Breaking news: I am no longer into unicorns. I am now into Millennium Falcons.

Romance, Part 7

She was all the way in London. He was here, in Minnesota. And yet she got him to get excited about her, she got him to call her all the time, she got him to admit to her that he liked her, that he was amped on her. What the fuck.
“Great,” I yelled at him, watching his back, clothed in his trademark white t-shirt, as he started walking away. “MAYBE YOU SHOULD MARRY HER.”
He turned and stared at me for a beat. You shouldn’t have come out here, you shouldn’t have acted as if everything was cool, I think, towards him. He had followed me when I had escaped out onto the sidewalk to smoke. He hates when I smoke. He told me once, while we were sitting in a brown vinyl booth, that he would never, ever date anyone who smokes. “But we’re not ever going to date anyway, so why would I even care?” I had asked him, my goat up. He was so pretentious like that, sometimes...thinking that the fact that he wouldn’t date me, not even hypothetically, if I smoked, would make me want to instantly stop.
He stood right in front of me, slipping his hands into pockets, waiting. I exhaled and glanced at him, then looked away again.
“You’re mad at me, right."
I nodded, staring off into the distance.
“I don’t really get why. What I said shouldn’t have made you mad if it wasn’t true.”
With this, I met his eyes. “How’s your friend in England?”
He was surprised with the switch. “She’s good. I’m actually just about to call her.”
“You guys talk on the phone a lot? Every day?”
He nodded. “Yeah, it’s been pretty rad.”
“But she’s in England. What’s the point?”
“The point is that I like her,” he said, his gaze suddenly cold. “And I don’t really think I need your permission to do that.” He held my eyes for a second longer, then turned and began to walk away.

Now he was stalking back towards me, his face hard and ready for defense. I faced him with this terrible smirk that I find myself affecting when I’m really hurt and want to hurt someone back. The first time I caught myself doing it - I was a freshman in college - it kind of scared me how I could smile so wide and let poison drip from my lips at the same time. I can be cruel. I don’t know why, and it always surprises me when I realize it, but there it is.
He stepped up to me, standing close and glaring down, and I instinctively took a step backwards.
“What the fuck is your problem?” He asked, his words quiet, slow and tight.
“Quite sorry, did I hit a nerve?” I retorted, speaking in a British accent, perfect pitch, which I knew would piss him off even more. “You get to call me out on my relationship stuff, but you’re off topic, right? Too private to be discussed? Fuck you. I know why you like her so much. You like her because she’s way across the sea, too far away to demand any sort of commitment or negotiation from you. So it’s easy for you to get excited about her when you don’t have to actually do anything about it. Right? But my expectations are fucked up. MY expectations. Little hypocritical, don’t you think?”
“Again, Amber, what is your problem?” The way he stared at me, it scared me a little. I’d never seen him truly angry, especially not at me. But it was too late, and I wasn’t going to cower.
“I don’t have one. Because I don’t have feelings, remember?” This time it was my turn to stalk off, not really caring if he was watching, or if he had already turned and walked away, too.

Project 365: 6.28.09 - 7.2.09

7.2.09
On Thursday Dave and I met up with some friends at Canterbury Downs. Since it was Thursday, it was dollar admission and dollar dogs. Apparently people love dollar admission and dollar dogs, because the joint was packed. I was standing in line, taking random photos of how ridiculously long it was, and this guy popped up. Not creepy at all.

7.1.09
On Wednesday I got the rare half-day off, so Dave and I decided to hit up Spyhouse so that I may live out my dream of doing nothing for a living but sitting in coffeeshops and playing on my computer all day. It was there that we ran into Nate, who also joined us later on a wonderful adventure of drifting around the city in search of a patio with beer, which ultimately ended at Cowboy Slim's. Then I went along with my friends Matt and Chelsea to Baldwin, WI, to purchase a cartload of illegal fireworks. So, I guess I didn't really miss working that day.

6.30.09
Roommate Drew, holding Itty Bitty Kitty, whom we are fostering for a few weeks.

6.29.09At Bar Lurcat to celebrate The Tiff's 29th birthday. Jeff is talking on his phone because he's so excited about communication.

6.28.09
This is the money shot from the party that Nintendo threw for me and my (girl)friends. Games, champagne, prizes (free Nintendo DSi's for everyone who attended!). It was a fantastic afternoon.

Sunday Video Treats: I love South Park, especially because it confirms my incredible intellectual maturity.

Butters: What, What In the Butt

Project 365: 6.24.09-6.27.09

6.27.09
Heidi, Dave, Katy and I at the street dance, Musky Fest 2009.

6.26.09
At Seeley Sawmill for Musky Fest in Hayward, WI. It was our fifth year in attendance, and Katy and I celebrated by posing with a wooden fish.

6.25.09On Thursday night I joined these lovely ladies, Jess Plagens and Alexa Jones, and the rest of their fun friends for a night of drinks and conversation atop Joe's Garage rooftop patio. The most entertaining top of conversation pertained mostly to men who appreciate and adore a lady possessing of a large backside. "Girl, you got ANGEL WINGS!"

6.24.09
On Wednesday I attended "Give & Take" at the Intermedia Arts Center in Minneapolis. It's a community gathering where people give presentations about things you want to learn about, like how two girls learned how to build a boat using instructions from the internet. This particular presentation was a series of photographs taken of three young people with developmental disabilities. This particular one was about a boy with Down Syndrome, Eric. The other boys you see in this picture all skipped their Sweetheart Dance so they could celebrate Eric's birthday with him. Of course I was weeping by the end of this picture's story.

Project 365: 6.21.09 - 6.23.09

6.23.09
This is what I did at work today for one of my clients. It's pretty much the hardest thing I've ever drawn.

6.22.09
Self-explanatory

6.21.09
Alexa worked the merch table at the Cities 97 Stage at Stone Arch. Katy and I visited her, and Katy proceeded to mock her with her gyro. Which sounds a lot grosser than it actually is.

Romance, Part 6

Life gets ripped apart. And you try to sew the jagged edges together, but sometimes, sometimes, there’s only enough energy to salvage the crucial bits. Like crafting the will to live...I couldn’t tell it was summer. Air was too heavy and hard to draw in, and just getting out of bed was this minute, drawn out, exhausting process. Sit up, breathe in and out, and try to figure out a reason why I should still want to be here. Sometimes I look back and wonder if I spent a whole year crying. Sometimes I know that I did.

And so the rest got scrapped. In high school I studied the pyramid of basic needs, and it keeps coming back to me. Stuck on surviving, so there’s no time to think about things like relationships, or helping others, or anything else that used to be so important to me. I heard an old favorite song, “Little Boxes”, not too long ago, and I wanted to cry...I can remember bits and pieces of who I was, of who I used to be. Things I used to care about. But there was just no room for them anymore, after. Cut me into small quarters, leave me in the corner.

And so it just becomes habit. The Locus of Control. After a while, it’s just easier to be alone, because it’s hard to remember what it was like when you weren’t, and history repeats itself, as they say. I remember how terrified I felt, one sunny summer morning a couple years ago, when I woke up from a dream and realized that I couldn’t remember, in my daily waking life, what it was like to be in love. I knew I had been, before. I just couldn’t remember what it was like - how it happened, what transpired to make it so, or what it felt like. It must have been good. It must have been worth it, at the time. The aftermath, though, had darkened so much that I must have pushed it out of my memory. That’s scary shit. To wake up one morning and realize the extent of it…that it must have been so painful that your mind, without telling you, had decided to fold in on itself and leave you this numb, cold amnesiac. And I couldn’t see my way out of it. I just could not imagine ever feeling that way again, or even being able to recognize if I were close. Do people’s hearts swell when they see the person they love? Do they know it right away? Do things fall into place, do people show up, do they talk, actually talk, about who they are and who they want to be? And isn’t it so much work.

“I just can’t do it anymore, you know?” I remember saying once, when my mom asked me why I wasn’t dating anymore, the unspoken - “Why haven’t you, since.” - hanging in the air between us, over the kitchen counter. All of those conversations had between us there...her standing between the kitchen island and the sink, me slumped on a stool on the other side, my hands stuffed into the pouch of my hooded sweatshirt. The first one, the morning after Hansel died, when I sobbed with my head in my arms and told her that I just didn’t think I would ever be okay again. The next, when I stared out the window, tried hard not to meet her eyes, and told her that Lucas was gone, his misery had taken him away. Munchkin had leukemia, I whispered during the next one. She had to ask me to repeat myself, but I couldn’t say it any louder because I was too scared that if I did I would just burst and crumble and crack and fall away into the ground. And then that last one, when, quiet and resigned, I tried hard not to elude to the fact that the stem of her worry - that I really wasn’t okay, that things might not get better anytime soon - was very true, that it was happening, and that I had absolutely no idea what to do about it except to stay alone and be quiet. It all happened within the inside of two years.

Project 365: 6.17.09 - 6.20.09

6.20.09
@ Hidden Beach.

I'm thinking it was a skateboarding injury.

6.19.09On Friday night I went to Canterbury Park with some old friends to drink it up and watch the races. Here I am, standing with a champion horse.

I'm good with animals.

6.18.09
I drive a lot. On this particular evening I had a lot of social obligations, which I won't bore you with, but my steering wheel felt really loved and adored by me that night (esp. when I gripped it juuust right...). We have a special relationship.

6.17.09
At the 48 Hour Film Festival after-party at The Cardinal. This is not the most brilliant capture I've ever taken with my camera, but it managed to include almost everyone in one shot, so that's why I'm posting it.

Romance, Part 5

Can you say what you want. Can you be what you want. I walk up to the door of the house where the party is already in full swing. Once, at camp, the counselors all did a bible study centered around a book called Who You Are When No One’s Looking. At the time, I had been so reproached by what those pages had to say: Who was I when no one was looking…it really wasn’t anything I wanted anyone else to see. I had worked very hard to cultivate this image, this personality, that would make others, God, proud of me - this quiet, gentle, forgiving person. But alone, everything I fought all day long - the boldness, the worldliness - seemed to pour out of me when I was finally back in my room and alone with my thoughts. Now, it seems to be the opposite. I catch on very quickly to how others perceive me, but I feel trapped by the voice I lost, then. “Don’t you see, can’t you understand, why don’t you know…” Three questions I won’t ask out loud, because if they don’t see, I won’t show them. If they can’t understand, I can’t make them. And if they don’t know, I won’t tell them.

We catch eyes as I’m taking off my coat. Friends rush up and I’m suddenly swept away into little pockets of conversations. A beer is tucked into my open hand, and I no longer care that he’s across the room somewhere. We haven’t talked for two weeks, which is more silence than we’ve ever had since we met. I know he wants me to go up to him and sort it out. But I won’t.

“I just don’t see you as the kind of girl who would leave cute notes for your boyfriends,” he had said to me one night, while we were walking around the lake. Trying to keep up with his long legs and wide strides, I swung my arms in quick pace and looked away. I get really tired of these talks. They are unsolicited and they are not rare. People who are anxious to hold that mirror in front of my face: They think they are saying something profound, that they’re going to be the one to flip the switch and suddenly, the lights will come on. “Oh, you’re right. I can be intimidating. Yes, I agree, I make it impossible for anyone who wants to be with me to do just that. Thank you for letting me know, now I can change.” It doesn’t happen that way. The first time, maybe, yes. The first time I remember thinking, How did you know? I thought I had hidden it so well. Hide and Seek. I had gotten really great at it, until that moment.

But now, when confronted, I’ll hear them and feel this stubbornness building up in my arms and mouth. I want to grit my teeth and whip out a snapshot and show them: “Look! See? This is how I used to be. Here I am, driving three hours in the middle of the night just to surprise him. This is one of me, remembering something he said in passing conversation about something he wanted to do, then going right out and orchestrating it, just because. And that’s me, right there, writing a sappy note on his dry erase board so that, when he came home, he’d find and read it and know that I loved him. So shut your mouth.”

And he doesn’t know anything about me, I realized then, and I am reminded of it, now. I knew everything about him, and he knew nothing about me. To his credit, sometimes I wanted it that way. I wanted to be new, here.

I remember this eerily elated feeling, one afternoon soon after I moved to Minneapolis: I was standing on the edge of a park, the sun hot on my bare shoulders, the lake glinting on the edges of my sight. A group of friends were gathered in a knot, and ting and clink of ice cubes being jostled in coolers and caps being twisted off bottles carried across the hot air. Everyone was someone I had just met, had been friends with not more than two months. No one here knows, I remember thinking, as I surveyed the crowd. No one ever had to know. I could be new, I could be clean, no heavy cloak to struggle under, no more stamps on my forehead. Do you know what it’s like, to walk into a place - a grocery store, a gas station, a bar - and feel as if everyone is staring at you, whispering about you, waiting for you to leave so they can openly discuss you? In psychology there’s a perception called the spotlight affect: It’s common with adolescents, who have this omnipresent feeling that they are constantly on display to everyone, that everyone is paying attention to every little thing they say or do. Only this time, it was really happening: I would walk into a place somewhere and hear whispering, the murmurs of pity, sometimes an intake of breath as everyone waited to see if I was going to burst into tears when a Nickelback song played on the jukebox.

And you don’t know that about me, I think, as I glance across the room. And to my credit, you never asked, have never even shown any interest in whom I might have been before you came along. All you know is the girl who escaped to here two years ago. You get to read the aftermath. You get to figure out the recovery. You get the remnants of disaster. You have no idea what I lost. So I don’t really think you get to say anything about what I should have by now, I think to myself, as I feel him staring me down from across the room. I throw back the rest of my beer, set the bottle on the coffee table, and walk outside without giving him a second glance.




Part 6 -->

Project 365: 6.13.09 - 6.16.09

6.13.09

At Cowboy Slims with Dave and Sara. The place is a douchefest, but our server was great and sitting on the Lake Street patio provided great people-watching on a Saturday night.

6.14.09

Sunday afternoon I met Jen Paulson at Bulldog in Uptown. This was her face when I held up my camera and asked her to do "something funny."

6.15.09

This is roommate John, cleaning his bathroom and suddenly realizing the joy that it is to live with three (hilarious, awesome) girls.

6.16.09

About a month ago, Nintendo approached me and asked me to be a Brand Enthusiast. All I had to do was let them throw a party for my (girl) friends and I and accept free gifts like a brand new Nintendo DSi. Usually all that my blog gives me are awkward conversations with my parents and maybe a place to complain about how much I hate The Hold Steady (haaaaate)...so, this is pretty cool.

And, the box it came in lights up and there's this soundtrack of people cheering and clapping when you open it...so every time I say something really funny or do something really fantastic, I'm going to hold it up and open it so I can pretend I'm on a sitcom.

Shout-outs are the best kind of shouts.

As I talked about a little earlier this week, I (along with Dave Urban and Sara Montour) had the lucky chance of being an extra in a 48 Hour Film Project called "Missed Connections", starring the lovely Erica and the handsome Nate (and featuring the efforts of Ideation Films). I played someone who texts on their phone. It was a big stretch for me. I hope you realize and appreciate the kind of acting chops I had to have to pull that role off.

But unlike most things, this isn't about me. The film is delightful, funny, and charming...just a really lovely, fun thing to watch. Warmest congrats to everyone on the team...what a great thing to create and accomplish, especially in such a small window of time.

And since I know some of you weren't able to make it out to the festival on Wednesday (where were you?! What were you doing? Why weren't you there?!?), I thought you might like to check it out for yourselves:

ideation from kaabel on Vimeo.

Committed To Fitness

A couple people have asked me what this whole "Committed To Fitness" thing is that I've been talking about lately. I get the feeling that they want me to say that it's this amazing boot camp thing for charity, or one of those awesome "Body By Glamour" things that get you all psyched to take pictures of yourself at your fattest and then take another one 3 months later to see all the progress you've made (and then end up lying facedown on your bed, crying because nothing at all has changed, nothing! and you missed 3 months of Simpsons reruns and stuffed your face with blueberries for nothing).

Nope. Committed To Fitness is something I made up with my friend Meredith. After I moved to Uptown in March (in the Lowry Hill neighborhood, orginally named "Devil's Backbone" according to g_rote), we talked about how we should meet at Lake of the Isles and go walking together every day. I started using the term "Committed To Fitness" as more of a snark towards the fact that I absolutely hate working out every day. I HATE IT. I'll do it, and when I'm committed to something, watch out, but goddamn it...have you tried this stuff? It sucks, right?! I mean, you gotta give up all this time, and sometimes it hurts doing it, and it's not really all that fun, and when you get home, you're all sweaty and gross and it's not like you just look in the mirror and you're like, "Oh! THAT WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT."

But like I said, I'm doing it. Hitting 30 was bad for my metabolism, as was sitting a lot and eating Chipotle a lot and drinking beer a lot. So I'm running. I like to think of it as this: Every mile I run is another mile closer to getting laid again. Listening to "Final Countdown" by Europe while I run doesn't hurt, either (or passing a running club twice in the last month just by going at my normal pace! I'm excited by that, I admit). And then I walk around the lake, where daily I wonder if there's some kind of unspoken rule about which way to walk around the lake on certain days and I'm the one jerk who's always breaking it. And sometimes I'll even lift weights with Jackie and her trainers, which is pretty good penance for every sin or act of evil I've ever committed in this life or any other that I may have lived.

And that's the last you're going to hear about what I'm doing for Committed To Fitness. One thing I can promise you is that I'm probably never going to Twitter about how many miles I ran that day, unless I miraculously just happened to run 30 miles one Saturday without even thinking about it. That would be Twitter-worthy. AND DON'T LEAVE ME ANY DIET OR WORKOUT TIPS IN THE COMMENT SECTION OR I WILL FIND YOU AND CUT YOU. Seriously. I'm totally serious on that one, I hate that shit.

Project 365: 6.11.09 & 6.12.09

6.11.09
Katy's 31st Birthday! At Sweeney's fireside patio in St. Paul. Katy's smile is the prettiest when she's laughing at something stupid I just said.


6.12.09
With The Dave Urban @ Mickey's Diner in downtown St. Paul. I'd never been and always wanted to go, so we did after hitting up The Hoot at the Lake Harriet Bandshell and then HowWasTheShow.com's 7th yr Anniversary Party at The Turf Club. Alexa and Sara Montour were also in attendance. Rad night.

Watch out world, because I CAN CONTROL YOU WITH MY MIND.

A few years ago, I remember writing a post after suddenly realizing, for the first time, that simply verbalizing something was not going to automatically make it come true. "I want a boyfriend like Foreman on That's 70's Show," I'd say to myself, fully expecting to turn around and find Topher Grace standing there in his dark blue zip-up hooded. It was one of those ridiculous moments in your life when you suddenly realize you've been under this single impression your entire life. Up until the age of about 12, I really did feel like the world revolved around me. Like, how could it not? I was the center, and everyone else was just here to either affect me directly or entertain me in some way, shape, or form. Talk to some kids. You'll find that I wasn't so alone in this one.

But I digress. Anyway, this past week or so I've started to get the eerie feeling that, just by thinking about something, I can make it happen. Last week I was going through my Google Reader, sadly neglected due to my recent hiatus, and I caught up on Been Thinking. For the first time in the maybe two years I've been reading it, I saw a picture of the author, Erica. Then, because Nate asked people to and because I have a soul-and-ego-crushing infatuation for him (but I'm still, like, totally cool and unattainable and fulfilled in life and stuff), I showed up to be an extra for his 48 Hour Film Project. I showed up, stared at the eerily familiar female lead while trying to place her, and suddenly realized that it was Erica! It's always great to meet someone who writes stuff you love, but when they also happen to be warm, lovely, and funny, that's what makes it.

AND THEN, this weekend, I was also thinking about how I need to join a book club and get involved in something social again that doesn't necessarily include 2-4-1's during the hours of 5-7 pm (even though that is still highly entertaining and important to my life, I tain't gonna lie). Today Molly posted about this on her Facebook wall, and it's completely the answer to one of my book club prayers (the other one I sent up was about forming a book club in which we read famous peoples' autobiographies and then discuss whether or not the said autobiographies satisfactorily address all the salicious rumors and gossip any of us have ever heard about them. Bonus points and bumped-up attendance for rock and porn star autobiographies). It's smart, interesting, thought-provoking, and I'll want to go actually go to the discussion group. I can't do the Oprah book club stuff anymore. Nobody ever reads the books except for me, and all it ever turns into is a club for drinking red wine and bitching about husbands...which I always have to sit through, awkwardly, and then fight the urge to kill all of them when they turn to me sympathetically and say, "Oh, don't you feel lucky now that you're single?!" Yes, yes, I do. Incredibly lucky, esp. since it means that it's one less person out there bitching about me, apparently.

So anyway, there's no real satisfactory end to this post, other than the facT that I'm now going to lay on my couch and think about boys a lot.

MIND POWER, EXPLOOODE...


[image via]

Project 365: 6.9.09 & 6.10.09

6.9.09 (My first picture of Project 365!):


Candid, from left: Roommate John, roommate Alexa, John's hot friend Bjorn The Beautiful.

6.10.09:

This is me being super creepy and taking a picture of Bjorn while he sleeps on our couch. It's okay, though, because I totally warned him about it the night before. The creepy factor lessens when it's FOR ART.

Someone come up with a project that involves not doing any projects.

Since I don't already have enough projects going on - trying to finish two books, being Committed To Fitness, blogging on here every day, and some other stuff I don't wanna talk about yet - I have also decided to do Project 365. This is not a post about how busy and amazing I am (or, as Kelley Bensimon would say, "While you're talking, I'm doing.")...it's about how, when my boss tells me that I need to "set realistic expectations for yourself", I don't even argue. I just nod, knowingly, and then wonder how much more reality TV show watching I could get in if I weren't so freaking crazy with crazy projects that take over my life.

But I'm still going to do it. Because, you know, it looks fun and stuff.

Sundresses.

Some people (Katy) make fun of me for how often I plan on wearing sundresses. This topic first came up when we were going to Chicago for the weekend.
"What kind of clothes are you bringing?" She TM'ed me.
"I packed a lot of sundresses."
"Sundresses?"
"Sundresses are great for fucking*." I replied. "Also, for walking around the city."

I can't wear kicky hats...I don't know how many hats I've lusted over the past umpteen years, but I have a misshapen head and I've come to terms with that and have learned to accept myself for who I am...but I can wear a sundress. A sundress is like a kicky hat, only less athletic-looking, more outfit-defining, and arguably more versatile. Also, they look pretty hot.

And they're good for so many things...in fact, here's a list I've compiled so far of what and where sundresses are good for:

1. Walking around the city

2. Fucking**

3. Drinking on rooftop bars

4. Going to brunch

5. Beach cover-ups

6. Street festivals/dances

7. Summer weddings

8. Birthday parties

9. Standing on an acquaintances' porch while we watch a parade and drink keg beer

10. Shopping

11. Walking around the house when my roommates' hot friend is over

12. Hanging out in a coffeeshop while you work/play on your laptop

13. Going to live shows

14. Walking around the lakes on a weekend afternoon

15. Dancing at da clurrrbs

I'm sure there will be more items that I'll be able to add to this list. Wanna know why? Because I have a lot of sundresses and I plan on wearing them. All the time. The only thing that sundresses are not good for is 1. working with children with Autism (we have a dress code that I need to adhere to) and 2. bonfires. And maybe eating pizza on a cold rainy day...and biking, I guess, even though I would never bike anyway, regardless if I were wearing a sundress or not. Which brings me to my point...why wouldn't you want to wear a sundress? Think of all the reasons, and then ask yourself...are any of those reasons worth not having sex in a sundress at any given point in time? AND YOU CAN WEAR THAT THING TO CHURCH THE VERY NEXT DAY AND LOOK COMPLETELY APPROPRIATE.

You're on board with this. I can tell.





* I had no intention of doing any of that while in Chicago. I was merely stating an important, and what should be totally obvious, fact.
**I tried really hard to censor the word on here by replacing the "U" with a "*". AND I COULDN'T DO IT. Why?! Because I have ARTISTIC INTEGRITY, THAT'S WHY. I also believe that if you mean "fuck" then just say "fuck", since everyone knows what you're trying to say, anyway.

Two complaints for today.

I would really, really love to see a front page news story that either:

1. Educates parents on the different ways you can immunize your children - analyzing their blood to see which immunities they might have already developed, how to spread out the schedule of vaccines, etc - so that they are still vaccinated but are not taking a chance on the potentially harmful, one-size-fits-all round of vaccines that have been called into question

OR

2. talks about what we're doing or should be doing to find a cause and a cure for Autism

INSTEAD OF

Reporting yet another fear-mongering and biased story about how parents of children with autism are all bat-shit crazy and are bringing back polio, etc. because they suspect something in vaccines (notice I didn't just say "vaccines"...I said something in vaccines, which is the point that many articles miss) may play a role in the development of Autism. I have yet to see one article that actually references a parent of a child with Autism and asks them the reasons why they suspect something in vaccines. That strikes me as a little odd, if only for the fact that it's just poor journalism.

I will not state my personal opinion about vaccines and Autism on here, mainly because it's too complicated, I'm not strictly on either side, and I'm just simply too tired to go into it. What I will say is that I'm not by any means asking for a sympathetic journalistic piece about why parents aren't vaccinating their kids or why some parents in the Autism community have taken up the fight against vaccines: Just an objective, thoroughly investigated one, and one that focuses on education instead of sensationalism. And really - if the government, FDA, and scientific community knows so solidly that vaccines do not cause Autism, then why are they still talking about it and not putting their energy towards finding out what does? Put me out of a job, homies. I want you to.



The Grand Old Day was less of a parade and more of a traveling commercial

I was really excited to see the Grand Old Day parade. I'd never been before, and I have a quiet fondness for parades, esp. when they contain many marching bands and some pretty girls in crowns that I can critque and critize as they ride by on their convertibles (bitches, I was in a pagent, so I earned my stripes).

And Grand Old Day is the oldest street festival in the midwest, right, or something...you'd think they'd have a lot of practice at getting this parade thing down pat. Or at least the pressure would be on, since apparently 20,000 people come out for the thing every year (not this year, though! Thaaaanks, Minnesota weather). Riddle me this, St. Paul citizens...if I were a business and I wanted to be in the parade, do I have to pay to walk in the parade? Because if the answer is yes, then I can understand why Subway had five people walking in the parade and carrying a banner, and I had to call it entertainment. But if no...WTF?! You couldn't build a float, or do some kind of kicky Subway dance, or at least try to make it any sort of parade-like adventure for all the people who dragged themselves out to the cold street at ten in the morning? And I'm only using Subway as an example because they were the most bleak - wait, just kidding, Chipotle drove a van through the parade and that was it - but besides the Irish dancers, one marching band, a couple of marching ensembles, and the bagpipes, that was pretty much the whole parade...just a bunch of businesses and their bored reps, walking down the street behind a car. Even the freaking Renaissance Festival didn't do anything besides look super creepy and push coupons with their really awful British accents. And what was with the awkward hawking of coupons, brochures, and magnets during the entire duration? If I wanted to have to politely decline offers of advertisments, I'd walk the streets of downtown Minneapolis on a Friday night. IF YOU'RE GOING TO MAKE ME FEEL WEIRD, AT LEAST GIVE ME SOME CANDY WHEN YOU'RE DOING IT.

Other than that, it was a fantastic day today!

The End

New baby gift for all of my procreating friends.

Proof that nerds can get lucky

* Credit for idea goes to Sherman Bausch. I'm not sharing royalties with you, though.

And NOW who am I gonna like, HUH?! Freaking Rob Pattinson? His skin shines like diamonds when he's in the sun. BIG FREAKING DEAL.

So I've been a huge fan - wait, let's not say fan...let's say Secret Lova - of John Mayer for a really long time. And when I say a really long time, I mean that I was in love with him before any of yous people even caught onto the fact that he might have the most incredible "O" face ever. Most of his music was pretty good, his blog was freaking fantastic, and he was just so incredibly hot to watch onstage...I literally used to have a magazine cut-out of him posted in my locker, and I would reflexively sigh at it every time I opened or closed said locker. AND THIS WAS WHEN I WAS 27.

But then that whole thing with Aniston happened, and he kind of lost his shine. Being called a douchebag and being self-deprecating about it is one thing...but writing a whole entire post about why you are not, in fact, a douchebag is being...well, a douchebag. And then he posted something to the effect of "I love it when guys are mad at me for dating their dream girl. Like you were gonna do it if I didn't?!" Really?! Really, John? Why can't you just be cool. Like you used to be. God, you were so funny and charming and the writing on your blog was just so freaking incredible and you didn't take yourself so seriously...and now you're on a straight path to Spencer Pratts-ville. And it breaks my heart. It. Breaks. My. Heart.

And your Twitters! THEY'RE SO BORING, JOHN. I mean it. Cut that shit out. I know you think you're being profound and that's cool, but if it takes more than 10 Twitter updates in a row to get your point across, maybe blog it or, I don't know...write a song about it. That's what you do, right? Write songs and make music and stuff?

I just can't stand it anymore. From your Twitter pic of you when you were 10 to your preachy shit about changing stuff when you don't want to and how it takes energy but it's worth it blah blah blah to the fact that you continue to date girls who only exemplify how shallow you really can be...I think we have to break up. I'm sorry. It's not that I'm in love with anyone else - situation is bleak for celebrity crushes at the moment...other than Micheal Cera, but I just feel like a really pervy aunt when I lust over him - it's just that I'm not in love with you anymore. And that sad thing is that...I'm probably not even going to miss you.

You did this to yourself.


[photo via]

Let's sit around a campfire and talk about it sometime.

I wish that one could attain self-accomplishment simply by making their finished Netflix queue public knowledge. You'd think that'd impress some people - I watched 240 movies this year! - but really, all it does is make people feel sad for you.