I wish I were friends with Sting right now

This has always really bothered me. In the song "Don't Stand So Close To Me" by The Police there is a lyric that goes:

Her friends are so jealous

You know how bad girls get

Does he mean Bad Girls? As in "Bad girls, you know how they get." Or does he mean, "You know when girls get jealous, it gets bad." Lately I've been thinking it's the latter but growing up I always thought it was the former.

I think about this a lot. If I ever meet Sting, I will ask him this. 

Also, unrelated, but am I the only one who thinks that swine flu just kind of seems like flu flu? The name sounds much worse, as I, like most people I'm sure, would not want to contract any illness with the word "swine" in it. But from what I've read (which is not a lot) it's bad for kids and old people and people with weak immune systems and has "flu-like symptoms." Is that because it's, how do I put this, the flu? I don't know. If I die from SWINE FLU everyone can make fun of me during my funeral's after party (not during the funeral, though, that's just in bad taste).

Office Life + Cherry Pie

One interesting thing about working at Savannah Magazine is that it's my introduction into office life. The set-up reminds me of a cross between The Office and 13 Going on 30 (underrated). There are unfinished pages tacked on the walls along with pages from past issues and different, current magazines filled with flags and circles. I also have to keep all of my projects and information about the rest of the year's issues under lockdown to avoid leaking information to the magazine's competition. A little more high stakes than I had expected.
I have my own cute little office space, complete with desk, computer, and highly-complicated phone. I hate this phone. Cell phones don't work in the building, as it is hurricane proof (ha!) so I have no choice but to use my office phone. It's cute because I have my own extension, but the novelty ends there. I have to dial a million different numbers to dial out of the office, a million more to dial out of state, and if I pause between digits for too long the phone automatically calls whatever extension the numbers I've already dialed make up, meaning I call some random person in the office (of 300+ people) and either have an awkward exchange or hang up (I go for the latter, usually and unfortunately). My editor suggested I personalize my desk, but that feels too awkward. Instead I've sort of adopted my drawers as something akin to my high school locker: filled with Diet Coke along with earphones and maybe some M&M's sometimes.
I'm currently working on two articles right now, one really dry and one actually very interesting (at least the research is). I'm basically going to have a Fat Cat resume after this internship is over.
In other news, I had probably my best visual-based critique yesterday, magically in 3D Design. It was for our second project, which was to make a food product out of clay. When they had my professor, Ben made a frog, Allie made matzo, and Chase made a box of Oreos (which Coleman disappointingly tried to eat during a Goblin party a couple of years ago). I made cherry pie. The fact that I hate cherry pie was an advantage as I wasn't overcome with hunger every time I worked on it. Although it did cause me to have Warrant's "Cherry Pie" stuck in my head for the past two weeks or so. I made a whole pie with a slice cut out, and then a slice with a scoop of ice cream:




The project went over really well. For the first time in a non-writing critique, I did not want to kill myself and not only that I, wait for it, was actually proud of my work. Sounds silly, but it was worth something.
I also enjoyed celebrating 4/20 last night with Allie, Ben, Jon Penn, and Dash along with Charlie and Calvin (Charlie's favorite holiday happens to be 4/20) and lots of snacks and Tetris Attack. I have the scratches (Calvin) and red eyes (not blinking during video gaming + other factors) to show for last night's activities.

robots and tears and missed connections

I'm in 3D Design right now. Our first project was to make a kinetic toy entirely out of paper. I made a robot.

His hands and feet move and he stands on his own. It took approximately a million hours but I feel good about it.

Charlie, Robot, Me.

In other news, a missed connection was put out for me. This happened last year but this time it's not a "hey you're cute," one.

Sad

It says:
animal collective bumpter sticker - w4w (downtown sav)

hey i saw you a few weeks ago in a white car around wright square. you were crying. i remember thinking you had a weird bumper sticker but couldnt remember it. i saw you again yesterday, i think on bull street and i made it a point to look at your car's bumper stickers and remembered it was an animal collective one i was thinking of. anyway i've never seen anyone crying so hard like that in their car and it really stuck with me and who ever you are i hope things are better for you now then when i first saw you. try and keep your chin up and remember even if you feel really alone you arent.

In case you hadn't guessed, I drive a white car with an Animal Collective bumper sticker. And I do cry in my car moderately often because I kind of forget that people can see in. If this isn't proof that I am just sad, sad, sad then I don't know what is.

recent successes

I started my internship at Savannah Magazine. It's cool; I get my own cubicle/desk/computer/phone extension/email/official signature line. It's all very office-y and official. It's a good mix of fun and boring and I appreciate that Annabelle, the managing editor whom I'm interning for, wants me to get real experience, not just get coffee for people. 

I always submit stuff to The New Yorker, usually poetry because they accept it unsolicited and via e-mail. And I always get rejected a few weeks later. This cycle happens every few months. My logic is that the worst that can happen is they not publish me, which is what happens anyway. I always get the same rejection e-mail that's along of the lines of, "Thank you for submitting, unfortunately . . ." etc etc. But Wednesday I got a different e-mail. It caught my eye first because it was a Re: e-mail when usually it's a new e-mail with a subject something like "Your Recent New Yorker Submission." When I opened it, I re-read it about a million times. Not only did they use my name ("Elizabeth, . . ."), but it wasn't the standard rejection e-mail. It said that my poetry was accepted for the first tier of submissions, that they enjoyed reading my work, look forward to hearing from me in the future, and that they would let me know if my work would be accepted for publication. In my mind, The New Yorker is the tippy top of publication (mostly because David Sedaris is a frequent contributor), so the fact that they even typed my name nearly made me scream. 

There's a few reasons that this is awesome. There's the obvious reason: it's the goddamned New Yorker. Then there's the fact that I recently did not get into SCAD's student literary journal, Artemis. My professor assured me that it was because my work is too vulgar/funny/real/good, which I appreciate hearing, but when the New Yorker takes note of some of the same work I submitted to Artemis, it makes me feel a million times better (and also is a "fuck you" to Artemis).  Then there's also the fact that I personally have felt over the past few months my poetry has hit a new plane. That sounds pretty artsy, I know, but it's true. It's probably due in part to the overwhelming despair that has taken over my life the past few months, but I know it also has to do with my maturation as a writer. And finally, all of the work I submitted to the New Yorker is about (some more directly than others) my relationship/breakup with Robert. There's that idea that if those pieces get published it would be a sort of personal triumph, but even more than that it's comforting to know that through everything I was able to create these little pieces that people, from friends to classmates to professors to editors at the New Yorker, have been able to identify with, appreciate, and (on some level) enjoy.

I knew it

"Better to have loved and lost/Than never to have loved at all," is a line from a poem so overused it has transcended itself to phrase-status, which automatically lends itself to Cliche. That being said, for as long as I can remember knowing that phrase (I first remember reading it somewhere when I was 7) I have thought it was absolutely, completely false.

A million people have told me the phrase is true and a million more will continue to tell me. Most people tell me this along with the guarantee that "someday" I will learn. And I realize I am young with less life experience than people who believe in that saying. But I still maintain my original standpoint that to have loved and lost will always be completely worse than never loving at all. After Robert, after Professor Fucker, after Conor, after etc etc etc, I feel that my belief only gets stronger and stronger. So there.

[sand]traps

Some people like sand. Most people don't notice when the ground is particularly sandy or grainy for whatever reason. Most people don't have much of an opinion on sand at all because why should they?

When I was a baby/toddler/kid I would vomit instantly if I touched sand or salt or anything similar, be it with hands or feet. Over time I've learned to control the insta-vomit, but I still have to avoid it. I've been to the beach. Besides the heat and salt water and overall boredom that I feel comes with a beach trip, there is the sand. Usually if I walk on sand now, I can sort of prep myself mentally and gingerly walk and just feel extremely sick. Being older I'm never really in a situation where I have to be on a beach. Although now, of course, I'm in enrolled in the required (for writing, mind you) course of 3D Design, which includes a mandatory field trip to Tybee Island to participate in SCAD's Sand Arts Festival. How does one explain to a teacher that they can't go on a mandatory beach field trip because if they touch sand they throw up? Or should I say, how does one explain this without sounding like a lying jackass?

Today a terrible thing happened. My Nonfiction III class was moved to Wallin Hall. I've had one class there before during the winter of freshman year. When it was cold. When I didn't wear sandals. As it is now springtime I wore sandals today, really cute ones, too. I got to Wallin Hall, expecting class as usual. But when I stepped out of the car, my foot sunk.

I don't know what makes me sicker in these situations: the sand or the dread that comes along with knowing vomit is imminent - not only imminent, but imminent when you're already a minute late for class and will inevitably be made later. I tried to walk as carefully as I could through the parking lot, which suddenly looked fucking huge, but naturally I still got sand in my shoes. The wave of sickness and the nearly uncontrollable need to kick my feet came over me and by the time I walked into class (last one in), red-faced and with a sour throat all I could say was, "The parking lot is full of sand." Luckily my professor was already in the know about my situation and though everyone laughed, I put my stuff down as fast as possible and ran (on my tiptoes so as not to clank down the hall) to the bathroom and just threw up. And throwing up is terrible; the watering of the eyes, the clenching of your abdomen. I felt sick all of the rest of class and could barely pay attention, though we luckily watched a movie. Of course my professor still called on me for something and I was so focused on keeping my stomach settled and trying to keep the feeling of graininess out of my head that I couldn't answer his question with anything besides "I'm trying not to throw up."

I hate throwing up, but there are certain situations that are better than others. When I'm hungover or have food poisoning, I at least feel productive by throwing up. But because of sand? Sand? It's just stupid and useless, a really good way to ruin my class period and the rest of my day.

recent

Coleman, Goblin Manor, High Life, and hot dogs

Jon bought me a beautiful headdress in Istanbul

Coleman and Charlie cuddle time!

River Street on St. Patrick's Day

Giving Charlie a belly rub

really germany?

Really?
http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,612684,00.html

reasons charlie = me

Over the past few weeks I have discovered that Charlie is basically me, in the form of a male cat.

- Charlie is always ready for sleep. I have long thought my mutant power was the ability sleep at any time in any location and I think Charlie shares this power. I know this seems like average cat behavior but here's an example to illustrate what I'm talking about: yesterday a fly was in my room. Charlie saw it. He was laying on my bed and when the fly flew by him he lifted his paw to swat at it. He missed (the fly was about a yard above him) and fell back. He fell asleep like this within a minute, on his back, one paw extended.
- Charlie likes to cuddle and hold hands. It's almost impossible for me to lay down in my bed without Charlie coming up to snuggle down next to me. He usually ends up sleeping next to me, facing me, head on my pillow, with at least one paw extended out and on me. Also, if I have an open palm, he'll put his little paw into it.
- Charlie is security-conscious. If I leave during the day, when I come back he's on my chair. But if I leave at night, he's always under the bed when I come back. When I walk into my room, he meows from under the bed. If I don't answer him, he stays there but if I do, he comes out.
- Charlie might have OCD. I take medication for my OCD so that I am not constantly shaving my legs but I still have symptoms that come up. Charlie's food is in a dual container, with food on one side and water on the other. Instead of doing that, though, I just put food in both sides and put his water in a separate bowl. Charlie will not start eating the food out of the right side until every piece of food is eaten from the left side. I watch him do this again and again and even tested it by putting a couple of pieces of food in the empty left side. He saw them, stopped eating from the right side, ate the pieces on the left, and then continued on the right.
- Charlie does not have a keen sense of space and distance. Anyone who has seen me park knows that I am not great in judging distance and space. This is evidenced by me parking within inches of the car in front of me, with about 10 feet between my car and the car behind me. I am also bad at judging when it's appropriate to cross the street (in a car or on foot) because I can never quite seem to tell how far away a car is. Charlie seems to be unable to tell where the bed ends and the floor begins. He has fallen off of the bed twice (that I know of) and I nightly have to catch him from rolling off. This always happens in his attempt to get comfortable, which involves rolling over and over again.
- Charlie likes Animal Collective. I play a lot of music in my room that Charlie does not respond to whatsoever. The one artist he does respond to, though, is Animal Collective. The first time he did this I thought it was a fluke. I played a live version of Brother Sport and each time Avey Tare whooped, Charlie sort of squeaked/meowed/whooped back. I played it again and he did it again. When I play Animal Collective or Panda Bear he almost always makes a noise back at the song. So far his favorites seem to be Brother Sport and Bros. Maybe he identifies with brotherly songs?

And just an image to leave you with: this is a picture I took the other morning of Charlie. His face was about three inches from mine. This is what I wake up to almost every morning.

things I hate in porn

I love porn. Most people know this about me: friends, acquaintances, classmates, professors. I somehow mention to bring it up whenever I can because it's really a great thing. And a truly great thing about porn is there is something for everyone. A single bit of porn, whether it's a full-length movie, an online video clip, a picture, a story, etc usually tries to incorporate more than one element. Example, why have a naked girl giving a naked guy a blowjob when you can go ahead and have a girl in a schoolgirl uniform giving a blowjob to a guy in a suit? There you've got the original goodness of a blowjob with some teacher-student fantasy thrown in for good measure. And really, a porn film is not that different from a standard film. It's hard to find a movie that is completely without fail strictly one genre: a horror movie without any comedy, a comedy without any poignancy, things like that. So it only makes sense that a porn film incorporates more than one genre, it's just that a genre of porn isn't quite the same as a genre of standard film. No matter the plot (if there is one), your average run-of-the-mill heterosexual porn film will almost always contain: oral, vaginal, and anal sex along with a lesbian scene (if the movie knows what it's doing).
I watch a lot of porn. That and everything else being said, watching a lot of porn comes with stumbling across things I don't like nestled in something larger that I do like. I know these elements aren't just there for the hell of it; they do something for somebody. Just not me.
In no particular order, here are some things I hate coming across when trying to enjoy porn:
- Heel sucking. I really don't mind shoe licking. It's not the greatest thing ever, but it doesn't take me out of the moment. What does take me out of the moment is heel sucking. I understand the phallicness of a stiletto heel seems hard to pass up, but when I see this (almost exclusively in lesbian scenes) it just kind of grosses me out. It's a heel, so you know it's not that sanitary. And it's pointy, which just seems dangerous and much more gag-inducing than a penis. It's just kind of gross.
- Giant fucking (usually plastic) shoes. Having sex with shoes on is not unheard of. In porn it can actually be hot (a cheerleader still wearing sneakers comes to mind). But those are only certain situations. In other situations, most situations, having sex while wearing giant, ugly, painful shoes just does not make sense. Wearing them at all hardly makes any sense, but having sex with them on? That's just stupid and implausible, really.
- The wearer of a strapon moaning in pleasure from the strapon getting sucked. This used to just be really confusing to me. I wasn't sure how a strapon worked and I assumed there must something hidden on the other side that, when there is pressure from the attached dildo being sucked, provides pleasure. And maybe that is true on some level, in that the pressure can be pleasureful for the wearer. But it's not a blowjob. It's a strapon, not a penis. Seeing it get sucked might be hot, and yeah sure maybe you moan a little or whatever because of the hotness. But moaning and thrashing around as if it was actual oral sex instead of oral sex performed on a piece of plastic attached to you? Stupid.
- Holding onto a neck during a blowjob.This is an element that I've seen come up in both straight and gay porn and always bothers me. Granted, I know that a good number of people think it's hot, especially since it's usually accompanied with rough sex. But having personally been on the chokee's end, seeing it just reminds me of how shitty it feels to have a hand around your throat while you're extremely preoccupied with a penis going down said throat already.

That's all I can think of right now. I'm sure I'll think of more some other time, but I've done enough damage for one post.

PROUD TO BE AN AMERICAN

BECAUSE THIS DUDE IS PREZ:














but in all seriousness, I'm in love.

this was strange

I was turning the corner in Wal-Mart today and ran my cart into another woman's cart. I do this a lot as I am generally not the most coordinated person, especially when trying to navigate a place devoid of space and time with a giant metal contraption. I said, "Oh, I'm so sorry!" and she said, "That's okay!" As we passed each other she held out a $10 bill and said, "Here you go." I knew I had a ten in my wallet and, though I hadn't opened my purse, assumed it had fallen out. I said, "Oh, thanks, did I drop this?" and she just looked at me and said, "No, but I can tell you are a child of Jesus." This really caught me off guard. I said, "What?" and she just nodded knowingly and said, "God bless," and walked away. I checked the bill for drugs or disease-ridden needles but it appears to be a bona-fide $10 bill. I felt a little guilty at first, since I am most definitely not a "child of Jesus" or blessed by God, but it's not like I ever said I was. I was just doin' my thing, trying to get cat litter for Charlie. It's not going to get me to find God all of the sudden, but at least now I have $20 instead of ten.

we're fucked

This giant stingray was caught in Thailand:

Stats:
771 pounds
7 ft long
7 ft wide
10 ft long tail
What this tells me is that no human on the planet could possibly survive a rumble with this thing. So when glaciers melt and everything floods these guys will pretty much rule the planet. I hope I'm dead by then.
In other news, March 12th is the last day of Winter Quarter 2009. Fucking thank god. This has possibly been my worst quarter ever. Not that everything will magically change during Spring Quarter, but at least all of this bullshit will be behind me (kind of).

MEET CHARLIE

I met him while volunteering at the Humane Society. I started going everyday just to see him so last week I did everyone a favor and adopted him.
He's super chill. His tail is mangled and he has a little piece of one of his ears missing back from his hardknock life days on the streets. He is obviously a lover, not a fighter. One of the best parts about him is that when I play certain Animal Collective songs loudly, he meows back to Avey Tare's whoops. We're soulmates.

take it to the MAX

I mostly like this because it looks like the 1950s version of people in the future:

look at this chandelier made of gummi bears

seriously, just fucking look at it:

stuff michael jackson is auctioning off

includes:






FUCK. I WANT IT ALL.

Being sad would be much easier if I weren't intelligent. Intelligence fucks up sadness with other layers, mostly (for me) of guilt and self-loathing. But if I were more stupid, less self aware then I wouldn't have any of the guilt or self-loathing; so maybe easier isn't the right word. Pure would be better. If I were stupid I could be purely, plainly sad. But as it turns out, I cannot be sad without being followed by the guilt-ridden fact that some people are worse off than me. It's nearly impossible for me to not counter any sadness I feel with an immediate reminder of other situations. Dropped my keys on my foot? At least I'm getting an education. Textbook got lost in the mail? At least I've never been raped. Got pulled over for crying so hard I swerved between lanes? At least my mom is awesome. Got fired? At least I have plenty of clean clothes and shoes. Best friends out of the country for a few months? At least I don't have credit card debt. Fainted and got a black eye? At least I'm not a drug addict. A child says I'm ugly? At least I know how to read. Was in love with a boyfriend who didn't love me back and subsequently moved 1,000+ miles away seemingly without warning or any emotion? At least I'm not starving to death.
All of those things have happened to me, nonstop, since the very first day of 2009. They've all been bad, ranging from frustration to nearly crippling despair but its pretty hard to nurse these ranges of terrible along with the sense that they're not that terrible.
It's not hard to hate something you don't understand, and I will be the first to admit that I do not understand myself. I'm not a complete mystery; there are certain things that I do know and I actually like some of them, but there's enough dark matter to scare me into hating myself. It's the easy way out. But with all of that unhappiness and loneliness and guilt there's only so much I can handle at any given time.
My life will get worse than this. That's easy for me to imagine. It will get better than this, too, though that's harder for me to see. I've cried a lot. But I have to get through it, and by myself, no matter how badly I want to drag him into with me. What other choice do I have? It's just another shitty turn my life has suddenly taken and I just have to deal with it. But this is the kind of situation feminists point to. It will make me sadder. It will give me more writing material. And it will be one more item to take off the "At least" list to add to my guilt.

happy birthday to a bffl

my mom is so cool

I just received this e-mail from my mom. The hippest mom ever.

Subject: gotta love You Tube!

WILCO & Fleet Foxes!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmZfV6tqbTU

--
"Knit on, with confidence and hope through all crises."
Elizabeth Zimmermann 1910-1999


that knitting quote automatically goes on every e-mail she sends out. just in case I forget she's my mom when she sends me e-mails like this.