Vapid Transit

Goodbye Vapid Transit

2010-10-08T14:59:00.000-07:00

If you found this blog you digged for it. I never posted the link anywhere, never directed anyone to it. It was for close friends only to not share with others, but mainly myself. To anyone who doesn't know me as a true friend, I hope you enjoyed reading about my relationships. my crying, and my families illnesses. As with anything on the internet I should have known better. So the same way I closed my facebook off to continue keeping my life private, I am doing the same with this blog.

Yay. We have a Pinkberry.

2010-08-21T09:28:00.001-07:00

(Trust me, this is some exciting trendy shit.) Sadly, it's over by Dr. Phillips.

They are just so...so pretty!

Twiggy

2010-08-21T09:02:00.000-07:00

I'm saving this post on here instead of myspace. Since myspace is so dumb and totally not cool anymore.

Twiggy. Named for her long slender legs and tree dwelling. Since my house has been in the process of being repainted and I currently have no screens on my window, Twiggy has come to visit me three times. Not totally sure of how Twiggy has made her fine entrance into my kitchen each time, I decided to document the process a la camera phone.

Exhibit A- Twiggy Face

This is Twiggy.

Wait wait wait. The light from my camera phone is making twiggy look rabid. Twiggy is not rabid. At least I hope not. Lets try this again.

This is Twiggy.

Little less rabid, not sure about the creepy department. Well whatever. That is Twiggy. Twiggy appears at her window, 9:30 pm. Same time as last night. Same time as the night before. Twiggy apparently has an amazing body clock. Anyway. I start to hear her scratch the window a bit, slowly pushing it open a crack.

Exhibit B - Twiggy Hand

This is twiggy's little arm and hand. This is also the scene that amazed me the most because not only did twiggy's arm come in but she proceeds to grab the handle on the window and tug. Seeing the twiggy arm I am compelled to feed it like a dumb ass. I think to myself, its just an arm. If she decides to do anything I can simply shut the window really hard and snap it off. So I place a tomato in the twiggy hand. And she grabs it. And throws it on the roof.

Exhibit C -Twiggy Head

Twiggy does not appear to like tomatos. Nor does she like 9 grain wheat bread. Perhaps too many grains? Perhaps not enough? Either way twiggy is coming in.

Exhibit D- Twiggy Body

Twiggy has arrived. Note the thin frame. The long legs. The slender tail. Twiggy is obviously bulimic. She does not want a tomato or wheat bread. She is here to binge on pudding and pizza and hot dogs. She will later purge in the trees.

Twiggy left late last night probably around midnight. I checked once before that to see if she was still in the room. She was. On the floor, laying on her back, feet straight up in there air. Cutest fucking thing ever.

Two days later Twiggy attacked me in my bedroom and ate all my mice. They were named after the Golden Girls and they're all dead now. True story.

Cat's on bed. Making gross licking sounds.

2010-08-03T19:44:00.000-07:00

Dad's in the hospital, waiting for his pacemaker.

I'm slowly but surely losing it at home.

Tired of carrying an entire magazine by myself.

Unappreciated. Under paid.

NYC trip rescheduled. A third time.

I miss my boyfriend and I live with him. I sound too needy.

I love him and I can't convey it the right way.

I hear myself. I sound annoying.

I want my dad back at home with my mom. I want him to be ok and to stay ok.

I keep crying. It's pathetic.

Can't get through two pages of my book without falling asleep.

I just keep sleeping.

I'm so sick of sleeping.

Hi Boyfriend

2010-07-03T19:41:00.000-07:00

Buy me this...

(West Highland Puppy. Buy. Me.Thanks)

"Money is better than poverty, if only for financial reasons." - Woody Allen

2010-06-30T19:03:00.000-07:00

Fact: I don't get paid enough. Paid for 30 hours of work a month when I spend my free weekends setting up photoshoots, weeks coordinating with models, photographers, stylists, writing columns and features and paragraphs about 20 club nights, editing an entire magazine, dealing with promoters, clubs, owners, photographers, bosses over phone and email, having to be available almost 24 hours 24/7 (sorry Bryan). Now scouring hundreds of resumes for my new graphic designer, coordinating sample work from them and scheduling and meeting with them in interviews (wtf happened to the Human Resource department?) I'm sorry. I know I'm an editor. It comes with a lot of responsibilities, I get that, I love my job...Buuuuut... this is a FULL TIME JOB! Not 30 hours a month. I am too damn poor for all the work I put into this. Wayyyyyyyy too poor, living paycheck to paycheck, working extra gigs at bars to cover bills, not being able to afford ONE vacation for myself in the past year, in the same clothing I have worn for the past three, maybe four years, shopping for groceries with my "buy it or shelve it" method because I only have 20 bucks to spare and that buys you mayyyybbbbe six things total to feed on for the week if I wanted to eat the same thing every single day.

Blehhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

In other news, I decided while out with Devin last night and in between his constant texting while next to me, that since I don't have a fancy phone I would instead carry a newspaper in my purse and pull the giant fucking thing out to read anytime I was being ignored for technology. This includes while I'm driving. That should make a point. Then I'll do pinchy-spready-iphone-fingers in the air right before I go to turn the pages.

Dear Life

2010-06-26T08:37:00.000-07:00

Dear Life,

If another year goes by without you being exciting and giving me a trip somewhere, money, new shoes or some kind of memorable event, I'm going to be very very pissed. I'm tired of being poor and my youth is wasting away at rapid speeds (or is it already gone?) Not to mention it's been two years since I've visited New York, which is absolute bullshit. Listen to me life, Pee Wee's Playhouse is coming to Broadway this fall for two months only. If I don't get to see Paul Reuben live with my very own stinkin eyeballs, babies will be murdered. Read my lips, you will get me tickets to this fucking show. (babies. murdered.)

Love,

Meghan

Hmm

2010-06-25T02:05:00.000-07:00

So I keep deleting my blog and then writing in it because I need to vent and deleting the entries soon after. Pardon me if this entry is gone by tomorrow.

The other week I was sent a blog of a friend of mine whom I had grown up with. My mom actually sent it to me. Which was weird. Weirder is her mom actually sent it to my mom, telling my mom to read it and I guess my mom kinda freaked out when she saw Randi was talking about her one night stands in a blog that her own mother was content with reading (and sharing with others.)

Today she asked if I looked at the blog and I replied no. In the same breath I replied I would except I don't give a shit. My mom just laughed and said "I just feel like I am doing something wrong, like I'm reading everyones diaries, why does everyone want other people to read so much personal information about themselves? Are they just venting?"

No. No one is venting their feelings in journals anymore. Journals were made for one person and one person only to read; the author. It's just one answer now mom. It's because we have an audience. A response to every single well engineered, perfectly articulated thought we feel the need to put up on here. We know someone, at least one person, is listening to us, will reply to us, will tell us how funny we are. And that makes us feel fucking special.

I used to have a live journal. I was between the ages of 19-24. I accounted for my nights out, I posed my dolls for photos and made picture stories out of them when I was bored, I filled out surveys regarding my favorite foods and colors to pass the time. Real dumb shit. But everything I did, was done with innocence and just the need to write. It wasn't meant to get a response. I wrote countless entries for years with no responses. I was simply venting, I was saving thoughts and memories, I was drawing in my MS paint and making silly entries because it was fun for me and I was bored at work. If my mom ever hacked into that piddly live journal of mine, I would have died. So many entries regarding "boys" and drunken nights out. Things I would never want the whole world to have access to. It was a private journal, and the fifteen friends I had on it seemed like almost too many.

(GONE ARE THOSE TIMES.)

What's funny is it was when I wasn't even trying in my every day writing and crappy picture making, that I found the most "succcess" in my ramblings and shitty artwork. I drew doodles of Pete Yorn for the hell of it to waste time at work. Those doodle entries were later found and commented on by him on my myspace. I still sit in his top 8 (shared only by his band mates) ever since (proof baby: http://www.myspace.com/peteyorn). Years later, I made fun of friends at clubs in another blog for the hell of it and only shared it with TWO people. The blog got passed around and eventually posted in a bulletin message by a popular DJ at the time and somehow was read by anyone in the dance scene from New York to Miami. My dumb blog won best blog in Orlando a couple of times.

I had the audience that so many of us crave.

So what did I do? I shut the blog down.

I shut everything down. I literally freaked out inside my own head. I stopped updating my myspace blog, I closed off my facebook page. I stopped writing here. It was when I had all eyes on me and I knew that people were now readings my rants, that I wanted to hide my every thought away. When I realized I wasn't writing for fun anymore, but rather because people expected it from me. Now I HAD to be funny. I HAD to impress someone with my wit. That's total shit. Why would anyone want to write that way? This wasn't for me anymore. I wasn't venting. Wasn't speaking haphazardly and freely. I was writing in a fashion that made me look over every word and sentence to make sure it was perfectly punctuated, perfectly thought out. That's not fun. That's a fucking job.

(that's what my position at Drink magazine is for)

Today, I am not writing this for anyone but myself. A reminder of the day I lost all patience with my friends and their constant need to sit on that tiny stool, that small stage, and have that teeny weeny spotlight shining on themselves every second of the day.

From now on, anything I stick up on the internet for the whole blogosphere to read will be when I need to vent, the way I did when I was 22, carelessly and with feeling. Not with my spell check or thesaurus. I will save stupid memories that no one would give a shit about but me. And I'll do it with poor grammar, I'll repeat myself over and over again if I so feel like it, I'll make no sense, I'll offend someone and bitch like I always have, and most importantly I will never, ever, send my mom the fucking link to read about any of it.

2009-12-20T14:53:00.001-08:00

I miss my livejournal.

Droolface

2009-08-18T19:47:00.000-07:00

South Of The Border, North Carolina/South Carolina

When I was little my family would road trip from Amittyville, Long Island to Orlando, Florida every summer. On these trips we'd stay in the motels at South Of The Border. Real shitty places, but the kind that we'd look forward to sleeping in because we could plug quarters into this little box next to the bed

and make it shake the bejeebus out of us for five minutes.. Yep, looking back now, its pretty gross knowing that fancy "Magic Fingers" bed feature was often used to enhance adult pleasure and my parents rented out the same transient semen ridden rooms the town's hooker stayed in, but at the time it ruled.

During these stays I'd dread the sharing of a bed situation. My dad was always overweight, took up 90% of the mattress, snored and I was honestly scared of being accidently crushed by him. I didn't want to sleep with my sister because she also snored and had a horrible habit of cracking me in the face with her hands throughout the night. And the thought of sharing a bed with my brother was just gross. Worst of all I was oddly self concious about my own sleep habits, so when it would be just my mom and I, the two quietest and safest sleepers, I'd still move myself to the very edge of the of the bed, face the wall and just lay there unmoving all night like a wooden board.

These days I noticed I still try to sleep in that same position. I do have girly tendencies, love laying in the arms of my boyfriend and I am a sound snoozer, but I'm going to be honest. There have been more mornings than less that I have woken up with drool encrusted between my skin and the sheets and the ugliest open mouthed zombie-face known to mankind. I may not snore, but do not doubt that I am one fucking repulsive sleeper. Please god, never let my new, sexy boyfriend wake up before I do and see this laying next to him:

This Morning

2009-07-17T13:31:00.000-07:00

I secretly wear glasses sometimes

Erased.

Kids

2009-07-10T18:14:00.000-07:00

Megtarded since 1980

Don't get me wrong. I'm sooo happy for everyone I know that has squeezed a kid out this past month. Including my own brother. You are starting families and being all cute with your wives and husbands and little baby kids laying like little turds in their cute little baby cribs. It's wonderful. And I mean that without a trace of sarcasm. It's wonderful...for you.

When I was younger I wanted a boy. I realized long long ago, I wouldn't have the patience to play house or invisible tea party with a daughter, or act like I cared when princess porcelain scraped her knee on the ground and cried about it like a pussy. I wanted a son, because boys are resilient and can bounce back from just about any injury, assuming a limb hasn't been sliced off. I decided though, that if I had just one boy, I'd probably be one of those moms on those nanny shows who everyone shakes their head at because she allows her kid to drop kick her in the middle of the living room. So instead, I decided it would be ideal to have two boys, both who could beat the shit out of each other until they were so tired they passed out, all while I watched a couple of episodes of Law and Order.

Of course, this also made me realize I should probably not even have kids.

When you start approaching your thirties, as a female, you're normally supposed to get those motherly pulls, that need and desire for a family, right? As I approach my thirties, all I feel is a bigger need to get further away from those desires. I don't dream of weddings, and baby carriages, and comfy houses and being woken up at 7 am to watch cartoons and cook pancakes for my kids. I'm sure it's all great and I'm not knocking it by any means. But I dream of vacations, and weekend road trips, and other countries, and drinking and laughing with someone I care about. Stability in life and love, but not conventional and structured stability. A simple, but busy life. But busy in more of a, I need to see the world without pushing this damn baby carriage in front of me or debating on whether or not to buy one of those sadistic looking child leashes, kind of way. Which by the way, I'd have no problem purchasing.

My mom says, being selfish is a terrible reason not to have a kid. But how am I being selfish? I'd hate to be one of those mom's who feels she missed out on anything, only to divorce her husband 15 years later and split the family apart. If I prefer a more solo life, with minimal company, is that wrong of me? Let people like Ryan who wants to document the second by second growth of his newborn babies feet with his camera be the dad and the family man. Let Stephanie and Jed, who I know are excellent parents, have those early morning pancake breakfasts.

Me? I'll sleep till 12 pm on my days off. I'll take that nice long trip to Spain. I'll spend a romantic week in Venice with my significant other. And it can be anytime during the year, not just the days my damn kids have off from school.

The last time I remember babysitting Cadence (Stephanie's little girl) I brought her this shit...

She was about two and tipped the bag and all it's contents onto the floor in front of her. And I have to admit, I didn't stop her when she started dipping her spit soaked candy stick into the carpet repetitively.

Trust me...it's better I don't have one.

I'm going to have a column?

2009-07-09T11:35:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend I was offered a writing gig. To have a column in the new nightlife magazine Drink, that comes out with the Orlando Weekly. I have been asked to rip on things I hate, just like old times. I have nothing else to say about this subject other than yay...

Warm

2009-07-01T19:24:00.000-07:00

Holly, Me, Tim I-bar 6/25/09

Dear David Lynch,

2009-06-15T08:13:00.001-07:00

I'll be the first person not scared to admit it, knowing many of my friends will disagree. I hate your movies.

I think you have totally mastered the skill of confusing wannabe artistic pretentious pseudo cinematic know-it-all's into thinking they are watching something of genius substance and brilliance, when in fact you only created two hours worth of incoherent scenes that you will surely pass off as "Thought Provoking" when you reach the end of it because you have no idea how to finish your sloppy nonsensical bullshit of a "masterpiece".

David Lynch: "THINK ABOUT IT. It's not what you saw, its what you didn't see, and what it all means, not what was presented to you...what I presented to you makes no sense....yet..it does...if you chose to watch my director commentary in the extras part of your dvd......and even then you will not know what the fuck you watched but pretend you did, just to look smarter than your friends. And thats what makes my movies so great. Still don't get it? Me either...I mean...look it up on the internet...I mean...well I guess you just aren't smart like the rest of us, now are you. You feeble minded human you."

David Lynch uses a wonderful excuse for most of his movies. It's called "Dream Logic". Dream Logic equals I have no idea where the fuck I am going with this.

I'll give you Elephant Man. And Twin Peaks. That's about all. Mulholland Dr. and Lost Highway may have skipped some of Lynch's dreaminess and had more of a storyline, but even those still take a couple of viewings to even partially grasp what it is exactly you just saw. You can lie to yourself and your friends all you want, but you know you have had your brain completely scrambled by this dude at least twice and still named those movies as some of your "favorites" on myspace.

I call bullshit.

Why...

2009-06-15T05:47:00.000-07:00

does the girl who owns the "megameghan" twitter have to be such a fucking idiot...

I'm A Cheap Bar Slut

2009-06-14T17:17:00.000-07:00

Thursday night, as I leaned against the back bar of Independant Bar shooting shit with friends of mine, a broken english mexican man takes a seat on the stool next to me and proceeds to engage me in some mundane barbabble. I'm humoring him to the smallest extent, confident in the fact that its 10.5 seconds before I completely ignore him, as I turn my head from left and right, talking to him briefly and then back to Jake.. He asks if he can buy me a drink and even though I have a full vodka and cranberry sitting in front of me, I say sure anyway and let him order me whatever, knowing I'm not even going to touch it. As Bryan hands me my cliche Girl Who Just Got A Drink Bought For Her By A Douche Sex On The Beach, I turn around to see that my new foreign friend is fanning out a wad of 20's....

"See all this? All this yours if you spend rest of your night with me"

As I stared at him, I waited for some kind of signal that he was kidding, but all he did was proceed to count the 20's to me on the bar. I even counted with him for a few seconds. I was happy this man was polite enough to show me that I was not, by any means, getting jipped for the evening. Bryan immediately looked curiously at me, as I leaned over to tell him what had just happened. In a blink of an eye he was out from behind the bar and my new foreign friend was no where to be found.

You know I always said, you're never really having a good time, unless you are propositioned like a hooker at least once in the course of your night. This obviously is my return karma for being a cunt and letting someone who I had zero interest in, buy me a beverage at a bar I already drink for free at. I have learned my lesson God, and the next time I am approached by a man who could possibly be a rich shady schmuck, I will be sure to have him order a drink for me AND all of my friends. And ONLY go home with him if he is fanning out fifties...

Maybe I Can

2009-06-13T21:57:00.000-07:00

Meghan's Pink Baby Floyd

Maybe I can...
Get in my bug and drive. Sit alone while I listen to each radio station get fuzzier as I get further from it’s broadcast area. Drink the Gatorade I bought at the 7-11 that I stopped at to fill my gas tank up in. Turn my cell phone off. Put a CD in. Sing loudly to a song that I end up crying to near the end because I have lost my mind. Drive until I’m the only car on the road. Drive until there are no more exit signs. Drive until the sky turns orange and then dark blue. Roll my window down and feel the air shift from warm to cold. Drive until I am lost.. Pull to the side of the road. Stand outside for a few minutes. Wish I could be anywhere and nowhere at all. Get back in my car and drive. Drive until the sky turns orange then bright blue.

Maybe I can
Find a city that is beautiful. Roll down a street that looks busy. Wave to someone who smiles to me as if I am no stranger to this town. Throw my empty Gatorade bottle at them...wait...on the floor. Turn the music off. Smile like a mad woman. Pull into a parking lot. Grab my backback from the backseat. Check myself into a motel. Enter room, and look in the mirror. Pull my hair into a ponytail. Put some lipgloss on. Grab a plastic cup from the dresser. Take off my jeans. Lay on my bed in my tank top and underwear, reach down next to the bed and grab my backpack. Pull out a bottle of white wine and a corkscrew, and book.. Pour the wine in my cup and place the bottle and book on the small dresser next to me.

Maybe I can...Wonder where I am. Finish my cup of wine. Pour another. Turn on the clock radio. Sing loudly to an old song from the 60’s I didn’t even think I knew the words to. Stand on the bed and jump to the other while spilling the remainder of wine everywhere. Pour another cup. Drink it quickly. Lay on the bed. Laugh outloud. Smile. Reach over and grab the book and fall asleep before even reading a full page.

Maybe I can...Wake up and remove my wine stained clothes. Take my hair out of the ponytail. Shower in hot water until the steam has filled the small white bathroom. Step out, dry off and reach in my backpack for my sunglasses, gray wife beater and my favorite raggedy denim shorts. Dress, slip feet into flip flops, leave half empty wine bottle on small dresser. Leave the book about a girl who ran away, on the bed and close the door. Ask the woman at the checkout desk for a map so that I can find my way home again.

Maybe I can step out of my life, even if just a day and leave all my thoughts and worries at home. Maybe I can escape to a place called nowhere away from everyone and do absolutely nothing in particular at all.

I need to get away.

Dear Woody Allen,

2009-06-02T20:43:00.001-07:00

I wanted you to know that your fans are split into two different catagories. New fans and real fans. New fans are the people who say "I like Woody Allen movies, just not the ones with him in them". Probably the most idiotic thing you could ever say when speaking of Woody Allen.

If new fans had any idea what the fuck they were talking about, they would know that your best work ALWAYS contained you inside it. They would know that Scarlet Johanson's little Matchpoint was very similar to an even better (excellent) previous Allen movie (that starred you) titled Crimes and Misdemeanors. They would know that while Vicky Christina Barcelona is great and beautiful to look at, it will never be Manhattan and that Manhattan would never be Manhattan, without you, Woody Allen.

They would see you riddled inside the comedy and mannerisms of Larry David and in turn his genius sitcoms Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm. They would appreciate your timeless slapstick humor and would be fast enough to catch your quickly delivered jokes and the furthest thing from their mind would be that you creepily married your asian step-daughter.

Most importantly they would have taken the time to watch an old movie of yours. That of which they have probably never done. Woody Allen, I own 16 of your movies and it isn't because I set out to do so in order to PROVE that I was a fan of yours. It's because every time I ordered one of them on netflix, I fell in love with it and purchased it for 1.50 on half.com. You are by far the only weird haired big nose troll I could ever find attractive. Your sense of humor and writing is enviable and I too would have dropped my pants if I were ever lucky enough to be your step daughter. ::cough:: I write this in hopes that I never come across a "new" fan who insists on telling me how much they only like the movies that do not include yourself. Because I swear to god I will squeeze that person in their private parts until they say otherwise.

As I sit here and order the very funny yet not as popular as it should be "Hollywood Ending" for an insanely cheap price, I want to thank you for sending me the comedy "Whatever Works" in July, starring the other man of my dreams Larry David. I just wish you too were in it.

Love,

Meghan

Another Weekend In The Life Of...

2009-05-03T22:41:00.000-07:00

Autumn, Me, Peach, Aoki 4/30/09

I'm sitting at a dinner table on Central Ave, Brooke and Paul across from me, a few girlfriends and Steve Aoki (Benny Hanna's son, Lindsay Lohans best friend) to my side. Any girl decked out in American Apparel would be peeing her gold spandex right now over the celebrity hipster DJ god on my left, but all I can think about is if I will be paying for the $12 martini I'm about order and how not to call Steve out on the $100 dollars he literally tricked me out of the last time we played poker. I decide to spare him since he is currently offering me some of his steak.

Paul stares at me for a few seconds and somehow I know he isn't about to compliment me on my wonderful Urban Decay eye makeup job...

"You look tired Meghan".

Agreed. I'm fucking exhausted. After 3 days of non stop coughing and 5 whole hours of sleep, I have concluded that I am not tired, I am dying.

Funny thing is, as distant and drained as I look and feel, I'm still happy. I spent the next few hours hiding from Kevin's camera on stage while trying to decipher the words coming out of Brooke's mouth, reluctantly dancing at the sides of four other tall beautiful friends amongst a sea of scene androids to the obnoxious beats vibrating and bouncing off the dilapidated club walls, and landing in the Grand Bohemian for some post partying. Sometimes I really hate myself. Maybe because I really had fun. Thanks P and B.

The rest of the weekend concluded in the company of JW's guitar playing as I scrubbed the tub and kitchen floor tiles in my Star Wars t-shirt and sock monkey slippers. Still happy.

Sometimes, I can't figure out what the hell kind of life I have made for myself in this humdrum city I half heartedly care about. Why some of the things I hate, mesh so wonderfully with some of the things I love in this world. Why my life is such an utter contradiction. All I know is this time, for the first time in a long time, I'm not complaining.

Maybe it's because no matter what, I'm not this guy...

or this one either...

Davey

2009-04-10T00:14:00.001-07:00

This is my new cat Davey. I recently found Davey in a parking lot. He had the kindest demeanor, runs about 8 or 9 months old, and was purring away at his little gypsy life. Since his life also located him to the parking lot of a major intersection at John Young Parkway, I decided to take him back with me in hopes of finding him a safe home. Thankfully, JW and Jake are already fighting over him. He is wonderful after all. Since Davey's been with me the only thing he likes to do is sleep, crawl up in your lap, be held, purr, rub his head into you, purr more, nudge you and purr, purr, make you pet him and purr. He is the sweetest cat in the world!

Until he decided to rip my face off today.

I picked him up and out of nowhere with insane supernatural strength he grabbed me with his claws, barely missing my eyeball with one, and bit me in the forehead like a blood hungry zombie cat. I peeled him off my skin, threw him at the wall and went to run out the bedroom door, but to my horror he quickly came flying back at me, only purring this time.

If my head holes start emitting puss or I become a vampire tomorrow, please know that this was my time to go. A downward spiraling life could only end in the needle-like paws of a bipolar kitten straight out of a Pet Cemetery movie.

Twitter Creates Nightmares

2009-04-09T16:09:00.000-07:00

After receiving the most awesome video ever that Ryan sent me earlier today mocking Twitter just as well as I could have imagined and almost replicating my previous Twitter rant, I sent the video to Martine, who laughed it up and took a nap shortly after.

Video:

Martine signed back online 2 hours later to tell me that she had a Twitter nightmare and went on to explain her bizarre dream to me. Now, normally it's a pet peeve of mine when people insist on telling me their dreams, because in reality no one gives a shit about your dream or will ever be able to see it the same way as you did. My friends however, are downright quotable sometimes, no matter how serious they are when discussing their nightmares with me and I will gladly listen to their sleepy thoughts. I have highlighted my favorite parts...

Martine: I dreamt I got twitter
Martine: and i was waiting to go to dinner with Rudy
Martine: and their was this box of chocolate that was a handicap child
Martine: and i told the mom if she minded if i ate her child which was pieces of chocolate and shared with the world how he was so special with every piece.
Martine: than Rudy left with his x gfriend
Martine: everything was being twitter to all my coworkers
Martine: then the bathroom was overflowing
Martine: and I was a foot deep in water
Martine: and Rudys house was full of water
Martine: and it drowned the chocolate child
Martine: and i couldn't eat the chocolate child
Martine: it was dead

Crap

2009-04-08T23:56:00.001-07:00

When it comes to really thinking...

and formulating thoughts onto paper aka this blog, I've realized how much I really don't give a shit about anything anymore.

Lately, as I sit here in my same routine of eat, sleep, wake up, eat, sleep, wake up, I'm left with a terrible feeling of numbness to everything I have ever cared about. My feelings and thoughts. What made me tick. What made me laugh. What made me, Me. I don't think I'm depressed, I don't think I'm over dramatic. I just think I'm stuck and I can't do anything about it no matter how much I've tried.

Maybe I care enough to write about it. But to deal with any of it? I'd rather not.

Foreigners

2009-03-24T13:04:00.000-07:00

There is something about surrounding myself with people with accents from other countries (not just english ones, those are boring) that makes me feel like I'm taking a mini vacation when they are around me. I had to pick up the talent for Paul's J.E.S.U.S dance night from the airport last minute, three frenchy DJ's, all complete with broken english and big giant smiles on their faces. I love out of towners. They have a way of making you see the same stupid boring city you live in from a bright eyed touristy point of view. Something I wish I could do more often.

Damien lost his passport and stayed for the week in Orlando, till his buddies got back from Canada, and Paul had a couple of more DJ's swing in from Germany to spin at Crush. These words never come out of mouth (DJ's, Crush), but with the help of miss Brit red and copious amounts of alcohol, we took the frenchy out for the night, got drunk, lost a twenty dollar bill on the dance floor and headed back for the after party where I spent the next hour evading German cheek kisses, it was innocent fun and now the fun is gone. Everyone speaks the same language and I'm bored all over again.

Chris of CLP, Meghan and Damien of Paris Terror Club

2009-03-12T10:54:00.000-07:00

JW quit smoking. Hallefreakinlujah!!!