Wednesday, December 10, 2003

Heather and I are horrible human beings. The last of our fish has died.

Well, to be totally technical, we had to kill it. It sounds horrible, but let's set a couple things straight: a) it would have died anyway over the break and b) it was Selina's idea.

The fish had several options facing it, all of which included its eminent demise:
1. We leave it in the tank for three weeks, during which it dies of starvation because the only food tablets available last for a maximum of two weeks.
2. We put it in a cup and take it home with one of us. This sounds like a good idea at first, but when you think about it the fish would die on the long rides to our varius destinations. There is no way in hell Jen was going to be able to take a fish in a cup on the Greyhound down to LA. I probably could have taken it home to Crockett . . . if I were driving the five hours straight and not spending the duration of my week in Santa Monica with Marcus. (This would also involve putting a fish on a bus.) Finally, Heather lives a whole 9 hour drive from school. And I'm sure the fish would feeze to death before she reached Tahoe.
3. We flush the little fucker. The force kills him immediately.
4. Selina suggests we set him free in the lagoon . . . and let the saltwater cause it to die of shock within 30 seconds.

We went with option number four. And we set him free in the lagoon . . . he tried to swim back to us, and thrashed about violently in the shallows of the lagoon as the salt entered his gills. It was horrifying. We're fucking murderers. What kind of vegetarians are we?

I think this is it for us and dorm room pets, though. So its good news for all other living creatures we encounter.

Monday, December 08, 2003

I love the Holidays!!!!!

Yuletide is the bestest season . . . EVER!!!

The roommates and I are having Christmas tonight. I'm so excited. Plus, Heather and I get to have our birthdays tonight, too. (Heather was born two days after Christmas and I was born nine days after Christmas.) I'm such an egocentric whore. I love all Holidays that involve centering at least some sort of attention on myself. Be it by the use of food or gifts, I care not. So long as its all about me.

You know, and the spirit of giving and all that rot.

I kid. I'm a sucker for buying people presents, too. I like to spend money on people almost as much as spending money on myself. But, again, I can't discuss the supercool things I got for people because those snoopy bastards are probably reading this. However, I can say that Raffi and I have impeccable taste.

I left Raffi his gift in his room on Saturday night, so it would be waiting for him when he got back from his evil math final. I got him Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies, because I'm sure that at least part of the spirit of Christmas involves the macabre deaths of unsuspecting children. Unbeknownst to me, he had gotten me the same book. It's all crazy-like! But, upon opening his gift, he returned the copy he got for me and traded it in for Amphigorey, Too. Now I have them all. But that's crazy. It's like we share a brain. A brain that delights in macabre demises, apparently.

Saturday, December 06, 2003

I took a final this morning at 8 am. During which I wrote an essay about setting a production of Tartuffe in a Catholic High School (because the closest thing to 17th century French class structure is high school) and another essay about how the Olympics are a capitalist marketing tool that sells merchandise degrading the culture of the host countries/cities, with specific reference to the 2002 winter games in Salt Lake wherein pins featuring bicycling LDS missionaries and green jello made a mockery of American religions.

My brain does funny things when it has to think and hasn't really gotten a good rest.

Lalalalala . . . I was born at the wrong time of the year! Japanese restaurants are never open on my birthday and there are no theatrical productions running in the city that are of note. My mom and I were trying to plan what to do on my birthday. We were going to go to Teatro Zinzanni . . . until we realized that it would be $125 per person ($500 for a CARNIVAL????) plus another $40 that night in gratuity for the wait staff. Fuck that. I'll just put on my own show!

God, I'm tired.

Thursday, December 04, 2003

So it's dead week, and there is literally nothing to do. One can only spend so much time studying, after all. Brooks on the 2nd floor is quoted as saying this about weekends in Santa Barbara: "It's so boring here. The only things to do are drink, study or spend money." It's sad, but true. I don't drink, because my idea of a good time with alcohol is getting together with a bunch of intellectual friends, getting drunk and trying to play word games or charades . . . and that kind of shit just doesn't go down in Santa Barbara. But it should. I don't really want to study just yet. I have a final Saturday in theatre . . . which I don't think will be very hard at all. However, I have to get up before 8 am to take it. That doesn't make me happy. After that, my next final is on Monday. At noon. And it's linguistics. So I'll get my study on a little later in the weekend. This leaves me with one choice: spend money.

I went downtown today to finalize my Christmas shopping. Or at least to bring it closer to its inevitable end. I bought a lot of books for people. I am not at liberty to say what books or for whom, because the intended recipients read this weblog and I don't want those snooping bastards to find out and ruin the suprise. Let it be said, however, that Barnes & Noble and Borders booksellers are just a little bit richer today because of me.

I'm also noticing that because drinking, studying, and spending money are the only things to do on weekends around here . . . and because I usually do the latter . . . my favorite stores on State Street are getting a little old due to biweekly visitation. New Deal is my favorite place for Swingwear, but the prices are tailored to the budget of some movie star's neice who just happens to have a very big place in the Santa Barbara hills. Plus, I know for a fact I can find those dresses at half the price if I look hard enough on the Macy's and JC Penny's clearance racks. (I just did that very thing over Thanksgiving break.) Midnite Sun is the closest thing to Goth-coture that you'll find on State . . . but it's also a smidge pricey . . . and I've only seen one skirt in there that I cannot live without. I mostly just buy their raunchy underwear. The girl's stuff continually changes. The guy's stuff doesn't. This is why it's hard to find cool shirts for Marcus there. In fact, thats a problem with a lot of the boutiques on State: 75% female oriented, 25% male oriented. Marcus likes clothing. He just doesn't have nice clothing. And it's my mission to find him some sort of style. State Street boutiques are not helping me here. Scavenge is alright, but they should lower their prices a bit, seeing as they don't do any business post-Halloween . . . and I really just want a pair of extra-cheap boots from them. And maybe a Dickie's jacket. So I'm forced to go shopping in Reference, because there is no Forever 21 on State and the stores are practically sisters, which has very little black most of the year. But it's winter right now. Black is in. But if I want any of it, I'm apparently going to have to be preppy-goth . . . or start building up my professional teacher's wardrobe.

Sunday, November 30, 2003

It's really hard to have a good Thanksgiving under the following circumstances:
a. You're a vegetarian.
b. Your Grandmother is from the South/Midwest . . . and doesn't know how to cook for vegetarians.
c. You have a very small family.
d. Said very small family is largely uneccentric and uninteresting.
e. Grandfather is dying of cancer.
But given all of these circumstances, Turkey Day wasn't horrible. It was okay. I wasn't expecting a whole lot more than that, anyway. I've accepted the fact that my grandmother will always forget to make vegetarian food. (I usually spend Thanksgiving munching on potatoes. Which is okay by me.) It's the Ed dying part that blows. He's the nicest, most loving man in the world and he really doesn't deserve to spend the remainder of his days in so much pain. Ed's the kind of guy who should die in a freak repelling accident, or in a rockslide. Or by falling into a grapepress. He should die on a Boy Scout Trip (since he's been Scoutmastering for 50 plus years), or making wine. Either way, he'd go out doing what he loves. His heart has never been used; it beat far too slowly. Only when he met my grandmother 12 years ago did he have a pacemaker put in. He has all the will and strength of someone half his age. But now his body is riddled with the cancer that so kindly lodged itself in his lungs after working for years as a plumber in asbestos-ridden homes and ships. Ed doesn't deserve to die just because there were no building codes back in the day. But he will. And it probably won't be very long until then. And without Ed, I fear my hometown will be entirely devoured in darkness.

But on a far less depressing note, my weekend at home was alright. Good, in fact, if ya' wanna get all technical and stuff. I was very anxious to get back and see mia famiglia, despite the mask I put on that I don't miss them. I do miss them a little teensy bit. I spent a lot of good quality time with my mums, which is a whole lot different than spending good quality time with a dictionary, let me tell you. We rummaged around department stores on the absolute worst of shopping days in an attempt to find me a decent winter coat. But I'm a finicky bitch: all the coats that fit me were ugly, and the ones that I liked didn't fit. Bugger me. I did however find the following wonders that I cannot have until Christmas (because that's how my mom shops for me, takes me out and lets me get things that I deem cool, but hides them from me and wraps them up for Christmas . . . so much for the element of suprise): a pair of vintage white lace knee high Victorian boots, a purse in the shape of a corset, yet another swing dress . . . and a new glass pen from Dicken's Fair.

Dicken's Fair is by far my new favorite Christmas tradition. Because it's just a San Francisco thing, it feels far more authentic than RenFaire . . . and I prefer Victorian garb to RenGarb by far, anyway. Plus it's always nice when your parents indulge your bizarre costume party fantasies and pay your admission and food. Alas, I was not in garb. Because this was unexpected. My mother just woke me up and announced we were going . . . and then I realized that my corsets were still in Santa Barbara. Teach me to leave them behind!

Plus, I got to see The Best Friend, whom I have been missing terribly. All in all, a lovely trip back home to the bay.

And it is officially only 13 more days til Big Bad Voodoo Daddy! I cannot contain my excitement.

Saturday, November 22, 2003


That's my number.

I am the 745th girl to play J.J.'s bongo drums.

Let me elaborate: J.J. is this blind music major that I see around campus. He's really friendly--so much so that it sometimes borders on annoying--and he's been doing this experiment-type thing about girls playing the bongos. I am not actually entirely certain about what, per say, this is, but I do know this: this is an awesome way to meet women. Hell, if I had a quaint disability such as blindness (hey, I'm halfway there!) I would totally come up with something as novel as this to meet people. Raffi and I were returning a game to the front desk in San Raf, and J.J. walked by us and started talking to us about music. At one point he takes these bongos out of his backpack and asks me if I would play them for him. I confess that I have no musical talent, but he asks me to play anyway. He demonstates how to do a beat and I fail fucking miserably. He then asks me to do a drumroll. Apparently, I do such a kickass German drumroll that I get to go on his special list. "You just say that. All the girls are on the special list, aren't they?" says Raffi. J.J. proves him wrong by reciting to us the entirety of the special list, with reasons for why some of them were on there if they were extra special. German drumrolls are apparently extra special.

Tuesday, November 18, 2003

I found the perfect Christmas card! It's all weird and kinda spooky and Edward Gorey-fied . . . but it is out of stock on Gorey Details! I am greatly dismayed. No one will have a spookified Christmas if they cannot have Christmas with the Great Veiled Bear. I am deeply saddened. Deeply.
I am spending way too much quality time with my dictionary.

Monday, November 17, 2003

I made friends with an ex-con on the bus home from LA yesterday.

Yep, it was fun. All I wanted to do was read my art history textbook. All he wanted to do was talk to someone. In a way, it's kind of sad. But I learned a whole lot about how to not break my parole and still have fun! This guy, a tall, muscular, mustachioed dude, was just getting back from a 15 day parole pass trip to Ontario, CA. (See, when you're on parole, you are limited to a 50 mile radius of your hometown, and you can get a pass to vacation outside of that area so that if you are pulled over you are not in violation of your parole. He is wise in the ways of jail.) He went down there to hook up with some college girl and ended up hooking up with her mom, instead. He showed me a picture. She was wearing a black cowboy hat atop her dark curls. It made her look like she was from New Jersey. He then told me about his dead friend, who was recently hit by a train. He showed me pictures of him, too. Apparently, he just carries this stuff around with him. He even had those little ribbon rememberance things you get at Mexican funerals. This man is infinitely prepared for things to tell what Chuck Palahniuk calls "single-serving friends" in Fight Club.

That was way more than I would have ever wanted to know about this guy. Why can't I have a peaceful busride back to campus where I can be boring and academic and read my textbooks with fervor? That's all I want. But I guess with an ex-con, one feels compelled to nodd and smile like you care. God knows why this guy was in the pen. I was not about to ask. Really, I just wanted to do my art history homework.

The really interesting part about this was that he told the same exact things to the woman who came to sit with us at a later point on the bus ride . . . the same fucking routine, only in Spanish this time.

This engagement ring, on an only slightly related note, is an amazing tool. Had this ex-con been hitting on me, rather than just being lonely and odd, I certainly would have had to employ its laser-beam like powers on him. Last weekend, the guys, Heather and I all went to see The Matrix Revolutions. We got there exceptionally early, grabbed coffee, and got in line. Before the "queuing" (as those silly Brits would say), we perused Borders for a bit. Now, keep in mind that this is The Matrix and, naturally, I am all gussied up in vinyl and boots and the whole fucking shebang. I look like Trinity, but with a pretty girl's makeup. I'm wearing this ratty little jacket I love, with patches from cult movies running down both of the sleeves. So, we walk in, and Heather and I peruse the first table of books we see and I am immediately caught by the eyes of some long haired Renaissance Faire junkie. He compliments me on my outfit. I am now prey. I say thanks, and explain that we're seeing The Matrix, just so he doesn't think I'm a bondage freak everyday. He then takes note of the Rocky Horror Picture Show patch on my jacket, and starts up a conversation about going to Rocky. He is from Marin! Lo and behold! We go to the same Rocky back home! And then, by an odd turn of events, he offers to drive me down to the NuArt in LA for RHPS . . . if I give him my number. "Oh, thanks, but that's okay. My fiance lives down in Santa Monica, so I go to the NuArt with him, usually." I flash the ring. He is silent. This cat has eluded yet another hunter.

I thanked Marcus immediately. Never again will sleezy guys be a problem. I am freed.

Tuesday, November 04, 2003

I can't believe that I have to follow up my engagement announcement posting with yet another tale of dead fish.

So, uh, yeah. We totally blow at fishkeeping. Archimedes is dead. I scooped him out with Heather's incense burner, because we still haven't bought a net. Then I flushed him. He has gone the way that all good fish go. Whatever. I've grown very disillusioned with this fishkeeping thing. They are cheap pets. I want something substantial. Like a frog. Maybe we'll get a frog. Something. Anything. Anything that UCSB allows us to have that won't die immediately. As for me, I'll stick with my stuffed cats.

Marcus and I are going to get a bunch of kitties and a Caanan dog. And we shall name the puppy Jujubee. And we shall call him Jew Puppy, for he will be a dog of the chosen people. And he will herd the children, dear little lambs that they will be. And he will not die. For he is not a fish. He is a dog. And they are different.

Monday, November 03, 2003

I realize that last week I said Monday was the best day of my life. I'd like to make a correction. Last Monday was the best day of my collegiate academic life. Halloween was the best day of my life.

It was raining like mad when I left Santa Barbara, and the rain followed me down to Santa Monica, it seems. We went to the pier just after sunset, and it was just beginning to drizzle there. But nevertheless it was Halloween and no one was particularly interested in playing arcade games or riding the ferris wheel, so they were closing everything down when we got there. Marcus was really hoping for the ferris wheel--he loves those things. The play he wrote for me contains one. It's a very 1950's sort of Boardwalk romance icon. I think that's why he likes them. But we got no ferris wheel ride that night. So instead we walk along the pier and I am freezing fucking cold and I suggest that we go get coffee to warm up.

"We will, but I want to walk along the beach a little bit first."

"I don't have beach shoes, really. And all the sand is wet."

"Let's just walk here a little longer, okay?"

"But, honey, it's so cold!" He pulls me to him. I press my face to his chest.

"Honey, I got you a present."

"You did?" He never gives me presents.

"Yes. I wanted you to have this, and I want you to know that Moulin Rouge is more than just a movie, ok?"

We were going to a midnight showing that night. I open the gift paper--it's wrapped in Christmas wrap--and inside there is a still of Nicole Kidman and Ewan McGregor, signed. He begins again:

"It's not really signed. The signatures are just tacked on. You can see the pixels around the names. I wanted to get you a signed 3rd edition script, but it was too much. Anyway, I know you like that press shot. It's cute."

"It is. Thank you, honey. Um, could you put it in your backpack? I don't want to get it wet. I'll look at it more closely later."

I snuggle up against his chest again, trying not to freeze to death. Here the words he says to me get jumbled.

"You mean more to me than any movie, or any play, or any poem, or any other peice of art. You know that. You mean more to me than all art can ever be."

That last bit is a line from Dorian Gray. I look up. There is a Zales box in my face, a glittering diamond ring inside it. I'm floored.

"Will you marry me?"

All I can do is laugh. Well, it's not exactly laughing. It's shocked laughter, combined with joyous giggles. My hands fly to my mouth. I don't know what to say or do. I forget all about Dorian Gray. I turn and I jump and I spin. I am so happy.

"Honey? Will you?" He waves the box at me.

"Yes!" I jump toward him and throw my arms around him. "Yes!" And we kiss, and I am still laughing.

"Take that thing off." He points to the lover's knot I wear on my left ring finger. I do, and he slips on the most beautiful, sparkling diamond ring in the world. It is simple and poetic and shines like fire. "You really do mean more to me than all art can ever mean."

"That's from Dorian Gray, you know."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Sibyl says it to Dorian on the night she gives up the theatre."

"Well, it's true. I love you . . .

"Beyond poetry."

And we kiss, and I lace my hand in his, and we walk away from the bright lights of the pier, the shadow of the ferris wheel--completely and utterly warm.

Monday, October 27, 2003

I took some myth-related internet quizzes, because apparently I just can't get enough of that midterm! Woo! Boy, did I ever kick that bitch in the ass. This will probably be the most that I will ever update in a day.


?? Which Of The Greek Gods Are You ??
brought to you by Quizilla

Interesting that in that one, Aphrodite assumes the identity of her son, Eros, within herself. Curious.

And this is just plain interesting . . .

You are Form 9, Vampire: The Undying.

"And The Vampire was all that remained on
the blood drowned creation. She attempted to
regrow life from the dead. But as she was
about to give the breath of life, she was
consumed in the flame of The Phoenix and the
cycle began again."

Some examples of the Vampire Form are Hades (Greek)
and Isis (Egyptian).
The Vampire is associated with the concept of
death, the number 9, and the element of fire.
Her sign is the eclipsed moon.

As a member of Form 9, you are a very realistic
individual. You may be a little idealistic,
but you are very grounded and down to earth.
You realize that not everything lasts, but you
savor every minute of the good times. While
you may sometimes find yourself lonely, you
have strong ties with people that will never be
broken. Vampires are the best friends to have
because they are sensible.

Which Mythological Form Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla

The internet is a curious realm of wonders.

My life is rated NC-17.
What is your life rated?

I would think that after so many changes in my life, I would be at least rated R. (Like a good pirate movie.) Apparently, though, lots of sex with one steady partner equals NC-17 though. Oh well. Fuck the MPAA.
This is the best day of my life.

I feel so insanely confident about my midterms. I got an A on my art history paper. My TA said it was the best one out of any of her 3 sections. And I am having a cheesy-ass baked potato as I type this. Plus, the roommates and I are going to the Zoo tomorrow. My life is so amazing right now.

I feel like frollicking!

Sunday, October 26, 2003

I need to do Zombie Prom. My longing for a 1950's Nuclear Rock & Roll Musical has been rekindled. It's no Sunset Boulevard, or Sweeney Todd. Or even Rent or Man of La Mancha (I believe that comprises my top 4, with ZP as #5), but its so much fun!

Somehow, I'll get myself into a production of this. Or produce it myself. It must be done. More people must become aware of the glory that is Zombie Prom.

In high school, I burned 20 copies of the CD and handed it out to all of my friends, asking them, "Have you been Zombified?" Most of them just looked at me funny. They probably took the CD just to make sure I didn't kill them.

But really, though, what more could you want in a musical than a story of teen love that cannot be stopped--not even by death? It's a very hopeful sentiment. Plus, what exactly do you do when a student returns from the dead and wants to finish high school? Equal rights for the undead could be a national crusade.

I can just imagine all the fun costumes for this show. Seriously huge skirts for all the girls, really dorky suit jackets for the guys at prom, funky-ass studded leather, dark-wash jean and Chuck Taylors a la Rebel Without a Cause for Jonny. I can't wait to make his "No H" jacket. And Jonny's post-mortem makeup would be a very fun challenge. I've seen several productions where Jonny has been completely zombified, and looks truly gruesome. And then I've seen others that make him look rather campy and cute (well, as cute as an undead teenage rebel can be). Somewhere in between would be optimum.

Oh, I cannot wait. The world must be Zombified.

Wednesday, October 22, 2003

Wooo! Midterms!

I have just returned from a short battle with the theatre. I kicked that midterm right in the ass. It didn't even see it coming. It got a couple of good punches in, though. Still, I triumph.

My next midterm is Linguistics, though, and I fear that will truly kick my ass. But I've got until Monday for that ass-whooping. I'll put up a good fight. I think.

I need to mail birthday gifts to my family. Apparently, everyone is born in either October or February. It's not fair. I should be spending my money on Halloween gear, not birthday gifts. Bah. Maybe my family will send me money, because I'm so nice . . . and I buy gifts . . . that'd be great.

I'm a selfish bastard.

Thursday, October 16, 2003

Art History is crushing me.

I've spent most of my time today trying to make sense of all the shit I've written. Never again will I write a paper without thoroughly thinking about it first.

Writing about art is like dancing about architecture.

Monday, October 13, 2003

Upon my exceptionally late aquisition of The Smashing Pumpkins' opus Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness, all of my Sean memories resurface. The happy ones, of course. And today, while listening to the album, he sends me a message and says:

"Have you ever slow danced with your hands tied up?" I am caught off guard. I am listening to "Galapogos," a song he sent me long ago about how I made him feel. He won't deny the change, and neither will Billy Crogan.

"Sean, what's even more strange is that, at this very moment, I am listening to a song you sent me a long time ago. Galapogos." He is also caught off guard. He says nothing, and then:

"I haven't heard that song in forever."

"Your timing is, as always, impeccable."

"I don't know why I thought of that dance. I don't even remember it that well. My memory is like a fog sometimes. How do you remember it?"

And I think about it, and then I say:

"I remember that you rarely went to dances, and that I liked you and that you held my attentions all evening, even though I went with someone else, and we we're dancing, and a slow song I do not remember came on, and you pulled a rope out of your pocket, sly as a magician's slight of hand, and you asked me if I wanted to be tied up and I said, yes, and so I was . . . and as we danced, I remember the reactions of friends dancing near us, in our little company corner by the speakers."

And in this obscure poetry that is spilling from my fingers, I see fragments of everything I'd ever written for that man. And I see how absolutely crushed I was when he was so suddenly no longer there. I realize now that I even found myself using a line that Sean and I always said to one another on Marcus this weekend. Sean used to say to me, "Excuse me, miss, do I know you? You look rather familiar." And I would blink at him, coy, and say, "I don't think so. It's possible, though. You see, I have this problem." "Yes?" "This is somewhat embarassing to admit, but I can't ever seem to remember people with their clothes on." He would laugh that sexy, rough laugh of his and say, "Sometimes I have that problem, too. Maybe I can . . . help you remember?" Oh, and would he ever help me remember.

And then Sean muses: "I was hanging out with Laurie and her friend in Santa Cruz the other day, and they seemed to recall a day that involved chocolate and strawberries . . ."

"I think everyone remembers that day. Especially Minichun's blanket."

"Apparently, you tossed them the chocolate. And we took the strawberries, and disappeared, while everyone fought over the chocolate down below us."

I remember all of these days. All of our little excursions. Sean and I did such exciting things! They were subtle and dark and sensual, and only the observant really noticed, but they were so exciting! And everything is so different now, and it is simply exciting to just be with Marcus. I was so completely different then that it wouldn't be even remotely honest to say that I miss those things. I miss them, yes, but I did them then for reasons I would never do them for now.

This life and that life are separate entities. And I look at pictures of myself then and know that I was so happy in my utter misery, except for when I see myself duct taped to Eric's bedroom door do I realize that that kind of misery is not happiness at all.

Friday, October 10, 2003

So on Fridays I have breakfast with Derek, go to class for four hours straight, come back to my room, drop off my shit, and then take a jaunty little walk to the dining comons for lunch so I can get there before it closes at 2:30. (My last class gets out at 2.) I eat at a small table on Friday afternoons, just big enough for two people, or for me and a very large book, and read while I'm eating.

Today, I opted not to read. I decided that I was going to have a small meal and then go about my merry way (which today involved buying a very ornate boquet of flowers for Greg, who graciously offered to drive me to the bus station at 6 am tomorrow morning because I SEVERELY FUCKED UP!!!!). About halfway through my slice of pizza, I notice these two runners (evident by the running shoes and shorts) occasionally glancing over at my table. I'm thinking: (a) "Was I mean/aloof/bitchy to them in high school?" (b) "Do I know them from high school?" (c) "Why am I the subject of their conversation? Am I the subject of their conversation?" (d) "Oh, fuck, what do I have on my face?"

Some minutes after all of these thoughts (I am now eating a sandwhich), one of them comes over to me and asks, "Hey, do you want to come sit with us? So you don't have to eat alone? Not that there's anything wrong with eating alone, we just thought you might like to sit with someone." Holy fecal matter. Do I look this depressed? I'm not depressed. I just really like black. Damn you, runner girl, for judging me on my clothing alone!!! Damn you to hell!!!

"Uhhhhh . . . . that's okay. Thanks though. I'm cool." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Ok. Well, um, I'm Maria, by the way."

"Stevi." Sandwhich bite. Chew.

"Nice meeting you!" I wave a little gesture that's supposed to say, "You too!!!!" and she scampers off. I am not looked at again for the rest of my meal.

Now, about that severe fuck-up. I'm going to see Marcus in LA this weekend, and I bought an early morning bus ticket for Saturday . . . not realizing that the MTD to get to the Greyhound doesn't run as early as I need it to run in order to get there. Jen suggests I go ask one of the Engineers over at Derek's place if maybe, just maybe, one of them could drive me to the bus station . . . since they have cars and all. In explaining my plight to Derek, he suggests (after a lot of miscommunication) that I should sidle up to anyone in the room with a car and flirt my way into it. I decide to try my chances with Greg, and he agrees, with very little sideling involved on my part and a whole lot of begging. I have a ride! Yay! So, in some sort of feeble gratitude for this HUGE gesture, I scamper down to the UCen after lunch to buy him a boquet of flowers.

I return from this endeavor to a room full of stunned Engineers (and one Derek), with a big boquet of asiatic lillies, irises, and one fucking cool South African flower thing that looks very, very pre-historic.

I am now their goddess.

Tuesday, October 07, 2003

Today, the death toll remains the same. Perhaps the epidemic is over. Perhaps. Oh, but what of tomorrow?

Hopefully this week will go by smoothly, with no more dead fish and no more injured roommates. The head injury I've sustained is going to make it rather hard to trek across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in a cup, or an injured roommate, for that matter.

Last night, you see, I hit my head. Really fucking hard. On Heather's bed. Because that fucker Derek was making me laugh. Something about no wonder all the bettas are dying--they live in the same tank. Something to that extent. I wouldn't know. My head came in contact with Heather's bed before he could finish the sentence. It was a shock to all of us, believe me. And, man, did it make one fantastic comic-book style thunk!

I think I have a permanent recession in the back of my skull now. What if it never goes back? My God, then I'll be deformed. And what happens, then, when I get cancer and lose all my hair and my freakish skull recession is exposed to the world, raising the question: "Dude, what the fuck happened to your head?" How am I supposed to answer? I won't know if they're referring to the indentation or the fact that I no longer have hair. And even then, what kind of person asks that to someone who obviously (I mean, seriously, imagine it) has cancer? Heartless bastards.

Forunately, for now, I have youthful, Shelley-esque thick hair. And no one will know. So my deformity will remain relatively unknown. If and when I do get cancer, however, the exposure of my head dent is completely Derek's fault. For the record.

Monday, October 06, 2003

It's getting to be like some sort of fish haulocost in here.

Powder died last night. We suspect he was murdered by the new fish, Archimedes. We have no proof of this. All we know is that my fish are evil. No one elses fish are evil. Just mine. Figures. Blame everything on me.

We've got two fish left. I say if they go, we invest no more money in fish, at least until spring quarter. Spring quarter all bets are off.

Sunday, October 05, 2003

We are the perpetrators of fishy genocide.

Fluffy Jr. (our replacement betta) died in the same disgustingly fluffy manner as his predecessor. Again, we scoop him out of the tank with Heather's incense burner because we didn't buy a fucking net last time we went down to Petco. No more bettas. Ever. This one, we flushed.

Heather's fish is being bullied by my new fish. (Why do I have the evil fish?) We're expecting it to die soon.

God forbid we ever get a dog. Or have children.

Thursday, October 02, 2003

We are fish killers.

Voltaire is dead. (This fish, not the philosopher. We know this philosopher is dead.)

He was fine yesterday. Then he just keeled over. I had to scoop him out of the tank with an incense burner. I think we should invest in a net. And perhaps some more substantial fish. Voltaire wasn't a pussy betta, though. You can't name a pussy fish Voltaire. However, I think you can name a fish that you suspect to have digestive problems Voltaire. I think he died of a stomach problem.

In any case, now I have to walk halfway across campus to the bus stop with a dead fish in my hand and then ride the bus downtown with said dead fish to get a new one. God damnit. I thought that was gonna be a one time thing. Fuck.

I hate sea creatures.

Tuesday, September 30, 2003

This was my day: I walked around campus with a dead fish in a cup. Not just any dead fish, but a dead fish covered in some sort of ethereal cloud of fuzz. Then I rode with said fish on the bus to the pet store from whence he came.

Percursor to this odd story: My roommate comes home on Sunday with her brand-new betta fish, a pretty little slip of a fishie she decided to (ironically) name "Fluffy." Her friend, who works at a pet store, advised her to buy a small filter tank designed just for bettas and to use bottled water in caring for the Fluffmeister. So she comes home, sets up her cool new tank and plops her little fishy in the bottled water. I wake up the next day, and Jen summons me to look at the fish . . . he has . . . fur . . . or . . . fuzz . . . or, um, fluff of some sort protruding from certain parts of his little fishy body. Frantically, she calls the petstore at certain points during the day. They tell her that there is a medicine that could help Fluffy, so we agree to go and get it for her the next day, since we all have class on Monday. She spends much of the evening, post-movie watching session, agonizing over her fish, especially because we return to find him with his fins caught in the filter tube.

Heather and I look at Fluffy today before breakfast, and boy, oh, boy is he fucking fluffy. And dead. Way dead. Caught up in the little plastic plants in his tank. Well, we have to get him out of there somehow to take him back to the petstore. I make Heather do it. (I think she used my spoon, though . . .)

So, after class, we trek across campus, dead fishie in hand, and nab the bus downtown, dead fishie in Heather's hand, now. At the pet store, the fishmonger tells us that Fluffy was the victim of "the ick." You see, bettas are very sensitive pussy fish, which is odd considering they are fighting fish. These little guys don't deal well with temperature changes. That's why you can't put them in direct sunlight. Now, as to the bottled water problem . . . yeah . . . bottled water has more chlorine in it than tap water, and chlorine strips off the bettas protective coating, allowing all of the bacteria in the water to eat away its skin. "The Ick." Fuck.

She's gonna beat up her friend from the petstore.

We got her a new fish. We're gonna try not to kill this one this time.

Monday, September 29, 2003

Oh my god.

I don't understand Japan. Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translationdidn't help.

Sunday, September 28, 2003

Everything is different down here. Not that the world is any colder than I'm used to, or that the trees are any less sporadic, or that the water is any less cold. But everything is so different. I'm now in Santa Barbara, the northernmost recognizable part of SoCal. Climatewise, the world is utterly the same. Everything else wise, the world is entirely different. Berkeley and San Francisco sure have plenty denizens of the underworld; bondage freaks, tweakers, stoners, pornographers, dealers, strippers, "dancers", weapons traffickers, goths, punks, etc. etc. But I'm used to those people. I'm used to living in a diverse atmosphere with these people surrounding me (usually more of the stoner, goth, bondage freak, and punk varieties). I am not used to this party life. I am not used to Friday and Saturday nights out on De La Playa Drive, in the oldest, cheapest, most delapidated part of Isla Vista, where hundreds of half-drunk trash-moths are drawn immediately to the glimmering flames of endless kegs of cheap beer. The underworld here, as I suppose you could call it, is mostly the surface world of drunken college students (only a quarter of which attend UCSB, the rest are from the City College or are townies, relishing in the cheap, drunken atmosphere of beach-front Isla Vista). I'm lost. I don't know what to do. The academic reputation of the University is on the rise, the party scene on the decline (as I said, the parties are SBCC/Townie parties).
Yet the one party I go to (just to hear the punk band SYDS play) turns out to be prey for what the University calls "predatory pornography companies." Namely, I'm there with my roommates, one of whom knows the owner of the house from work, the other of whom is having a much worse, much more uncomfortable time at this party than I am (she's from Tahoe, they have snow there). Suddenly, as Jen and I are trying to start a small mosh pit with some drunk freshmen from a completely different Res Hall, a man with a camera strolls in, surveying shots of the party, of the band, of our little shitty moshpit. He takes over the microphone from the singer, "We're giving out free shirts. If any of you ladies want one, you need to take off the one you've got on." We just let it slide. We leave, eventually, and think nothing of it. Until later in the week, we see successive newspaper articles discussing the presence of that cameraman at this DP party . . . we could be spliced into a porno as part of a crowd shot. Fuck. (This is unlikely. Punk bands don't do much to get that "real college fucking" feel going.) I am not pleased. I have a sort of respect for real pornography. None of this Girls Gone Wild shit with nonconsensual pornographic traps.
Oh, and I got hit on by a creepy grad student who eats in our dining commons. Great.
A new life.