Log in

No account? Create an account
If you're sad and like beer, I'm your lady. [entries|friends|calendar]
Mighty Jenn

a.k.a. mighty jenn
xxx userinfo
http://AI Dreams
livejournal friends, calendar, memories

[ userinfo | livejournal userinfo ]
[ calendar | livejournal calendar ]

paragraphs cut like warm steel [23 May 2006|06:30pm]
- You know how to speak cleverly, my friend. Be on your guard against too much cleverness.
The Buddha to Siddhartha, Siddhartha

- How's that working out for you?
--- What?
- Being clever.
Tyler Durden to Edward Norton, Fight Club

Brought to you because I am reading Siddartha and, like the poor, Fight Club will always be with us.

I have been defeated many times by an excess of cleverness. Just because it sounds good doesn't mean it's true. Just because I'm smart enough to get my way doesn't mean I always should.

One of the most affecting ideas in Siddhartha is about time moving like a river. I have heard the sentiment before, even in some of my favourite books (Dalva and Sometimes A Great Notion spring to mind -- Einstein's Dreams plays with the concept through stories about alternate time flows) but either this book is wiser, or more accessible, or I have somehow grown more open to the idea. It altered my brain wiring to read it this time; like tripping on acid, it changed my whole perspective on shit. In case you too are ready to hear it, I will ineloquently recap: Time does not exist -- our past, future and present are here with us now, like the river water which is always flowing from its source, always emptying into the ocean, and always rushing past you as you stand rooted on the bank.

In high school, I moved away and then broke up with my first love, and he told me recently that he had to treat it as a death. How do you treat a death? I treat it the same way I treat travelling, and break-ups. I miss people but I hold them in my heart -- our memories, their voice, their face. I imagine that they are always with me. Sometimes I try to figure out what they would say and do if they were here. It's actually really funny to call up a friend and recap an imaginary conversation you had with them. Well, either funny or disturbing, depending on which party you are.

I always carry my past with me. In some ways it is always recurring -- every time I'm reminded of a painful experience, it hurts me again. All that changes is how I react and reconcile it with who I am now. Every time I remember something happy, I am happy again, though maybe the happiness is changed, made richer by things I've learned, made bittersweet by the loss of that person, that place.

The past will never hold itself static for us. Our mistakes do not define us. Maybe some of our successes were defeats. We have done everything the right way and we have done everything wrong. Now, does it matter?

When we are old and future time seems short, you will still be tall and strong and kissing me on my dark doorstep; you will still be courting me and cheating on me and smiling at our baby; you will still be the child your mother told me about. You will still be with all your old lovers, and I will still be with mine. We will have everything we ever had. Now, can we plan it?

Now we are in orbit and we are adrift. Now you are still in love with her and you are not. Now we are together and apart. Now I know the woman I want to be and I know that I will always want to be more than I am. Now, what is right?

You will make your future, it is true, but so will others. Like Schrodinger's cat living and dying, all futures are happening right now. What we do with our incomplete information, our imperfect memories, our limited forethought, will land us in one future or another. It will also put our pasts in a new light. And hopefully it will satisfy us now. But the only knowable part is what is in you -- what do you need, what is just? Now it is time to make the future, but it is not time to plan. It is not time to wait. When we have all the time in the world, and when there is no such thing as time, there is no sense in planning, no sense in waiting. One day I will see how I got to this place, I will see what I did well and how I failed. One day I will miss you and I will hold you. One day I will regret and I will hope and I will muse and, yes, I will plan my fool's errands. That day is now.
(I've had 1 beer already | Beer me, boys)

drunk with power [14 May 2006|11:29am]
Fuck someone uglier than you once in a while. All kinds of beauty in the world, a sunset on the top of a mountain, etc., that can all be taken away from you. But you fucked me Bobbie Barnet, and they can never take that away.

Spent Saturday night visiting my best friends in Portland: Books at Powell's, my favorite comic at Dante's, and (more) drinks at Mary's. If you ain't from here, that's the best bookstore in the world, the diviest club in town, and the diviest strip club in town.

I also spent the day showering my mother with affection, of course. She was supposed to get more today but she's sick with some sort of old person virus that she caught from taking care of people. Shows her. Just to taunt the Gods, I'm going to declare that I seem to be immune to this illness. I better be, cause I'm waiting on her hand and foot. Maybe that's the best Mother's Day gift of all.
(I've had 4 beers already | Beer me, boys)

woop woop! [11 May 2006|04:04pm]
Oilers won. And it was a good time last night down the pub, even if we lost our Frisbee game. But I just found out I missed $1 pints at The Elysian, and I can honestly say that I wish I had gone there instead. I miss Seattle, mostly for its people, but also for its cheap beer and well drinks. Actually it might be a half-and-half thing.

Portland, I miss you too. You also have cheap drinks. And lots of dessert places. Check this one out: "in our opinion, there's only one baked good that can rival the cupcake - and that's pie." <swoon> If the owners weren't married to each other, I would... I don't know, but if they're looking for a threesome, they got it.

Oh man! You have to hear/read an idea my sister and I had ... As you all know, in the US your every thought and movement is being monitored by a sophisticated CIA interweb. Well, what if we subverted the system by occupying all their bandwidth with meaningless noise? You'd have to bait them into wasting their listening capacity on you so... Terrrorist Tourrette's (the extra R is for Rrage!)!!

"Hey yo, what's the 411? <al quaeda!> I was like <bin Laden!> down at the playground and I wondered if <WMDs!>, you know, Terrell had any weed to smoke <Iraq!>?"

"Yeah I want to smoke some crack too... Did you just say 'Al Quaida'?"

"Nah, man, I said 'I'll call you". Later <twin towers!>"
(I've had 15 beers already | Beer me, boys)

mmm... frisbeeeee [10 May 2006|02:20pm]
I play on 3 Ultimate teams right now and I am deliriously happy. I dream of tossing and catching and running and scoring, even when I'm not asleep. The arc of a disc in the golden summer sky, spinning and floating down just for me, tightens my muscles and produces a bodily euphoria unlike any other pleasure. I am in love with the disc.

I know that this is springtime infatuation. Sunshine and the start of a new season have me over-excited. But the disc and I have had a long relationship. We've seen a lot together and we'll see a lot more. I'm ready for the sprained ankles, the missed goals, the agony of defeat, because I've toughed through all of them before, and with less love for the game. Now after so much suffering, I see that our love has only grown, and the disc and I have become quite happy together. It will be a lasting relationship. Veterans' League, here I come.
(I've had 1 beer already | Beer me, boys)

rusty [08 May 2006|06:35pm]
When I was nineteen, I took a summer to travel around the US by Greyhound. I wore one sundress with no bra, and packed some pants and a sweater, a tent and a calculus book. My pack was old and secondhand, my hair was tangled, and I looked like a lost little homeless hippie girl.

Early on in my trip, I stopped in Durango, Colorado, a quaint little river town nestled in a wash of purple desert canyons. The storefronts were freshly painted and the tiny bus station was cleaner and brighter than any I'd been in -- it could almost have been a general store or a gift shop . And my arrival brought the kind, paternal concern that only small towns and American religiosity can produce. What was a pretty little girl like me doing, travelling all by myself? And wasn't that backpack heavy? What'd I need all that stuff for? Did I need any help, a place to stay?

I had come to visit a friend and I stopped to get some directions at a gas station. A mechanic was coming out of the garage for a break and I asked if he minded telling me where Columbine Drive was.

He looked me over, saying nothing, and then walked into the store. He grabbed two Cokes from a cooler and walked back out with a nod to the cashier. As he handed me one he introduced himself. I don't remember his real name anymore, but he looked like a Rusty. Like when he was young he was tall and lank and freckled with a little bit of red in his hair and all the girls secretly thought he was cute and he secretly knew. And he still thought of himself as this boy, smiled the shy but knowing smile of a handsome guy who's going to get what he wants.

"Come and sit with me. I'm on break."

Uh-oh. Here it comes.

He smiled the same smile again. "Don't look so scared. There's a playground right across the way. Nothing's going to happen to you with all them mother hens around."

So I followed him, of course. Nobody calls me chicken. I said let's swing on the swings and he said okay. I threw my pack down in the dirt and we swung for maybe a minute without speaking, just drinking our Cokes.

"So what is it you're lookin' for?"

"Columbine Drive."

"That isn't what I meant. I mean why are you carrying that big backpack around, travelling all by yourself?"

"'Cause I want to see some things, visit my friends. I don't know. I think it's fun."

"But why don't you just do it in a car? And why don't you bring some friends with you? Isn't your daddy worried about you?"

"No," I lied. "He thought it was a good idea. Besides, I'm a big girl now. I don't need my daddy's permission."

"I guess you don't. But don't you think it's dangerous?"

"What? Playing at the playground with a talkative man who works across the street? Didn't you just tell me not to be scared of you?"

He thought a little bit and then he told me, "You just watch out for yourself. There's a lot of people out there who could hurt you. I want you to be careful. You promise?"

I couldn't help laughing as I promised him, "Sure, Rusty."

He looked disappointed that I wouldn't take him more seriously, but he gave me my directions and told me goodbye. I swung for a few more minutes before I picked up my pack, then I tossed a look over both shoulders and walked on.

I thought about him later on, in Denver, when someone tried to pull me away from the bus station, and then when a man who thought I was homeless offered to take me to dinner. There were a lot of men on that trip who thought they could get what they wanted out of me, and they were all wrong. But nobody came as close as Rusty.
(Beer me, boys)

intervention [08 May 2006|12:11am]
My housemates subjected me to an intervention the other day. Seems that my good friend and neighbour Pterals has rubbed them the wrong way (please put on your most condescending, anal-retentive mental reading voice for this):

"How long has he lived at Laburnum now?"

Erm, the same amount of time I lived at Laburnum. And the only reason I moved out was to live with you. And I'm suddenly thinking about moving back...

"He's just a knob... Did you see how he left that can on the counter? He just set his beer can down on the counter and walked out the door with you. He just assumed that someone would pick up his beer can and put it away... And you really dumb yourself down around him. It's shocking."

Hold on now. I don't dumb myself down around anyone but my good friend beer. And I've probably thrown more cans and bottles on the floor of Pterals' house than anyone else who's not an alcoholic. I'm pretty sure I've broken a few bottles and not even bothered to clean them up. This was one can, set down on the counter. In the Lord of the Flies pandemonium he comes from, that is the height of civilisation.

I knew I shouldn't have moved into such a nice house. I'm just not prissy enough. Today I came home and someone had removed the wood splinter garden that I had carefully wedged into our porch railing. Its spiky glory is no more and neither is my love for this place. I need to yell and throw things, and never miss another movie on the couch, curled up with 7+ people and a couple of cats. Plus these guys ate all my brownies.
(I've had 12 beers already | Beer me, boys)

mahalo [02 May 2006|05:30pm]
May you be in divine breath. May you exhale the bated breath. May you explode with feeling one day, amazing no one but yourself. Hold on to your gamble, speak with your gaze. Follow your friend across the sand and offer your breaths to the stars. Lean your back against the waves and share secrets and pot and one beer until you have to pee. Drive all night and park in the snow. Make it halfway to the Gorge and have a burger instead. Take me to see the thunderstorm. Let me race your car. Play strip poker in this graveyard. Call the one who's picking you up at the airport.

Bring beer for the sauna. Make pancakes. Make me flash the waiter if I want some of your fries. Pick through the garbage at the market and make ratatouille.

Go hiking. Go dancing. Laugh and cry all night until you fall asleep mid-sentence. Take me to your favourite swimming spot. Don't laugh at the Leaning Tower of Bratwurst. Make me go to the zoo and study monkeys. Get talked into basketball with a Latino gang. Browse at your secret bookstore. Meet my dad.

Pick the movie you know I'll like. Order Chicken 65. Walk all over Amsterdam with the DTs and jet lag because I missed you. Give me the infinite handicap. School me at Foosball. Call my bullshit.

Walk all the way to QFC for a chocolate milk. Play on the swings at the high school one night and joke about pedophiles. Remember my mom's tea. Pull me onto the raft when I make it back.

Leave the birthday cake in the mailbox. Find me sleeping on the floor and crack jokes until I wake up. Sing the Weezer refrain at the same time. Save the Gary Snyder poem.

Get annoyed when my skirt flies up on the giant slide. Meet me at the Greyhound station. Let me drive us through the Andes. Feed goat cheese to the dog. Swim in silence at the hot springs and offer your breaths to the stars.
(I've had 1 beer already | Beer me, boys)

buy the ticket, take the ride [01 May 2006|11:45pm]
I am a procrastinator. In everything. Dealing with relationships. Dealing with school. Recognising my own emotions. Returning emails.

And it is because I am afraid to fail (erm, except the email thing).

But better to try and fail than fail through paralysis by fear.

There comes a time to stop wishy-washying around. You've calculated your expected value, you've checked your head, heart and gut. All that's left is the commitment and the follow-through. There is no time left for a hundred indecisions. There is no room for regret in my life.

Anxiety is stoked by conflating all of one's separate dilemmas. But they are not part of the same problem. Failing at school would not affect my relationships, my ability to have a good life in a good city with good friends. Same for making the wrong decisions with my relationships. It could all go to hell and I would bounce back. I am smart. I am talented. I have degrees under my belt. I can always move somewhere where I have a friend or family member. Or somewhere where I don't. I can always travel. I can do whatever I want, have massive adventures, and it's all up to me, not to the winds of fate, or my failure or success at one particular endeavour. And a single failure in one area does not preclude another try. Just forget the fear.

Just know that everything's cool. Just do what your heart and your gut and your head really want. Just be honest.
(I've had 2 beers already | Beer me, boys)

there will be time to murder and create [30 Apr 2006|11:06pm]
Everyone says to look in your heart, or if unavailable your head, for the answers to your problems. What is it you really want, they say; they believe that "deep down" you know what you should do.

But, my head handles the big picture only. In true game-theory style, I'm reasoning n steps ahead, weighing the costs/benefits, playing everyone's angle and calculating incentives.

And my heart is sometimes not a big-picture thinker. Man, yesterday doing Z was so fun, it thinks, I should do Z all the time. Today, though, Z's more boring, I'm through with Z. Tomorrow, I'll be leaving, far from Z; what's Z? I don't remember any Z. Y, though, I don't need anything more than Y to make me happy.

Though often my heart's thinking too big. The people I love are there forever, even after my head (or the universe) has decided otherwise. And they all own a piece of my heart. Their needs are sometimes more important than my own. But what of it? What if I even allowed my concern for others to entirely eclipse concern for myself? In a perfect world, all those people I cared about would do the same for me, and we'd all be safe in the tender care of many. (Just checked in with the head, she says no, one must still look out for one's self; to do otherwise is the real height of selfishness, above even caring for no-one else.) Ahh, back then to balance. My heart trusts, my heart knows I am cared for well beyond my need; my head apportions my excess caring according to some metric of fairness.

Why, then, when it comes to other problems, can't these two sides get together? Reveal your secrets, heart and head, play nice and cooperate. There is a prisoners' dilemma here, and you are both losing.
(I've had 3 beers already | Beer me, boys)

to breed or not to breed? (or, why I probably shouldn't have kids) [28 Apr 2006|10:46am]
+ I am very strong and can throw kids around or carry them for hours
- The other day, I fell flat on my face trying to climb over a table and chairs at the pub. I wasn't drunk (yet).

+ I seem to possess that mystical ultra-sonic sensory perception that mothers have to help keep track of any child within 50 yards.
- I forgot the dog at the beach this weekend and I often forget that I have let him outside.

+ The park never bores me.
- I throw Frisbees and balls REALLY hard.
- I take requests for 'higher' and 'faster' at face value.

+ I am honest.
- I am brutally honest.

+ I enjoy almost any game.
- As long as I'm winning.

+ I can make up very fun stories and lies.
- They are peppered with cursing and inappropriate, offensive comments.

+ I love to bake and cook good food for my loved ones.
+ I play with my food.
- I spend entire days making pie.
- No-one gets served until they have demonstrated sufficiently extravagant appreciation for my food.

+ I like arts and crafts.
- I like arts and crafts that are technically perfect and aesthetically pleasing.

+ I'm not prissy about anything. So let's shove 'em in a backpack carrier and go to Africa!
- Shove them in a backpack?
(I've had 10 beers already | Beer me, boys)

does anyone else feel a draft? [27 Apr 2006|02:31pm]
No. 13 -- Baltimore Ravens -- Look for the Ravens to select a defensive tackle -- Oregon's Haloti Ngata or Florida State's Brodrick Bunkley -- in hopes of appeasing linebacker Ray Lewis. Lewis made it clear in an interview with ESPN's Rachel Nichols last week that he is none too pleased about being forced to take on blockers from time to time. And he's right -- a linebacker of his stature should not have to deal with people trying to block him. It's disrespectful. He should be allowed to run full speed into the hole and tackle the ball carrier without a single hand being laid on him. (And then jump up, do a dance and take all the credit for the play.) Anything less than that is simply unfair.

Ha. Ray Lewis is such a whiny, cocky bitch. But, if I hate Ray Lewis so much, why am I such a huge T.O. fan? I guess my man Terrell has never stabbed anyone. Hmm, good thing Ray Lewis is illiterate, or I'd need to watch my back now.

If DeAngelo Williams falls to Carolina, they better take him. He's my 'Lock of the Week'.
(I've had 1 beer already | Beer me, boys)

garbology: the study of a society or culture by examining what it discards [26 Apr 2006|01:54pm]
Things a garbologist would conclude about society if s/he studied my former home, Laburnum, from Sept. 2004 to Sept. 2005

  • Dishes are plentiful and cheap, but difficult to clean.

  • Furniture is plentiful and cheap, but breaks easily.

  • Clothing and bedding are usable only until they are layered with cat hair and wine stains.

  • Bread is used for decorating the home. Like flowers, it must be discarded when stale.

  • Alcohol is required to sustain life. More is required for social interaction.

  • Condiments may only be half-consumed.

  • The mechanics of recycling are too cognitively demanding for most members of this society.
(I've had 2 beers already | Beer me, boys)

this broken fence [23 Apr 2006|01:11pm]
ETA: Hey sorry y'all! I didn't mean for this to sound so vague and possibly depressed -- I'm so not. I guess it's just hard to write about serious pondering and life events when your audience is so varied. I am a little rocked by some of the emotional storms I'm weathering, but I'm 100% fine. Maybe even better now that I'm being more honest with myself about how I feel. Bout time, huh?


Is it possible to be in a state of stun? I'm stunned by the depth of emotion I have heretofore denied in me. It's stunning that I can juggle extreme guilt with the extreme infatuation and uncertainty of a new direction. I'm stunned by some news that leaves me tumbling in the waves of time past.

I have already negotiated these waters. I'm sure that when I passed here before I weaved past this rock, but now I find the rock is larger, more menacing in its jagged crown and rough elbows. Will I find another obstacle hidden ahead? My past life has led me to myself, to who I wish to be today. But what if I misunderstood my past experiences, what if I was wrong and what shaped me was false? The path I darted down may not be where the truth would have sent me and now when I lift my head to gasp some air and regain my bearings, I can't even see the direction I could have taken, or maybe it's too far away, or I just cannot imagine fighting the current simply to brave that life again. I can't stop this flow, I can only take what's given me now and hope I understand well enough to continue with an open heart.

And maybe this paradigm shift doesn't change anything at all; has it shaped me perversely to believe that 'bucolic' meant its complete antonym? I may never know, but I can only forge ahead.
(I've had 5 beers already | Beer me, boys)

red-eyed and blue [12 Apr 2006|01:14pm]
I woke up this morning and my left eye was irritated again. Substitute 'my left eye' with 'I' and you've got any day when I wake up with an alarm. Though today it was just my eye.

I keep getting eye infections when I wear my contacts, and today as I was reading all the news that's fit to print, I finally got an answer:

Eye Infections May Be Tied to a Solution for Lenses

If you don't subscribe, you should, it's free, but I will summarize: Bausch and Lomb (and, according to the Malaysia Star, two other solutions including mine) are causing fungal infections. A few people even had to get corneal transplants.

I smell a lawsuit... Do I need both corneas to drive a Porsche?
(I've had 6 beers already | Beer me, boys)

suburbia [04 Apr 2006|02:36am]
Visiting my niece (and sister) is like a return to childhood. Sugar cereals, games all day, fast food, styrofoam, suburbia.

The suburbs don't present many challenges. We had to find them for ourselves. So we reconned our perimeter in ever-wider circles, built bigger forts in the woods, jumped higher on the trampoline, got more daring with fireworks and BB guns, curfews and talking back. And of course there was the sex and drugs and rock 'n roll.

And what was our reward? What were we looking for? The bounds of comfort? Our absolute limit? All I know is I never stopped till I got hurt. And that was the final challenge. Would we run to Mommy, crying? Would we stoically walk home? Or would we play the rest of the day, only feeling the sting and bruise when we finally rested?

I've always been a push-through-the-pain kind of girl. I don't even like to talk about the hurt -- when it's over, it's done, leave me alone. And you're all yelling together, "Yeah, we know!" I like to think that I've softened this stance over the years, and someone recently told me that I have made astounding progress (Thanks, someone! You would know best.).

My sister's neighbourhood has big hills. Like Seattle downtown-to-Capitol-Hill hills. Luckily most of them are wide and smooth and roll back up gently. It's like cross-country skiing, on Rollerblades®. I'd rate most of them either a hard Blue or an easy Black Diamond. Except the last one. It was a little steeper than the rest, but not much. The killer was the cul-de-sac. There was no uphill rise to dampen my rapid descent, unless I rounded the cul-de-sac, and went back up the way I came. I went running down this road just yesterday, but I had forgotten that this cul-de-sac was not a wide, round, flowing number, but two hairpin jags. Once I saw it, it was far too late. Still, true to form, speeding down this longer-than-it-looked-from-the-top grade, I thought (quickly), "I can whip around that." But I couldn't. I avoided the mailboxes and slid mostly through grass, but the last foot or so on the pavement left me with road rash the size of a shoe-print, just under my left butt cheek. It hurt(s).

But I climbed back up the hill like a champ. Some old guy complimented me on my fall. He lived pretty far up the hill and he would have had to walk to his mailbox to see the crash. I guess he saw me racing down and figured he was in for some entertainment.

So what have I learned, 10 years out? Well, moments before I tumbled down the grassy embankment and skidded to a halt on someone's concrete driveway, I did say to myself, "Huh. Should've worn a helmet. And pads. And thicker shorts." And I skated almost straight home for some chocolate Coke and sympathy (and antiseptic). Hey, it's progress.
(I've had 3 beers already | Beer me, boys)

haunted leg [01 Apr 2006|03:28am]
Just at the height of my dog-love, where do I end up but a nice, clean and dog-less house? My sister's house is always immaculate, and a big reason is that it lacks the fine mist of hair and dander to which I've grown accustomed. (It also helps that I don't live here. While I'm very clean in terms of the kitchen and the bathroom, I have been known to make a big cluttery mess of: my room, any area where I'm doing crafts, and the sports gear storage area -- in my current house we call these areas "the basement.")

Maybe I should see how I enjoy clean, canine-free living for a while. After all, loyalty to Franji prevents me from adopting another dog myself, and (I admit here for the first time ever), I may have a slight, tiny, almost imperceptible dog allergy -- I never notice it when I live with a dog, but when I don't live with any animals and then visit somewhere that has them, I get significantly stuffed up.

I mean, I don't need a dog to have fun, right? I can roll in the mud on my own, and go running with humans. Maybe I need some "me" time anyway. Or at least some space on the couch.
(I've had 9 beers already | Beer me, boys)

dog leg [30 Mar 2006|01:14pm]
So one of my roommates is moving out. My favourite one, actually my best friend in Vancouver. We didn't fight, it's not a dis. She's just moving to a funner neighbourhood, but it's still a bummer. And she's taking her dog. This is perhaps the deepest cut.

I like having a dog around. Dogs get to do everything I wish I could. They can growl menacingly at unsavoury characters and bark at black people (Come on now, I'm not a racist. They're just saying what we're all thinking, which is "Hey! That guy's a different colour!") Dogs get to be raucously happy when their girls get home, and sulky and jealous when their girls bring home boys (and vice versa, and the queer permutations) (It's not that I always want to do that -- it would just be nice to have the option.). And I wish I had the balls to dig through garbage like a dog (Just to see what's there! I don't want to eat it! Sometimes there's a pile of rubbish that just looks very interesting, but you don't want to touch it, cause it might be dirty or germy or sprinkled with lye.).

Okay, so maybe I don't want to drink out of black grease puddles or sleep all day waiting for my people (Hmmm, well...). But there are some really great perks, like sniffing a friend when you meet (Maybe not their butt, but the neck is nice.) and mounting someone to indicate that you'd like to play. The best part is, dogs know how to strut their stuff -- you want them, and they know it, and they're not too polite to just sniff you and reject you (Okay, I admit it. I actually do this too.). And you know, before someone calls me on it in the comments, I'm also going to admit that if you throw a ball or Frisbee for me I will run after it -- no questions, no detours in the journey from neuron to leg muscle, just a mad sprint and a few whoops of joy. Just like a dog.
(I've had 4 beers already | Beer me, boys)

[23 Mar 2006|08:37pm]

Actual phone #s... give him a call sistahs.
(Beer me, boys)

honest to the point of recklessness, self-centred to the extreme [23 Mar 2006|12:59am]
Damn, my feet are stinky tonight. All running and no shower make my feet gross. But I love them anyway. I like most feet, and mine are quite elegant I think, at least in their shape if not their scent. I'm so into myself.

So, I've been thinking a lot about math. (Don't worry, no equations here.) It's really improving my life, becoming a more numerate person, though I sometimes worry that numeracy comes at the expense of literacy. But really, math takes no more of a toll on my brain's language centres than does Spanish, or Simpson's quotes, or song lyrics, or learning Canadian spelling (all worthy endeavours).

The real hazard of math knowledge is increased geekiness. And inadvertent truth-telling. I find myself explaining the optimal stopping policy in choosing a roommate, to said potential roommate. I evaluate my expected utility for a potential life partner, and then tell said potential life partner. Do enhanced reasoning skills inhibit self-editing? Next thing you know I'll be busting friends for under-tipping (now that I've mastered arithmetic). Here's the problem -- these things I can now calculate are FACTS. I have no editor for facts. I've always been the dork who'll drop random knowledge without realizing that it's boring or weird. Doesn't everyone want to widen their fact repertoire? No, they don't.

My too-cool niece has a nice way of shutting me up -- no matter what amazing, mind-blowing, true fact I bestow upon her she always replies, "I know." Well, at 10 years old, she at least knows that her aunt is a nerd who should stop talking and start letting her win at basketball. I can't wait to see her next week.
(I've had 13 beers already | Beer me, boys)

miss dallas [17 Mar 2006|12:59am]
When's the last time I drunk-posted? I should be drunk-dialing, but everyone's asleep. Maybe not my brother, and he wouldn't even mind being woken up... Buh. I'm not drunk enough for dialing, just tired really.

So, I was writing a paper for another conference deadline, but we are postponing yet again. I don't like those weeks of stress and no fun before a deadline. I think I should stop being a student. Though I like my project, and I like the months when I get to fuck off and do jack-shit.

I really like Vancouver. I think I should live here for a while. I like my friends here and I like the beach. And pubs. And I really like pretending to be Canadian. Maybe if I just stay here long enough they'll forget about that citizenship issue. Really, though, it's mostly about the friends. Good times I've had all over the planet, but it's those quality relationships that make you feel like you have a home. No dis to other friends or other homes -- I've been sad when I had to leave some of you, and I miss all of you, but when I hold 'home' in my heart, this is it. Funny how it takes 2 million people to make me feel warm and cozy.
(I've had 7 beers already | Beer me, boys)

[ viewing | 20 entries back ]
[ go | earlier/later ]