Refrigerated Excitement

The excitement was provided this week by the arrival of a new refrigerator.

Mom: "Mmmmmmm...I love that new refrigerator smell."

Seriously, it smells nice.

We threw out a bunch of old bits and pieces of things that I suppose were food at one point.

Now we actually have enough room to store things that I'm willing to eat. :)

Portland is coming. We are going. I want to spend an entire day riding the light rail back, forth, up, down, and diagonally. I also want to find this bridge:



I want to see everything. I'll listen to and sing along with "Light Rail Coyote" the whole time.

I'm in a good deal of pain for a variety of reasons. Mostly, it's my muscles telling me that they're lazy and would rather be flabby sissies as opposed to toned warriors. Come on, guys. Let's go.

I'm good at obsession

Just to clarify, Carrie isn't losing her spot as my guitar hero.

But, Sufjan is creeping up on the hotness scale. His music is growing on me. I looked at some pictures of the guy and he is hot. No doubt about it. This makes me sound really shallow, I know.



Maybe it's the cowboy hat.




No, even without the hat he's still a cutie.

WTF!

I've got a weird cut on the top of my head and it won't stop bleeding. It's getting crazy. I have no idea. I took some kind of new prescription medication today and I think maybe that's the reason why. I don't even remember hitting it on anything. I don't care, as long as I don't die before Aug. 12. My body is going insane. Portland, rescue me!

My 8/12 tickets arrived in the mail today. Guess what...my mom almost threw them away!!! Shetttt, brah. That was a heart attack and a half.

The doctor looked at my acne today and then prescribed me birth control pills. It was awkward because my mom was in the room. The doctor told me, "since you're not using this for birth control, remember that if you do have sex, use backup protection." I was like, "uh huh." So now I have an excuse to run around being slutty. Yep, 'cos I'm a slutmeister. (That's sarcasm, for anyone who doesn't know me yet.)

Joel is hilarious. The bit at the end about signs and escalators cracked me up.

I've got three pages of potential lyrics sitting on my desk. I've got two guitar parts worked out. I've got a broken tape recorder. It makes me sound like a chipmunk. I'm thinking of using it to make some novelty songs. Problem is, I've got no time to record anything. I'm listening to "Hollaback Girl." Yes, I'm caught in a downward spiral. My head stopped bleeding since I first posted this post about two hours ago. Now it's just a really big scalp scab, which (if you have never had one) is gross to say the least. Honestly, I have no idea what the hell happened.

I might get dirty looks for this

My parents almost blew up at work today and HPD doesn't really give a shit.

Police Officer: "Well, it looks like there wasn't much damage, so...blah blah blah I'm too lazy to go find the ass who's responsible."
Dad: "Hmm, yes, officer, you are definitely a lazy son of a bitch, but what about the fact that it's a federal crime to smoke within 50 feet of a gas dispenser?"
Police Officer: "Oh, yeah...um, I'm a jackass. You're right, but I'm cool, so I'm gonna go eat shit and be lazy."

The smoker drove away as soon as he saw the gas had caught. His truck was in flames.

If my parents didn't have lightning reflexes, or if they hadn't been watching when the pump caught on fire... damn it. I would have gone head hunting.

It seems like HPD is reluctant to help us whenever we call. It always takes at least half an hour for the cars to pull into our driveway, but the station is only two blocks down the street. Serve and protect my ass.

And now, I'm probably going to be labeled as some unappreciating wart of society who doesn't understand how much HPD contributes to the overall welfare of the citizens of Honolulu. Whatever, you jerks. Obviously, we're not important enough for you to help us, so why should you care if I complain?

Friday nights are for deconstructing Sufjan Stevens. Saturdays are for sleeping in.

This is my 40th post on this blog. I surpassed my original "ethics" blog about 24 posts ago.

Tomorow is the first Saturday in three weeks where I won't have to wake up early worrying about Sleater-Kinney concert tickets. Wait a minute, they haven't added a third show, have they?!

*checks s-k.com*

Okay, we're safe.

third show = nervous breakdown

I'm going to start my vinyl collection when I get to Portland. Someday I'll buy a turntable. Backwards, I know.

I noticed that I'm getting better with the saws. I breathe in all the sawdust through my nose because I don't want to eat it, which means that I end up sneezing quite a bit. Why would anyone want to be a carpenter?? The particles in the air make my eyes hurt and sometimes it feels like I've dunked my head into a bucket of sand. The dust goes everywhere. Everywhere in the wuhhurld, baybeh. If you're tired of sawing there's something you should try! You said, "Halleluiah baybeh! Halleluiah child!"

Complain, complain, complain! I need to remember that there's a very good reason for me to do all of this. Actually, there are three very good reasons.
(CCJ)

Sufjan Stevens has his good moments. He seems to get carried away with his need for complexity sometimes, but there are some parts where everything seems to come together beautifully. His song structures are atypical. Take "Vito's Ordination Song" for example. He starts off by setting up a scene that makes your mind go into a mental-image-painting frenzy. You think it'll go somewhere, but instead he launches off into the most deliberate "broken record" segment ever. He and his supermodel backup singer repeat the same line for 4 minutes or so. You'd think it would get old, and maybe it does for some, but for me it's strangely beautiful. It breaks down around 3:38. From here, it gets interesting, if you haven't already fallen asleep. They take off into an impressive building sequence. Layer after layer, Stevens gets into your head. He's still singing the same line, but somehow, it seems alright, if not just downright perfect.

A letter

I just wrote a letter to Corrienet. It's very sappy.

I left out a lot of things that I wanted to say because I wanted to write something that would make them smile, not something that would make them think, "Oh shit, this girl is creepy."

Amp innards and random truths from my life.

The mysterious black box.

(No longer mysterious thanks to Allan...it's the reverb.)



Wires and circuits and...stuff.

P1

Tonight at taekwondo, the instructor talked about the recent triple murder. He talked about how a .45 handgun makes a hell of a hole. He talked about how terrifying it must have been for the married couple that was killed. He told us not to become one of the people who thinks "That'll never happen to me."

I was on the verge of crying when he asked me if I ever think about whether I'll need to defend myself when I work at night. I told him I think about it all the time. He asked me if I ever worry about something happening to myself or my family. I told him yes. He seemed satisfied with this. I know it could be my parents, my brother, or me.

I must have been my brother's age, or slightly younger, when I saw a guy punch my dad in the back of the head. I was so scared and angry that I just cried and cried, even though there really wasn't anything to cry about.

Last night I had a dream that S-K signed my 8/11 and 8/12 ticket stubs. I showed Janet my drum set, too (somehow they were in my house??). She smiled and said it was cool. I can't believe this dream streak. I blame it on too much S-K excitement during my waking hours.

Dreams, Part II

Everyone is going to think I'm so creepy.

Last night, I dreamt again that Carrie Brownstein was no longer a rockstar.

Instead, she sold water guns in Waikiki.

I had a remote-controlled boat and we were riding on it along the Waikiki shoreline. We reached a ridiculously expensive hotel that looked fancier than anything I've ever seen. It had a narrow channel connecting a fish pond to the ocean. We drove through the channel and swam around with the giant fish that occupied the pond. Near the pond was your typical hotel shop. We went in and Carrie was there with her squirt guns. My brother wanted one and I recognized Carrie so we approached her to give her some business.

I could tell she was excited to have customers. She happily picked out a gun for my brother and then she started explaining how it worked. She gave him tips for getting the most out of his new gun. She took it apart and proceeded to give us a thorough explanation of each part. She was smiling the whole time and was talking as if she was running a race with her mouth.

This last part confused me:

As she was preparing the gun for my brother, she filled it with glue instead of water.

Now that I think about it, it was a caulking gun, not a water gun.

The two most important pieces of my summer are bleeding together.

Carrie + paintbrush = only in my dreams

Last night I had a dream that Carrie Brownstein wasn't a rockstar.

Instead, she was a house painter.

She came to my house to paint our living room. She worked really hard and did a great job. I told her it was the nicest paint job I've ever seen. She gave me a huge smile and sincerely thanked me. She said it meant a lot that I appreciated her work so much.

I've got photos here.

No Sleep

I can't sleep.

It's 12:23 AM.

Tickets go on sale at 10 AM.

For some reason, all I can think about right now is how I forgot what my parents and my brother looked like when I went away. I took two trips without them. Each was only for a week. They were taekwondo tournaments.

As each day passed, I slowly lost sight of them. The more I struggled to remember, the more I forgot. I tried to picture them in my head but it never seemed right. I would get scared and then almost start panicking when it got to the point where I couldn't see them at all.

How scary is it to be forgotten?

How scary is it to be shot in the head?
That's what happened to Jason and his wife. I can't help but wonder what that's like. Do you feel it, or is it an instant end? It's one of the worst ways to go. I would think the worst part would have been seeing the other get shot, and then to see the gun turn, the barrel pointed at your face, and then to hear the shot. That split second must have lasted forever.

How scary is it to be alive?
Today I was cutting a laminate plank and the table saw launched a small flake of wood at me. It hit my arm and buried itself there. It made a tiny hole and stuck out as if all it ever wanted was just to be seen. I was amazed just looking at it - how it had been moving so fast that it managed to attach itself to me. The last time a scrap of wood flew at me, it was much bigger and hit me square in the abdomen. It left a nice scrape and bruise. A few specks hit me really hard in the face today. I think the blade is too dull. Some came close to my eyes, so I started getting scared. I have my glasses, but I really want goggles. The flakes have really sharp edges and I don't want any accidents.

I really don't like this job. I never want to be a carpenter. I like my fingers, thank you.


Start together.


"Don't worry, you got it."


"There's a part of me that works just like a child."

The pictures are messed up but I have no idea how to fix it.

I'm too tired to figure it out. Blogger always has this effect on me. Good old Blogger. Good night.

Good? Bad? No, I'm so confused.

I was blasting my iTunes on shuffle while gluing and hammering the laminates onto the stairs today. My mom came home to see the progress. She was walking into the house as Carrie was talking about registering to vote in a live recording of "I Don't Care." My mom obviously didn't hear the part, "So who's planning to vote Bush out of office?"

They started singing as my mom knelt down to look at the first step. She said, "Hmmm, who's singing?" I thought she knew the obvious answer but I waited a few seconds to see if she actually couldn't tell. She asked me again, "Who is this?" I said, "It's the band I'm going to see in Portland." I've given up saying "Sleater-Kinney" because no one understands what I'm saying.

Mom: "WOW! This sounds good! It's better than the other songs. Some of them are so weird."
Me: "..."
Mom: "Yeah, this is a good song..."

At this point, Carrie started screaming, "I DON'T CARE!!!"

Mom: "Except when they start screaming."
Me: *laughs*

Blah Blah Blog

I've got so many different blogs going that I confuse myself.

Sometimes I see it as a safety mechanism. I'll never write about everything in a single blog. I have an idea of who reads what. I'll write about everything, but good luck trying to put it all together. No one will get the full story. (Okay, well, maybe ONE person.)

I got my tickets to the S-K farewell show in Portland. I'm flying over with my parents and my little brother. We're going to make a mini-vacation out of it. We booked flights and a hotel last night.

I'm installing laminate flooring on our stairs. I've been working on it for two days and so far I have half of one step covered. It's so ridiculous. Honestly, it's like a very slow and painful torture because the joints have to look perfect or else I'll keep going back to fix it.

I've got to learn how to play the samba with brushes and 16th notes on the bass drum. Harold asked me where I want to go with my drumming. I gave him a very vague answer. He told me to practice my latin beats because it will make me very valuable as a pro drummer. I played my samba for him and it sucked badly.

My mom asked him how I was doing and somehow we got to the subject of Portland. Harold asked what we were going to Portland for. My mom told him I needed to see a band. He asked what band. I said "Sleater-Kinney." He said, "What?" I said "Sleater-Kinney." I could tell from his face that he still had no idea what the hell I just said.

Harold: "A rock band, huh?"
Me: "Yes."
Harold: "So you want to be a rock drummer?" (Harold is a jazz drummer)
Me: "Yes."
Harold: *laughs*

I still love to play jazz, though.

Why do I want to be a rock drummer?

What a stupid question.

S-K message board peeps

I have to admit that I'm a bit worried. I love everyone at the S-K message board and it makes me so happy to see everyone working together to make sure we all have tickets, but I'm still afraid that real fans who truly need tickets might have to face the scalpers.

There's so much to do!
There's so much to worry about!

Yet, it seems like I'm in this with some really great people. Just knowing that we're all going through the same thing at the same time makes me feel a whole lot better.

I'm gonna try to get up at 4am to help out with the DC ticket tracking. I don't know how much help I could possibly be, but I figured that with everyone scrambling to get their own tickets, it might help to have someone who can dedicate her complete attention to tracking the progress.

I apologize in advance if I sleep through the entire thing, which is a very real possibility.



I don't know what it is that's so great about this song, but it's got me hooked:




Just when I thought I couldn't possibly lose more weight, I went and did just that. My mom has me on a new diet that has no sugar and virtually no fat. It's mostly fruit, bread, and veggies. Every morning I take around 10 vitamin supplements. I'm drinking nothing but water. I'm averaging around 1.5 liters a day. My skin is improving, but I liked how my body looked filled-in and not grossly thin like I used to be. I liked how my neck was starting to look like a neck rather than a twig. Now all that progress is gone and I'm back to having my shorts falling off.

Chauvinist Pig

Dear ____ _____,

I need you to please leave me and my thoughts alone. You are so tall. You are so skinny. You are so goofy and nerdy. I thought you were perfect. You thought I was beneath you.

You always laughed at me as if I were a corny joke. Maybe I was slightly amusing, but I probably wasn't worth your time, right?

I remember when you took me hiking and I couldn't see in the dark. We laid on our backs to look at the sky and I noticed all of the stars that I couldn't see at home. You asked me if I wanted a pillow. A pillow would have been nice, but I knew you didn't have one, and I knew what you were hoping I would say, and I knew what you where hoping I would do, so I said no.

On the way down I stepped in all the holes and fell all over the place. You said, "Here, hold my hand." I said no. I am fine. I tripped some more and this time you didn't bother asking. Your thick hand engulfed mine. Then, you stepped in a hole and this time it was me holding you up.

I remember the time we were watching a movie on the couch and eating some kind of nuts covered in chocolate. I was eating mine slowly and it bothered you. Yes, it bothered you so much that you took a handful of that crap and stuffed it into my face. Then you told me a scary part was coming up and asked me if I was scared. I thought it was an absurd thing to ask, but maybe my irritation showed on my face as fear, because you told me not to worry, you'd protect me.

Oh, thank goodness, I have someone to protect me from this movie! Oh, whatever would I do without someone to protect me from the scary part of the movie?! What would I do without someone to shove candy in my face when I'm not eating it fast enough? What would I do without someone to hold my hand and walk me down the hill?? Surely, I would never be able to survive on my own!

I remember the time we went walking along the lava rock by the ocean. We went all the way to the end and you thought it would be clever if you pretended to attack me and I pretended to defend myself. I don't pretend to defend myself. Either I do or I don't. There is no halfway. When it comes out, I want it to hurt. You thought I might fall into the ocean on the way back so you held my hand to climb up and down all the rocks. I was doing fine by myself.

You see, the thing is, I thought it was nice of you to offer your help, but forcing it on me was not nice at all. It was patronizing. Some girls might like that stuff. You should go find them.


Go away,
Me

Portland

Me to my parents:
"PLEASE, I NEED TO GO TO PORTLAND TO SEE S-K'S LAST SHOW. PLEASE, I'LL SLAVE MYSELF OUT TO YOU. I'LL DO ANYTHING PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE! THIS IS MY FAVORITE BAND AND THEY HAVE BROKEN UP, IT'S MY LAST CHANCE!"

My dad to my mom:
"I think she really wants to go."

My mom to me:
"We're going to Portland."

Me to me:
"#*$&!))!#)*&@&^!@$#*&%"

This is going to be surreal. I know that the whole thing is just going to seem like a dream afterwards.