the ward-drobe of the fascinating woman

I was going to start out by complaining about the someone (whose name starts with a B) who seems to feel like the vocations I'm considering (KJ-i or mischievous ghost) are subpar (although, I will point out, being a mischievous ghost would be pretty childish and sassy). And I was going to point out that this someone (B) should maybe shove-it because he's just on the rebound anyway....
But apparently he's not alone in his disparages. And one cannot ignore Laquina's remonstrance that she wouldn't be able to tackle me if I were a poltergeist. Because I love getting wrestled to the ground. But hey, remember how I got you so good when you visited a month ago? Maybe it was just once, but I'm treasuring it.
Point being:
I guess I'll have to stick with being a documentartian.
So good thing I realized today that I am irrevocably in love with documentary. It's a true love. It grows more and more each day, with each passing hour. Greg Kinnear once said, "I--can't help my self.*" I wish I could serve that to you with notations of his intonations, but let that suffice.
I can't help myself.
Sometimes as I'm sitting in [documentary production] class and we've just finished a discussion on post modernism vs. modernism vs. what that anthropologist said that has nothing to do with what we're actually supposed to be studying in class , and then we listen to a clip of someone's audio documentary and I get butterflies in my stomach and I can't stop smiling, I can't stop being in love. Somehow at some point, God made my soul out of documentary, I'm sure of it.

Also, I'm obsessed with saltine crackers lately and I think someone slipped me weed this evening because I have got the munchies.

And I want you to fully appreciate my phone's terrible vocabulary:
In the last week, text predictor has not recognized "ouch", "cougar(s)", "mascott", or "bastard." Just a note for my parents, that last one was most definitely in the appropriate bastard connotation of having unmarried parents and was not offensive whatsoever.

fridge pants.


*You've Got Mail

tonight I lived a moment and that's a cheesy thing to say

I've been making a list of pros and cons comparing my chosen professions. There's no clear winner yet (remember the debate is between poltergeist and Kim Jong-il). If you have any opinions on the matter feel free to comment.

(obviously not from the house show, but the closest we come to a photo of me dancing)
(And I think that's actually from three years ago but anyway...)

I might smell like alcohol right now. I went to a house show tonight and I ignored the part where there was a communal beer being passed around (well, really I thought, "hey, that's the kind I bought nervously at the store to take home to make bread" and "hey, herpes") and I'm also ignoring what I think I heard someone say, and if they said what I think they said they were most definitely a groupie. Point being, I went to a house show. It was the kind of show that's got the beat that gets you every time. You stand there thinking, "I'm really a wise, world weary person, so I'm not going to dance." But then the drum kicks start ticking off the years and all of the sudden you realize you're only 22 and that's a great age to be. Old age? That's never going to happen. You're there there there and you're young and it's one moment and you're suddenly aware that you're tapping your feet knocking your knees twist and shouting and it's just grand.

Sometimes I need to be reminded that it's not enough to be ageless, sometimes I should be my age.