Advice from a Caterpillar

2002-06-15T15:11:00.000-04:00

NP: Sid Vicious, "My Way"

So let's try this again.

My name is Matt. I am a recent high school graduate. (Meaning: I no longer have to respond to anthropology professors and their ludicrous wives.) I am not a homosexual predator. I am number e cubed on my Varsity Calculus team. Yesterday, I was immunized against meningitis.

I went to my prom, decked out as a hybrid Billy Idol-Bride of Frankenstein. I wore a leather vest that proclaimed me "La Medusa." I graduated, and read a poem by Adrienne Rich. I work in chocolate shop. There is a space between my teeth. Three stars are tattooed on my hip. My septum has a hole in it that I commissioned, as does my navel.

Welcome to me. If you don't like me, leave.

2002-05-14T22:50:00.000-04:00

Happy birthday, Dear Doe Eyes.

I called the guy and he wasn't there. I left my name but was too flustered to leave my number, which of course he doesn't know. Which means I have to call again tomorrow.

Or just, y'know, be single forever.

2002-05-14T21:13:00.000-04:00

I'm supposed to be calling a boy right now. Nervous nervous nervous. That's really all.

2002-05-14T00:32:00.000-04:00

Ouch, catharsis.

2002-05-13T23:14:00.000-04:00

NP: Of Montreal, "Don't Ask Me to Explain"

I am extraordinarily grumpy. This may have resulted from watching Ally McBeal or my impending biology AP or the fact that neurons simply will not explain themselves to me in comic-character voices or my fear of calling a boy who I drunkenly slurred at successfully enough to get a number scrawled on a piece of cigarette foil or the stabbing pains in my stomach. Don't ask me to explain, don't ask me to explain.

2002-05-12T14:31:00.000-04:00

I cannot do biology. I cannot get dressed. I have not bought my mother a mother's day gift. I am a terrible boy.

Last night, I dreamed that I had a three-way on my desk with a girl and a boy with sensitive nipples. Then I went to an after-prom party, did some speed, and watched the creepy father of a creepy acquaintance of mine pass out on the floor.

2002-05-12T02:46:00.000-04:00

Eventful weekend.

Amy and I went to another art-student party on Friday night. I got my fuck on with tray after tray of jello shots, a couple of Malibu and Cokes, and a fellow with a Biblical name. The only furniture in the newly-acquired Brooklyn loft was a large set of turntables which insisted upon playing Christina Aguilera with a Strokes beat.

Then, tonight, my friend's production of Waiting for Godot followed by my first-ever clubbing experience, which consisted of a coked-up fellow lip-synching to random songs as I downed two lemon drop shots (tasty! sugar-rimmed! wha?) and touched Amy's butt.

Now Eyes Wide Shut is on HBO and this movie sucks as few movies do. I seem to have totally ignored the fact that I was supposed to stay home all weekend studying for my biology AP. My Euro AP was almost as bad as my calculus AP. I topped it off with an essay on Bismarck and Metternich, which casually managed to avoid any mention of the latter Austrian leader. I rock, I roll.

I suck.

2002-05-09T00:09:00.000-04:00

I think I may have a speech impediment.

How could no one ever alert me of this?

2002-05-08T21:46:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I must somehow teach myself all of European history. I somehow I believed I could do this. Especially if I didn't start until 9:43 because I was reading Me Talk Pretty One Day.

I can do it. I can do it. Just 1500 through 1970 or so. I'm already at 1524. Crazy peasants revoltin'! Crazy Luther telling 'em not to! League of Schmalkald! Diet of Worms! Pico della Mirandola! In Praise of Folly!

It's going to be a long night.

2002-05-06T23:51:00.000-04:00

Calculus AP in 8 hours.

Tonight, I began knitting a scarf. For no particular reason. I like knitting.

Tonight, I watched my second ever episode of Ally McBeal and I was genuinely touched. So much that I'm now listening to A Chorus Line. (One of them--blond, curly--sang "The Music and the Mirror.") This obviously means that I should be killed.

Tonight, my mother informed me that she showed a bunch of apartments to Sonic Youth-- "Oh, you know, Thurston and Kim."

Tonight, I should be asleep already.

2002-05-05T13:46:00.000-04:00

At the final moment, I cried;
	I always cry at endings.

2002-05-05T12:09:00.000-04:00

My head hurts. Suffice it to say that last night I had a margarita so big, I got to keep a free souveneir glass.

We went from bar to bar to bar. We passed the very attractive economics teacher on the street. I met Colin Quinn and Dave Atell in a comedy club/bar where you could write on the bar itself with chalk. (My masterpiece: "Amy Suckzzzz," chalk and mixed media, 8" by 3", 2002.)

This morning, Mr. Atell called my friend Justine at 11:30. O scary scary dirty old man.

2002-05-04T13:13:00.000-04:00

I apparently cannot get enough of fruit.

Orchard
Matt Schneier, Eighth Grade

the banana walks around, and he complains
of how bruised he is
but this is his nature, to complain
and it is typical

an old pear, now hard and unripe
reminisces about the old days to anyone
who will listen
usually no one so he talks to himself
it is nice because
he enjoys his own company

the mango, the foreigner, speaks
not like the other fruit, she
speaks a carribean tongue
she is not of this land

the orange rolls around
sometimes she bumps into people
but it is fine
because she is the sweetheart
and everyone loves her
so sweet so juicy

a new arrival
she sees the fruit
as they see her
no one has ever seen her before
on the left side of her chest
there is a sticker
which reads:

HELLO, MY NAME IS

and under, in scrawled case,

guava

2002-05-04T11:16:00.000-04:00

When I was young, I was an entrepreneur.

There were many lemonade stands outside my house. I set up a cardboard box and made a batch of undrinkable Country Time and usually juggled lemons as an attraction. The one that stands out best in my mind is the one Stupid and I did together, trying to raise funds to purchase Gen 13 comic books.

When I was younger still, I made jewelry out of plastic, brightly colored beads shaped like fruit. Pineapple earrings, banana-apple necklaces, accessories that would have made Carmen Miranda blush. I peddled these wares at the Food Emporium, posting a notice on the community bulletin board advertising my fine products. No one ever purchased even a grape-bunch pendant.

I didn't care. I don't care. But: I appear to formerly have had motivation to go out and do something, to find a job, to make a job. Summer is rolling around and I need a job because I need a way to keep myself in cigarettes and beer. Two jobs have fallen into my lap and I have rejected them both because they require a degree of intellect and yes thank you one moment please, ma'am, I'll page him he's not in the office would you like his voicemail? that I don't feel capable of providing any more.

Someone should pay me to breathe, banking on the assumption that one day, I might do something worth doing.

2002-05-03T01:14:00.000-04:00

Bald Smallville star thanks Western Kentucky University for making him what he is today.

That needs no explication.

2002-05-03T01:05:00.000-04:00

Only by chance tripping on stairs
do you repeat the dance, and
then, in the perfect variety of

subdued, impeccably disguised,
white black pink blue saffron
and the golden ambiance, do we find
the nightly savage, in a trance.

2002-04-30T23:12:00.000-04:00

Y Tu Mama Tambien was the sexiest movie I have ever seen. I came closer than I am comfortable to having an orgasm in a movie theater, seated between a woman with too much popcorn and my friend Tess. So it goes. Fuck me now.

2002-04-30T01:32:00.000-04:00

I feel like I used to have: motivation, inspiration, dedication.
I feel like I now have: dessication.

I was supposed to be doing in the last hour: reading about how a subcontinent went from English to Indian to Pakistani to Bangladeshi.
I was doing in the last hour: fantasizing about learning Russian and being really, really excited by the prospect.

2002-04-29T21:51:00.000-04:00

NP: The Trouble with Sweeney, "Ghosts of '97"

I have never been more nervous to roll my mouse over a link, never so happy to see "www.yale.edu" typed across the gray bar at the bottom of my screen.

Welcome home, sweet love. Four years of Gilmore Girls nights and Ted Leo orgies and old-school Nintendo rocking out and slumber parties and Chlodog and ass-fondling and late-night galuoises with the other half of the Galuoises and and and

My cup runneth over.

2002-04-28T16:46:00.000-04:00

NP: Nico, "These Days"

Today, Amy's parents canceled our Amsterdam trip.

I do not want to study for Euro or biology or calculus.

I want to listen to Nico records and wear smoky black eye makeup and smoke foreign cigarettes.

2002-04-27T15:40:00.000-04:00

NP: Belle and Sebastian, "Marx and Engels"

On the Town went really well, despite the fact that I could not say hello to my three loves, as they fled the theater before I could get to them. I did stare straight at Superwoman during the slow, moving quartet at the end. I couldn't tell if she noticed. (And I really want to know who she thinks did not deserve a solo. Perri the lounge singer? Claudia the ingenue? Lee the abused fiancee?)

I have not blogged in quite a while. It is because my life is an oasis of boredom. My AP exams are in less than 2 weeks and I am totally unprepared and I find it so hard to summon up the energy to care. Today, my only goal is sending in my college reply cards.

Fourteen years ago today, my parents gave me siblings, and I have yet to forgive them.

2002-04-22T20:41:00.000-04:00

I. I celebrated 4/20 with full revelry. It basically involved going to a girl's house I'd never been to before and being more jealous of her than of anyone I've ever met in my life.
II. Although my friend Emma and I planned to accompany Belle and Sebastian on a tour of Northern Africa. Just the two of us and the band. Playing dusty rundown bars and open fields. Giraffes would stop to listen.
III. Then, Yale. I met the boyfriend of another girl who I am now incredibly jealous of.
IV. He liked to talk about himself, but he is beautiful and a quarter Persian.
V. I am going to Yale.
VI. Not only because of him, I swear.
VII. Shortly after this decision, I got very drunk.
VII. Then, wake up and school and On the Town rehearsal.
VIII. On the Town is going to suck suck suckity suck.
IX. I miss Goose and Amy.
X. At Yale, I bought a Yale Radio tee shirt with art by Goose. It cost five dollars. It excites me to no end.
XI. My head is throbbing. Again. As usual.
XII. I love to hate me.

2002-04-20T17:02:00.000-04:00

NP: Serge Gainsbourg, "Cannabis"

Happy 4/20. I'm so cute.

Rehearsal today sucked a lot. I'm cranky and it's rainy and I'm sober. At least one of these things must change.

2002-04-18T23:45:00.000-04:00

NP: Stephin Merritt, "My Funny Valentine"

I really need to fucking learn how to do work. I've spent the last 45 minutes reading random blogs and doing absolutely nothing.

I hate me.

2002-04-18T17:18:00.000-04:00

Studying for an enormous bio test is really something I need to do. Fuck your neurons, man.

Today was sucky and unexciting. I found out that I can't do calculus; that I hate hot weather; that I can break the school's dress code rather blatantly and not get caught. Two days ago, I found out that the most common name for males admitted to Brown to the class of 2006 is Matthew. I also found out that to pay for my trip to Amsterdam/England this summer, I have to stay a night by myself in Amsterdam to get a return flight back to New York. I found out that this doesn't bother me at all, though I am ridiculously codependent and frightened of my own company. Just me getting stoned and passing out in an airport? Ah, the wild and crazy adventures I shall have.

2002-04-17T20:57:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time, some shit went down.

Hello, Kids in the Hall. Hello, New York/Avignon film festival and delicious cosmpolitans. Hello, Brown University. Hello, fratboy host. Hello, a capella group dressed as pirates singing sea shanties. (Oh my god, hello.) Hello, missing the sea shanty performance for other venues of entertainment. (Hello, frat-house bar and bong.) Hello, train ride home. Hello, unprepared for bio test. Hello, don't want to go to school ever again. Hello, decision to go to Yale inching ever closer. Hello, hello, hello.

And then, good-bye.

2002-04-11T18:07:00.000-04:00

There was a very attractive boy at the Ted Leo/Pharmacists / Engine Down show last night who was embarrassingly into Engine Down. He chain smoked and wore tight jeans and had a sharp face. I racked my brain for a way to talk to him, being naturally gifted at the art of social interaction, and finally decided I would ask him for a cigarette. By the time I got up the nerve, he had gone. I had to smoke my last one, and I was annoyed.

I spent the entirety of Engine Down's set staring at the bassist's ass. He facilitated this by bending over frequently in the throes of some sort of crap-rock convulsion. I paused only to admire the lead singer's pants. There was a bottle of water on stage, and as the night wore on, stealing it in order to drink the last sweet sip became a more and more appealing crime.

Then Ted Leo came on. He is marvelously ugly; he looks like a monkey when he sings; he sweats like a pig. But, O! Dial Up! Under the Hedge! The Great Communicator! I sweat and felt nauseous and rocked the fuck out. Then, Goose and I went home for cheesecake and orange juice.

This morning, I think she saw my ass as I got dressed because I did not bother to conceal it in any way.

2002-04-09T23:15:00.000-04:00

O my dear sweet Lord Baby Jessus save my eternal soul you have blessed me with the sweetest plum I fall weeping at your knees.

I think I might be crying. I wish I had deferred a year from college to do this program. I must do it junior year.
O sweet sweet love greener than grass stains.

2002-04-09T20:58:00.000-04:00

"Don't tease your sister! She's allowed to pass gas in public whenever she wants! She's very good at it!"
-- my father

I'm so not kidding.

2002-04-09T20:48:00.000-04:00

PARIS FUCKING RULES.

2002-04-08T19:06:00.000-04:00

NP: Andrew W.K., "I Get Wet"

Andrew W.K. sort of rocks my world. I think my poem about fucking goats is going to be banned from the Literary Magazine. Today has not been a good day for unusual love.

My schedule is somehow more full than is possible. Because I only desire to be the Master, here is my schedule:

April 10: Ted Leo/Pharmacists
April 14: Kids in the Hall; Community Service
April 15: Andrew W.K., God willing
April 16-17: College visit
April 20: Beulah
April 21-22: College visit
April 22-24: Dress rehearsals
April 25-26: On the Town starring Me as Sailor #2 of 3
April 27: My brother and sister's birthday
May 1: Universal reply deadline
May 2: Moldy Peaches
May 7: BC Calculus AP
May 10: European History AP
May 14: Biology AP

This must be intensely boring.

2002-04-07T23:38:00.000-04:00

NP: Air, "Playground Love"
NP: Massive Attack, "Protection"

These songs are incredibly soothing yet vaguely dirty. I think every muscle in my body has just relaxed to weird, ridiculous proportions: I vaguely resemble Olive Oyl. Yet at the same time, I am totally empowered to get it the fuck on.

Which is all so convenient, really, as the only thing I can possibly do at the moment is biology.

(Whatever. The chapter's about getting it on.)

2002-04-07T22:08:00.000-04:00

NP: Pink, "Don't Let Me Get Me"

Last night I got Goose to admit that this song is indeed rockin'. Take that, prog-rock. Back to Providence, Pink and Brown.

I successfully wrote possibly half of my history essay.
I find it incredibly difficult to study for my biology test.
So, I have not.
This will not do at all. It is on 70 pages of material that I have never read. Dense material about gastrulation and estrogen.

Amy has a blog again. We'll see if it works this time. This quote, however, has already brightened my night:

What degree do I pursue that will enable me to bathe in more hot springs? Dan has pink eye. Shit on my face, I want his penis.

2002-04-06T19:27:00.000-05:00

NP: Ted Leo/Pharmacists, "Dial Up"

I had so much work to do today. I did none. For my history paper, which I was supposed to at least mostly complete, I have only managed to complete a title:

"You'll Put Spiders in Paradise: Women, Religion, and Power in Early Modern France"

It would be so much better if I'd actually written a paper to accompany the title. All I want is microwave popcorn and marshmallow peeps and a slice of pizza.

2002-04-06T16:56:00.000-05:00

NP: Lifter Puller, "Nice, Nice"

It's the end of the night, now Jenny's creeping back to the eastern shelter with the sunlight...

This morning, I woke up at seven. I searched for my underwear. Then socks, watch, glasses (under the bed: always the last place), shoes. At eight, I wandered through abandoned Brooklyn streets, caught the F to the A to my house. Got home at 8:30. I play Lifter Puller because last night I lived a Lifter Puller song. It makes me uncomfortable. I fell asleep so I wouldn't have to think about it. Sadly, it's all on video somewhere circa Bard College.

Sigh.

In other news. Thanks to the pioneering efforts of the Virgin Mother and the Holy Ghost (or Childhood?), I quickly caved and a pair of pink Converse hi-tops are now en route to my door. They will be my third pair: my black ones are currently disintegrating, another black pair waits in the closet for when they do, and now pink. Mommy is gonna regret the day she gave me a credit card.

And: Tavie: I don't know if I'll end up here. The more I think about it, the more I lean towards it, but I still need to see here (perhaps she prefers it?). And I know it makes me a terrible, terrible person, but the idea of going to college with Stupid is not one that delights me, although I would have to say he is my closest (and perhaps only) male friend, and one whom I've known since first grade.

Lastly, I'd like to give a shout-out to my man Jesus. Prayers do get answered, apparently. My dear, dear friend Anika has finally been given the gratification she deserves, and I am so fucking happy about it, I almost cried.

2002-04-03T19:34:00.000-05:00

Listen: Po-te-weet?

Listen: Matt and Goose fucking rock.

2002-04-03T05:54:00.000-05:00

NP: Dire Straits, "Romeo and Juliet"

I have listened to this song possibly a hundred times in the last forty-eight hours. My friend Claudia's mother grew up with the lead singer. Now my friend Amanda and I content ourselves with singing it to nobody in the student center. Hey now, my boyfriend's back.

Here are the things I want to do today: Find out if I got into Yale.
Here are the things I don't want to do today: Learn about Lenin's New Economic Plan, 1921-27.

Thank you, India. Thank you, terror. Thank you, disillusionment.

2002-04-01T22:00:00.000-05:00

I'm really really bored. I should probably be reading either my history homework, or some essays on French women and religious change for my history paper, or some of the biology I missed weeks ago, but, well, that's all boring. I prefer looking around college websites and scratching my ass. For some reason, I've read like six reviews of Panic Room. I have absolutely no desire to see Panic Room.

Five down, three to go. What will I do with myself when I no longer have college letters to look forward to? Perhaps I'll get a life, or calm down, or perhaps even dedicate myself to trying to decide where I'm actually going to go to college.

More likely I'll just make another poll and put it on this blog.

2002-03-31T23:50:00.000-05:00

NP: Pink, "Don't Let Me Get Me"

I am such a hypocrite.

I cannot stop listening to this fucking song.

It is the musical equivalent of Vicodin.

I'm a hazard to myself...

2002-03-31T17:45:00.000-05:00

I needed to do work. Instead, I bought a photo album. Then I filled it halfway. I like photos.

Calculus makes my skin crawl, especially as I am one of the stupidest calculus students you will ever hope to meet.

2002-03-31T13:33:00.000-05:00

I miss Kitana. And Goose, for that matter.
My tattoo is dyeing the waistbands of all my underwear red.
I somehow did not realize that buying a graphing calculator on Easter Sunday was going to be difficult.
I have so much work to do.

Whine whine whine.

2002-03-31T01:42:00.000-05:00

I own only one of Rolling Stone's 50 Coolest Albums and it makes me feel very unhip. Plus, the one I do own is The Strokes. Uh.

But a lot of them I sort of own. I mean, does anyone actually have to own Bikini Kill's last record, Reject All-American, to own it? I can sing at least two of its songs, and it really is just two songs repeated over and over again. And I almost got the White Stripes' first album a bunch of time, but then I came to my senses. And I own Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain and Terror Twilight, so I feel like the two of them together might make up Wowee Zowee.

Wowee zowee, I suck.

2002-03-30T14:45:00.000-05:00

My nose is very stuffed. I am doing no work, yet have much. Instead, I watch Legally Blonde for the 100th time.

2002-03-29T15:08:00.000-05:00

I am a golden god.

Or not. But I am now a tattooed rebel youth. My tattoo is sort of awesome. Three stars, right by my crotch, going up to my hip. I documented the whole process via Polaroid, but I have no scanner. Eventually you will see them. They're big fuckers, too. Didn't hurt so bad. I didn't cry, thank you very much.

But it sort of stings now. And I want to take off the bandage and I can't because it's soaking up the excess dye and possibly blood. Oh my. Now my sister and I are going to make a delicious salad, fit for such a marginalized punk-fucking-rocker-with-a-tattoo such as myself.

2002-03-25T18:18:00.000-05:00

I can't! I must. Lo siento.

Los Oscar:
1. I stayed up from 2:00 AM to 7:00 AM watching.
2. Ron Howard is the ugliest man alive, and how he won over Robert Altman is completely beyond me.
3. I am apparently the only person on earth not completely enamored of Denzel Washington.
4. Is it me, or was Training Day just a shitty action movie with completely replaceable, yet somehow Oscar-nominated, leads?
5. Is it me, or did I not see Training Day?
6. I watched the first five minutes of Moulin Rouge before the Oscars and it made me want to die.
7. Showing a one-second clip of JCM during Robert Redford's interminably long Go Die Now Award was adding insult to injury.
8. Gwyneth did in fact look atrocious and Nicole Kidman was quite miffed to get up.
9. I practiced my Oscar speech 8 times during the course of the night.
10. Halle Berry, do stop crying. And there is certainly no need to thank Jada Pinkett Smith for her contribution to anything.
11. I had to watch the awards on Spanish TV, and they were dubbed over by two extremely bitchy commentators with extremely sassy voices.
12. During commercial breaks, the commentators fidgeted uncomfortably and commented that they'd rather be watching football.
13. Which is to say, soccer.
14. They did say that Peter Jackson looked like a troll, though, which made me laugh.
15. Pero, Roberto, un troll muy inteligente, no? Ay, dios!
16. The following people should not exist: Elijah Wood, Enya, Ananda Lewis, Leeza Gibbons, Russell Crowe.
17. I could go for miles.
18. So what if my husband is not an Oscar-winner? So what if his screenplay was misunderstood by the Academy? So what, so what, so what?
19. I love you, baby. I'm coming home soon. And your skit thing with Ben Stiller wasn't funny, but I love you all the same.
20. If you are really good, one day perhaps I will tell you my grand fantasy for the film which will earn me my first Academy Award, best supporting actor, age 19.
21. Hint: in involves Woody Allen, ecstasy, crying, and kissing.
22. And the winner is--I don't believe it!--Mount Fatty!

I should be put to death. Goodnight, Barcelona.

2002-03-24T11:35:00.000-05:00

I am in Barcelona, sitting in the lobby of my lovely hotel, paying 50 cents a minute for internet time. This is utterly ridiculous.

Barcelona truly makes me realize that I am adopted and that my family is actually a clan of circus performers who somehow got medical degrees and real estate licenses. My mother's idea of Spanish is repeating everything I say in a terrible accent thirty seconds after I say it and thinking herself marvelously intelligent. My father wakes up at 9 AM to wander around the city. My brother and sister play cards nonstop. I relish the fact that I can technically smoke in my room and then do not smoke in my room for fear my parents will smell smoke in my room.

Alice B. Toklas's nickname for Gertrude Stein was "Mount Fatty." I could not sleep last night, thinking about how fucking amazing that is. Henceforward, I shall be known as Mount Fatty. In lieu of sleeping, I mumbled Sean Na Na's "Princess and the Pony" to my bedsheets and played Lifter Puller over and over again. My name's Juanita but the guys all call me LL Cool J. I imagine a girl in my school named Jacinta saying these words. She is plump and has thick glasses. Her name is not Juanita, but she is hispanic. I laugh to myself. One, two, three, four, that's the way Jacinta scores.

I make no sense. Tonight I am staying up til 3 AM to watch the Oscars because I am sick. Yeterday I went to see Gosford Park and found it to be entirely in Castilian Spanish without the aid of subtitles, so I understood approximately 2/3 of it. The woman who dubbed Maggie Smith's voice was funny, but not too funny. So it goes. I have abandoned all semblance of narrative structure in this post. On that note: if I am awake, I shall go with you to see Pink and Brown and the Ex-Models. I am sad to miss Ted Leo. Les Savy Fav and the Apes played Barcelona shortly before I arrived, and I missed that too. Amy and I were supposed to see some band I can't remember but instead I got drunk and passed out.

In two days, I shall be home. Not doing my Euro paper. Or my bio reading. Or my math homework. Shake your ass around my casket.

2002-03-19T13:59:00.000-05:00

My tattoo appointment is set. The woman who is doing it is an adorable French Canadian woman from Montreal named D'jo (pronounced, French-ily, "jUH"). She makes me happy. The prospect of having a tattoo in less than two weeks makes me happy. The prospect of two hours under electric needles to get said tattoo makes me less than happy.

In one hour, I leave for Barcelona with my family. One week with only family. No blogging. No anything. Just my family. Wish me luck.

2002-03-17T23:50:00.000-05:00

Forty Days and Forty Nights made me more uncomfortable than any movie I've ever seen. I mean, I am a horny teenage boy. There is very little I cannot take. And I do find Josh Hartnett to be particularly attractive, although his hair is too short in this movie. But I was squirming in my seat, and not in a good way. It was just gross. Oh my. And clouds made of breasts?

Regardless, I was listening to the Aluminum Group's Pedals on the way to the movie and back, and realized that it is slow and sexy and pretty and sort of sleazy, and thus, perfect music to get with someone to. I think I want a relationship if only so I can put on CD's while we make out and be proud of my own inventiveness. (Thank you for infecting me.) So now I'm trying to make a sort of slow, dirty, hook-up mix, to be used if I ever ever find anyone ever, or to be played repeatedly as I marinate in my own self-loathing and loneliness. So, goddammit, suggest. So far, I have:

1. The Aluminum Group, "Rrose Selavy's Valise"
2. Yo La Tengo, "Pablo and Andrea"
3. Lovage, "To Catch a Thief"
4. Tricky, "Overcome"
5. Cat Power, "Naked If I Want To"
6. Pulp, "This Is Hardcore" (Too obvious? Never let it be said that I am inventive.)
7. Sleater-Kinney, "A Quarter to Three"

Go on, email me. Kiss me. Oh, and Jonathan Richman's "I Was Dancing at the Lesbian Bar" sort of rocks. I am constantly awed by the fact that my most rocking ex-English teacher likes the most rocking Modern Lovers.

2002-03-17T20:39:00.000-05:00

Bill Viola's "Quintet of Rememberance" was fantastic.

I just ordered the Bjork shirt I've been wanting for ages. I'm not sure what inspired me to do so, or what impeded me for so long. I went to the website and it will arrive in two weeks. It sort of frightens me that I'm able to do this. Oh well. Pretty soon: me, Bjork, and a duck.

Off to see Josh Hartnett movies. Shut up.

2002-03-17T00:22:00.000-05:00

I am so so bored. I have done absolutely nothing all day. Tomorrow, however, the Met for surrealism, Irving Penn, and Bill Viola. Holla holla.

Ian McKellen, dressed as Maggie Smith, just made out with Jimmy Fallon. It made me remarkably uncomfortable. I watched Maggie Smith in Sister Act tonight. My mother proclaimed repeatedly that it is one of her favourite films. She sang along for the entire fucking thing. My momma the Jewish nun. Here you are, Jesus, your new bride: Sister Mary Oy.

2002-03-16T13:14:00.000-05:00

She tasted of the Christmas wine and said,
So many things have run through me
You know, the altarboys, they just wanna do me
And that's fine
You've gotta have fai-i-i-th
Yeah, you gotta have faith...

Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet Destroyer.
Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.
Susie Asado.

I really enjoy combining Canadian pop and the works of Gertrude Stein.

2002-03-15T19:02:00.000-05:00

These things will make you happy.

1. Eva Hesse. (See below.)
2. Dudley Klute. (Specifically, "The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side.")
3. My box of hair bleach.
4. Lifter Puller. ('Cause that English major thing applies to me too.)
5. My English teacher. (My John Ashbery essay received the comment, "Get thee to college!" I swooned.)
6. Having your hair shampooed.
7. Claudia Gonson.
8. Stephin Merritt.
9. Sam Davol.
10. My old English teacher. Who knows Claudia Gonson. And has a sassy new 'do.
11. If my old English teacher, who knows Claudia Gonson, and who has a sassy new 'do, were to sing "I'm the ugliest guy on the Lower East side" with the Magnetic Fields at Lincoln Center. (In the past.) Not the song, just the line. Oh, and "I've got wheels, wanna go for a ride?"
12. (Because she has a bike, and riding on its handlebars would be bliss in so many ways.)
13. Planning to make really avant-garde (trans. "terrible") video/media art with Amy centered around Britney Spears.
14. The phrase "holla." (Specifically when coupled with "to your joy.")
15. Spring fucking break.

2002-03-15T18:38:00.000-05:00

Everyone must go here right now and run the program. The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is running a big exhibit on the minimalist sculptor Eva Hesse and her work is just amazing. As a general rule, I dislike minimalism, but her work really needs to be seen. Go. Not Yet is my favourite. I'm really mad I'm not going to be able to go see this show in person.

Although I guess flying to San Francisco to see some minimalist art is a little bit much.

2002-03-14T01:16:00.000-05:00

I just spent the last hour, the hour I was supposed to be spending learning about WWI for my history quiz tomorrow, looking at websites about Amsterdam.

I am literally quivering with pleasure. I can't believe I'm not Dutch. I am now determined to comb my geneaology and find a Dutch ancestor. How can I possibly not live there? How can I not be there now? (My trip was actually perfected tonight when the sociolinguist informed me she'd be visiting.)

So perfect. So, so perfect. I have nothing much else to say. Go here. Or here.

2002-03-14T00:12:00.000-05:00

There is a girl in my grade, a girl named Chloe, who is an exceedingly nice girl. She is incredibly smart and very intellectual. She spends her time reading horrendously long Russian novels and memorizing poetry as Christmas gifts for her parents. She does not par-tay, as I do. She does not do much. I have developed something of a creepy obsession with her. Note my IM conversation with Goose:

Matt: i was imagining her being on some sort of date in college (not with me), like a romantic dinner sort of thing, and her date offering her wine. i can't imagine her demurring, but i also can't really imagine her taking it. so would she get drunk? i can just imagine her fluttering around, not crazy drunk, but like, drunk-romantic-in-movies saying things she wouldn't normally say: "i...love you. oh, dash this alcohol and my loose tongue! emotions are so risky. i find so much saftey and comfort in the works of coleridge."

This definitely needs to be brought up with the therapist at the next available opportunity.

2002-03-13T22:55:00.000-05:00

If I were a pagan, I would construct altars to The New Yorker. If I were a Christian, I would construct altars to Christ. So it goes.

Right now, I am reading a New Yorker article on Patti Smith. This afternoon, I discovered that in a yearbook circa 1992, an English teacher at my school vaguely resembles Patti Smith. This afternoon, I read a New Yorker article on the artist Louise Bourgeois, whose work I quite like. One of her most famous sculptures, "Filette" (trans. "Little Girl"), is a two-foot penis with attached balls. I like that. My current English teacher has written an unpublished book of poetry inspired by the work of Louise Bourgeois.

Yes. Thus, The New Yorker rocks Harper's any day. Take that, dapper three year-old.

2002-03-13T00:52:00.000-05:00

Three days until spring break.
Twenty two days until college letters are mailed.
Approximately two hours until I go to sleep.

The only thing on earth I want to do is go to sleep and wake up tomorrow at around two in the afternoon and watch John Cusack movies and eat popcorn. Sweet, delicious, salty popcorn. (If I eat a lot of popcorn, the salt levels in my blood will go up, thus increasing the amount of water I take in, thus increasing cardiac output; therefore, by V = IR, my blood pressure will go up.)

Biology is a cloven hoof.

2002-03-12T22:53:00.000-05:00

NP: Beulah, "Popular Mechanics for Lovers"

I heard he wrote you a song, well, so what?
Some guy wrote 69 and one just isn't enough

2002-03-11T23:01:00.000-05:00

I ate all the marshmallows out of my Lucky Charms. Then I ate the cereal bits that I don't really like. I refuse to drink the milk. Now I'm playing with the spoon. All so I won't have to type up a study guide for AP Euro.

I must know where I got into college this instant. My socks today are especially rockin'.

This blog gets worse and worse. It should definitely wither and die, like the sultan's control of India in 1908 or the Russians' control of just about everything in 1905.

2002-03-10T23:34:00.000-05:00

Tonight, I saw Sweet Peetah and he gave me a very awkward hug. His band really sucks. So it goes.

I have been 18 for a month and two days and I still have not bought porn. This situation must be remedied.

2002-03-10T14:31:00.000-05:00

I think I'm gonna pass out.

2002-03-10T02:51:00.000-05:00

Which Era of Kathleen Hanna Are You?

Heh.

2002-03-10T02:47:00.000-05:00

NP: Britney Spears, "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman"

I spent tonight in a theater with Britney and two of the most popular freshmen at my school. I accidentally told them how much they sucked to their faces, said "holla" many a time. I cried. Literally. Britney's sleeves at the end of the movie are a film in and of themselves. My sober weekend disintegrated into a decidedly unsober one. Finally, pirogi at Veselka and a cab home. My cab driver called me "my friend," which I like.

I'm not a girl, not yet a woman.

2002-03-06T22:29:00.000-05:00

My teeth are hot, a telltale sign.

I just confiscated a pack of Camel Lights from my sister, eighth grade.

2002-03-06T16:27:00.000-05:00

Dance rehearsal in two minutes. New York, New York, it's a helluva town.

I just had a weird, upsetting conversation with my math teacher. It consisted of me making a martyr of myself for absolutely no reason and her yelling at me because apparently she has spent "hours" trying to assure me of my own worth.

I think it was most awkward because her dorky college buddy who taught our class today-- a class in which, I might add, I could do nothing and insisted that calculators merely have enormous tables of sine and cosine values stored in their tiny brains-- was watching uncomfortably. Then they left. His parting words?

"Good luck with your homework."

2002-03-06T01:55:00.000-05:00

This is such an amazing site:

heh i was so drunk but like girl power forever.

we went 2 the mall, and i love eggs. i would totally fuck him but i am so punk rock! i invited michelle 2 the party, and life is so unfair.

(c/o Jen)

2002-03-05T01:29:00.000-05:00

I feel like I should cut the weirdness of the last post with a little normalcy. So go download these songs:

1. The Bangs, "Burnout"
2. Lifter Puller, "Candy's Room"
3. The Frames, "What Happens When the Heart Just Stops"
4. The Magnetic Fields, "I Don't Believe in the Sun"
5. Princess Superstar, "Wet! Wet! Wet!"

2002-03-05T01:09:00.000-05:00

Warning: This is going to be a weird post.

I want to have a baby.

Like, really. I mean, I can't have a baby. Biologically. And I can't have a baby because I'm 18 years old and I haven't gone to college and I can't get a job and I don't want to lose my social life and you can't smoke with a baby and I live with my parents and there's no one to be my baby momma. But I want to have a baby.

I think it would be amazing. I think that nothing afterward would ever be the same, ever, and it sounds so fucking trite to say so and so useless, but just imagine walking around every day knowing that you brought something into the world. Something is here that wasn't there before and you made it, your creation. Maybe that baby will one day cure cancer or something. You brought it to the world.

And I don't want to adopt. It sounds selfish, but I want my baby to be a part of me. And I feel like I'm a horrible person for saying so because some of my best friends are adopted and they are parts of their parents and their parents are parts of them. But I want my baby to have my eyes and my sense of humour and even my ugly space between my teeth so I know that it's mine. I want to teach it everything I wish I was taught and didn't have to figure out for myself and have it teach me everything I still don't know. Five little fingers. Five toes.

My biological clock is going fucking crazy. Maybe this has something to do with the setting-ahead of the doomsday clock.

2002-03-04T21:24:00.000-05:00

Who's Your 80s Movie Icon Alter-Ego? Find out @ She's Crafty

Holla to my joy. Although I was definitely hoping for either Mark from Pump Up the Volume or Baby from Dirty Dancing. I could rock the young Patrick Swayze with my girlish naivete and killer moves. Or something.

2002-03-04T18:32:00.000-05:00

I am quite content right now. Not only have I officially gained divadom, but I have been admitted early to Williams College. They just sent me a letter sort of arbitrarily.

My back and feet still hurt, but I am far happier than I was ten minutes ago.

2002-03-03T23:06:00.000-05:00

I have been rereading my blog and have decided that it is frightfully boring. All my posts can be placed in either of two categories:

1. "I am so lazy and tired and cranky and I don't want to study for my ___________ test."
2. "______________ is so hot."

I hereby vow to be more interesting. In that spirit, I begin:

Today I spilled maple syrup on my pants.

This is simply the best I can do.

2002-03-03T20:32:00.000-05:00

Presenting: a new layout. Rock.

2002-03-02T18:21:00.000-05:00

I now know: I shall become a Dudley Klute completist. He is a fucking golden god. (Whoa. The first time I wrote "Dudley Moore.")

The Magnetic Fields last night were transcendent. I have never had an experience like it. It was enveloping. I can say no more, except list the best numbers.

"I Don't Believe in the Sun," "The Luckiest Guy on the Lower East Side," "How Fucking Romantic," "My Only Friend," "Promises of Eternity."

If anyone does not have any one of these songs memorized, that is your homework.

Tonight: more unadulterated bliss, specifically: "Papa Was a Rodeo," "Underwear," and "The Death of Ferdinand de Saussure."

2002-03-02T13:50:00.000-05:00

The Burning of Paper Instead of Children
Adrienne Rich

I was in danger of verbalizing my
moral impulses out of existence.
-- Daniel Berrigan, on trial in Baltimore.

1. My neighbor, a scientist and art-collector, telephones me in a state of violent emotion. He tells me that my son and his, aged eleven and twelve, have on the last day of school burned a mathematics textbook in the backyard. He has forbidden my son to come to his house for a week, and has forbidden his own son to leave the ouse during that time. "The burning of a book," he says, "arouses terrible sensations in me, memories of Hitler; there are few things that upset me so much as the idea of burning a book."

Back there: the library, walled
with green Britannicas
Looking again
in Durer's Complete Works
for MELANCOLIA, the baffled woman

the crocodiles in Herodotus
the Book of the Dead
the Trial of Jeanne d'Arc, so blue
I think, It is her color

and they take the book away
because I dream too often
love and fear in a house
knowledge of the oppressor
I know it hurts to burn

2. To imagine a time of silence
or few words
a time of chemistry and music

the hollows above your buttocks
traced by my hand
or, hair is like flesh, you said

an age of long silence

relief

from this tongue this slab of limestone
or reinforced concrete
fanatics and tradesr
dumped on this coast wildgreen glayred
that breathed once
in signals of smoke
sweep of the wind

knowledge of the oppressor
this is the oppressor's language

yet I need it to talk to you

3. People suffer highly in poverty and it takes dignity and intelligence to overcome this suffering. Some of the suffering are: a child did not had dinner last night: a child steal because he did not have money to buy it: to hear a mother say she do not have money to buy food for her children and to see a child without cloth it will make tears in your eyes.

(the fracture of order
the repair of speech
to overcome this suffering)

4. We lie under the sheet
after making love, speaking
of loneliness
relieved in a book
relived in a book
so on that page
the clot and fissure
of it appears
words of a man
in pain
a naked word
entering the clot
a hand grasping
through bars:

deliverance

What happens between us
has happened for centuries
we know it from literature

still it happens

sexual jealousy
outflung hand
beating bed

dryness of mouth
after panting

there are books that describe all this
and they are useless

You walk into the woods behind a house
there in that country
you find a temple
built eighteen hundred years ago
but enter without knowing
what it is you enter

so it is with us

no one knows what may happen
though the books tell everything

burn the texts said Artaud

5. I am composing on the typewriter late at night, thinking of today. How well we all spoke. A language is a map of our failures. Frederick Douglass wrote an English purer than Milton's. People suffer highly in poverty. There are methods but we do not use them. Joan, who could not read, spoke some peasant form of French. Some of the suffering are: it is hard to tell the truth; this is America; I cannot touch you now. In America we have only the present tense. I am in danger. You are in danger. THe burning of a book arouses no sensation in me. I know it hurts to burn. There are flames of napalm in Cantonsville, Maryland. I know it hurts to burn. The typewriter is overheated, my mouth is burning, I cannot touch you and this is the oppressor's language.

1968.

2002-02-28T20:41:00.000-05:00

It's really surreal to see the same unknown actor twice. This guy I thought was cute when he appeared in a Honey Nut Chex ad now appears in a Mastercard ad. It took me a second to place him, but he's still cute.

(Dear Matt,
Please stop blogging. And actually do some work.)

2002-02-28T20:01:00.000-05:00

Really attractive people just aren't conducive to me studying.

2002-02-28T19:49:00.000-05:00

NP: Cat Power, "Troubled Waters"

I must be one of the Devil's daughters.

You too, Louis Philippe. You are intensely boring. And sort of an asshole. That February Revolution showed you, though.

2002-02-28T13:43:00.000-05:00

I stayed home from school today because I suck. My history test still looms large. It is so fucking boring. I am desperately trying to study. I had planned to take my book and some paper and my cigarettes and go sit in some cafe all day, but I realized that there is no such cafe and I'd have to shower and if a cop saw me, he could arrest me for truancy and et cetera.

While reading my history textbook, it suddenly occurred to me that I won't live forever and I became terrified. Reece's Pieces are calming me.

There really is nothing else to the Val Daniel story. But I will teach you to read poetry.

2002-02-27T21:13:00.000-05:00

I have so much studying to do.

Tonight I met E. Valentine David and proclaimed my love for him. (It was really just th eir love, but let us not split hairs.) He rewarded me with a boring anecdote about Margaret Mead.

His son is hardcore hot. (And very young. I am hardcore lecherous.)

I care about Napoleon III very little.

2002-02-27T01:17:00.000-05:00

NP: Vancouver Nights, "Naikoon Park"

Biology studying was not going so well. The respiratory system was blending into the circulatory was blending into digestive system. I was extremely cranky, upset, tired, achy. So what did I do? I opened my biology teacher from last year's college recommendation for me and read it. I am technically not supposed to do this. I requested a copy of said recommendation to send to a college that informed me they did not have it, but that has since acknowledged that, in fact, they do. (Just in case, I somehow managed to open it and read it without a) ripping the envelope or b) de-moistening the adhesive! It now sits sealed just like it used to. No signs of tampering. Straight to Hell I go.)

But! That fucking recommendation was the single nicest thing I have ever read about myself. I almost cried. I, apparently, am her "favorite student." I am "unpretentious" (!). I put other students before me by studying for my final with a C student! My book on phototropism was the best in the class! I have "much to contribute to [my] generation."

This from a woman who is so timid she often can't speak and merely repeats over and over again the phrase "for sure." I swoon. I weep. Why is she not my teacher this year, for AP Bio?

Once there was a man named God, who did not like to arrange things in my favour.

Silencio.

(Lynchian.)

2002-02-26T22:39:00.000-05:00

NP: Aimee, "Backfire"

I hate my life.

I am supposed to be studying biology now-- the circulatory system and the respiratory system and nervous tissue and skeletal muscle and homeostasis and some shit. Whenever I'm in school, I feel a deep, numbing pain. Like, seriously, not metaphorically. Being in those buildings makes me hurt. My biology class seems to be just my teacher's forum to try to humiliate me, my Euro class is the most useless thing ever as evinced by my score on a practice test I tried for ten minutes today, my English class is full of fucking high school idiots who contend that, really, Wallace Stevens could have stated "The Idea of Order at Key West" in one paragraph (he's just too, like, repetitive!), but really it doesn't matter anyway, because "he's wrong." I hate almost everyone in my grade, even more people in other grades, most teachers, the musical that has commenced eating my life, my Yale interview tomorrow, and the fact that at 5:00 PM tomorrow evening, I am speaking on a panel to inform accepted freshmen why Friends should in fact be the school the choose to spend four miserable years at.

(That sentence ended with a preposition.) ("Backfire" is playing again. Repeat, repeat.)

2002-02-24T22:59:00.000-05:00

I've been rearraging my MP3's this weekend because my computer is having, like, heart failure. I just found something called "RAVE TRANCE ON ECSTASY." Delete.

Ah, catharsis.

2002-02-24T22:36:00.000-05:00

I am having a conversation with my friend Justine about high school. How I wish it were over, I moan. I must get out, it is killing me. Get me away from here, I'm dying. Then I realize I shall miss the old bastard. So what is high school? Will I miss it, or must I abandon it? Is it giving me strength or holding me down? And then I know.

High school is my appendix, the vestigial organ still deep within me somewhere. I must remove it, for it has become hideously inflamed, but I know that some days in the future, maybe when it rains or when the light hits a windowpane just right, I shall gingerly touch my stomach where it used to live within me, and miss it a little, and say a short prayer.

2002-02-24T14:23:00.000-05:00

My family, in a last-ditch attempt to force boding before I flee to college, is going on a trip to Barcelona for spring break.

I suppose I should be happy about this, in some small respect, even if only for the lowered drinking age.

As a result of this trip, however, I will be missing the Moldy Peaches, Ted Leo/Pharmacists, and the Oscars. The fucking Oscars.

I hate my life. I still haven't studied in any way for the two tests that demand my attention. My head throbs.

2002-02-24T12:49:00.000-05:00

NP: The Bangs, "Burnout"

I am so confused. And I have so much fucking work to do today. And Mittens got me the weirdest thing I've ever seen for my birthday.

2002-02-23T13:50:00.000-05:00

No one should be allowed to be happy if I am not.

I've got a sweet tooth for licorice drops and jelly rolls.

My posts make less and less sense with each passing day.

2002-02-23T11:37:00.000-05:00

I want to dye my hair jet black.

I want to be the princess who finally gets the pony.

2002-02-22T00:00:00.000-05:00

NP: Sean Na Na, "Princess and the Pony"

Shake your ass around my casket.

Ow. Face hurts. I have no desire to do anything but stare.
I think black eyes are vaguely sexy, and Brooklyn accents, and longish hair, and scruff.
Hobo homo how to who knows. For you me too if you see who let me be you.

2002-02-21T22:08:00.000-05:00

I am so tired. And lazy.

I need to be learning a bunch of arbitrary poetry terms, and reading Catullus, and probably something related to some part of European history circa 1848, but I can't. It's just too boring. Of course, I was just sitting here staring blankly at a computer screen and the oh-so-irritating love lives of people I've never met and thinking how bored I am. But not that bored.

I realized tonight that I miss the Spice Girls. I think I'm gonna go download "2 Become 1" and realize that my prior realization was painfully incorrect.

2002-02-20T23:19:00.000-05:00

In the musical of Tavie's life, I want the ballad. Me, black-clad, sitting on a stool, alone. Staring into space. Possibly sitting atop a piano avec cigarette. Maybe beret. No other people onstage, for I can't harmonize, and tend to upstage everyone anyway with my pathetic demand for attention at all times. It could be a mournful ballad, the close of the show: I sing the life of Tavie, the life and tragic death of...whoever dies. At the end, a single tear. Tony, here I come.

Everything makes me cranky. I have to make an art piece/collage based on Eliot's "The Waste Land" and I really don't want to. I have to read history, and I really don't want to. I've spent the last twenty minutes looking for pictures of Charlie Hunnam online and coming to terms with how angry the show Undeclared makes me.

If I don't make a collage, the terrorists win. (Damn you, Jen! ) (Oh, by the way: Hi. I'm Matt.)

2002-02-20T19:07:00.000-05:00

NP: Jenny Toomey, "Advice to My Successor from the Mouth of Patsy Cline"

Love:
1. This song.
2. If I can't find the shoes to go with this outfit, the terrorists win.
3. The Apes and Liars tomorrow, if migraine headache does not reassert itself.
4. (Uh, I mean, "study session.")
5. Tiny chocolates with gooey insides.
6. That 38 people have voted for my band name.

2002-02-18T00:49:00.000-05:00

Dear readers, I very rarely ask things of you.

Now, I am going to.

You must go here and vote for the name of Goose's and my future band. Do it now.

I love you.

2002-02-17T18:25:00.000-05:00

I just returned home from a rampant, uncalled for shopping spree. I now own many items of wannabe indie-punk-rocker-rawker garb. Notice my weathered, tight, flared jeans! Revel in my old-school-skool Vans checkered slip-on sneakers, a la Fast Times at Ridgemont High! Ogle my gin-and-tonic cologne with hungry nostrils! That last one was disgusting!

And so, of course, when I got home (my too-small blazer having braced me against the cold, my fake-wannabe pseudomohawk lilting), what music did I, nay, must I put on?

Of course, of course, of course: the Strokes.

My mirror has just been witness to some of the worst dance moves and Julian-Casablancas-inspired posturing the world has ever known. I feel like I should now go and drink a whiskey sour and hate it but drink it because an old person would and old people are chic.

Your girlfriend, she won't understand
Your grandparents, they won't understand
And me, I ain't ever gonna understand...

2002-02-14T23:41:00.000-05:00

Dakota Fanning got nominated for a Screen Actors Guild Award for I Am Sam.

Dakota Fanning is, like, six years old. She plays the daughter.
I don't think people know how I get about child stars being nominated for major awards.

My house ringeth with cursing tonight.

2002-02-14T23:33:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Sarah, I want to stay home this weekend and rent Trainspotting and Velvet Goldmine. Oh, and Sid and Nancy.

Go to bed, child.

2002-02-14T21:31:00.000-05:00

My mother is against me learning to bartend but all for my tattoo.

Life is weird, and vaguely depressing. The more I think about it, the more I hate Valentine's Day. I tried to distract myself with calculus, but I realized I've forgotten the fundamental difference between differentiation and antidifferentiation.

Franklin Bruno is soothing like rubbing sweet love into my throbbing wounds.

2002-02-14T18:40:00.000-05:00

NP: Big Star, "I'm in Love with a Girl"

Bah. Valentine's Day my ass.

Incidentally, my second-ever concert experience was seeing Alex Chilton (of Big Star). I had no idea who Alex Chilton was, nor Big Star. But I went because I'd never been to a club. It was at Coney Island High, back when it still existed. My friend Tess and I went up to some random college boys, somehow attempted to flirt (Tess flirted; I requested constant lights for cigarettes), and begged them to buy us drinks. I think we were 14. I think they really liked Big Star.

2002-02-14T01:22:00.000-05:00

Apparently, someone congratulated a friend of mine for daring to befriend me, since I am such a terrifying presence. Or something.

I suppose I should be a little less satisfied about this.

I really should go to bed, but I can't stop listening to the mixtape I just made.

Oh, and today I got a Spanish valentine candy heart, the little ones with messages on them.

Mine read, "solo." (Translation: "alone.")

I'm so not kidding.

2002-02-13T23:52:00.000-05:00

NP: Lotte Lenya, "Seerauber Jenny"

I am downloading German showtunes.

Audiogalaxy will be the death of me.

2002-02-13T23:50:00.000-05:00

Apparently, one of Gina's colleagues commented that I was "too pretty to be a boy."

Rock.