't stop watching the train wreck that is her $40-a-day travel show

I made a myspace for my twee-country songs about Mark. They are sappy. Whatever. Be my friend.

My friend Spencer is struggling though his senior year in high school. He recently joined the following Facebook group:

I already speak English, STOP TEACHING IT TO ME!!!!!!!!!!!!


In the description of the group, this must be my favorite excerpt:

If you already know how to speak the language, if you can read a book, if you can write a facebook profile, if you can spell, then WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?
You will never need to know what the climax of The Cask of Amontillado!
Who cares when Odysseus shows hubris?
There is such an invention as spell check, you know.
You won't remember the theme of The Necklace!
The world will not end if we can't remember the difference between "ephemeral" and "transient". They are SYNONYMS! i.e. they mean the same thing.
TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW! this has got to be the dumbest subject we have 2 learn

I can so remember the exquisite pain of identifying Odysseus' acts of hubris in "The Odyssey." The sad thing is, now I still do it, only I do it professional. It is both glorious and shameful.

I've noticed a strange trend on the brown line lately -- mace! I've seen two girls clutching mace canisters in their fists on the train in the past week. One of them got off at Fullerton last night while I was riding home after school. I'm thinking to myself, "jeez. you need mace to walk through Lincoln Park at 9p.m.? I should be dead by now."

Oh, Gawker, how well you know your demographic:

Like berry-colored lipstick and chunky-heeled Steve Madden boots, caring a lot about Jane Austen is a fad that needs to be left in the 90s where it belongs. Sadly, an Austen biopic starring Anne Hathaway will be released this August, doubtless spawning a bunch of trend articles with "it is a truth universally acknowledged" leads and paragraphs that open by addressing the reader as "Reader."

I will gladly admit to an ever-deepening appreciation of Austen as I get older. Unlike Shakespeare (also hugely popular in the nineties), Austen becomes a better read as I gain more experience about relationships and human nature. But man, if I have to read one more article about Austen that begins "it is a truth universally acknowledged..." I might have to choke a biotch

In the aftermath of last week's two-day, post-exam booze-binge, I have discovered the following:

- missing pretty earrings of great sentimental value (just located, but in a rather socially awkward place...finally overcame my shyness this evening - three days later - simply to text to ask if they *might* be there...but am still sufficiently inhibited by my extreme shyness of boy I have a crush on that I wasn't able to text back to ask when he *might* get around to bringing them into work for me :-/)
- missing bangle, cheap, but goes with everything (think I *might* have left the bangle in the same place; also texted after it this evening, but haven't heard back, except for "what's a bangle?" assume he is simply too manly to send two jewelry-related texts in the same evening, but if the earrings were there, then I see no reason why the bangle wouldn't be there as well...perhaps under the bed, but I'm definitely too shy to text again to ask about anything, sparkly or not!)
- large, blue bruise on left, lower calf
- small, purple bruise on left, upper knee
- several small cuts on left, lower knee
**With regard to the above cuts and bruises, dedicated a few minutes of my time post-hangover to ponder their forgotten backstory. Soon remembered that I'd tripped and fallen on some uneven cobbles on the steep path down the road toward the above, above *place*, at which the earrings, at least, and perhaps also the bangle, have most unfortunately been left behind.

My mobile's just gone off. I have a text. Hopefully jewelry-related. Actually received the text about nine lines ago, but felt too shy to face it until ------ now!

Hmm. No bangle. But have arranged to collect my earrings in office tomorrow. Hopefully quite discreetly. Will arrive early to ensure I can book one of the hidden desks. They're my favourite desks in the office anyway, so I'll not need to alter my plans to accommodate collection.

For the record, nothing happened. At the *place*. Nothing ever does.

Which has me ever-so-slightly baffled, to be honest. Why have a girl round to sleep? Why go round to a girl's to sleep? Why let said "now that we've run into each other again and spent the evening chatting away, will we be sleeping independently in your bed or mine" ridiculousness continue, albeit in a stunted, non-continuous way, for several months?

I don't know!

Why sometimes even try and make-sure that you and the girl meet-up, by checking to see where she's going that evening, if you have no intention of even snogging her at the end of the night that you purposefully spend with her?? Nothing in my previous experience, or in the previous experiences of my female friends sheds any light on this situation. But I'm now pretty solidly fed-up with it. It's certainly best for me to put a stop to all of the non-happenings before I like this person any more than I already do.

Which I do, unfortunately. Wasn't so sure about it back in January, but now that it's April, I'm pretty fucking sure that I do. So all of his non-effort has resulted in something that I can't even tell if it was intended to result in. ??? Am I supposed to like this person? Is he a sadistic bastard? Young? Inexperienced? Secretly painfully shy, like me?

I turn 25 in a month. And while most of this bother could be amended by one or the other of us making some concrete statement with regard to the above, and the other then acting accordingly, I am far too old to be pulling a lad aside and blurting out something akin to: "do you like me?!?"

I'm close, but not close enough actually to do it. I'm closer to simply giving up and hedging my losses, though...collect my earrings tomorrow, then do my best to *enjoy* the single, sexless existence I tend to lead. And hope that the pining after my workmate dies down reasonably quickly.

Is it true that you're not supposed to eat directly before bed, because the digestive process keeps you awake? Does it keep you more awake than gnawing hunger does? I'm pretty hungry right now.