Ok, my website is languishing. I am a lazy, lazy bum. Even I can't believe I haven't written anything since April. It's pathetic, really. I think almost daily about doing a whole re-design with new content and blah blah blah...and then I sit on the couch reading books for a few more hours until I fall asleep. Jeorb.

It's not as though I'm super busy doing other things. I am working a lot more at the Bella Luna. And I'm still engaged in the endless and fruitless job search.

Is it uncouth to email a potential employer after he's rejected you to ask for a second chance?

I just finished reading Hemingway's "A Farewell to Arms." Can someone please explain to me what the big deal is about Hemingway? Pete told me yesterday that Hemingway was a fraud.

I've managed to work my way through all the books I got recently, though. Any recommendations?

I have nothing interesting to say.

San Diego was swell. Even though I got the flu in the last two days I was there, and my head is still all weirdly pressurized from the stupid airplane. And it's New Year's Eve and I pretty much feel like crappy pants. Bleah.

It was colder than it was supposed to be, for which I curse the weather gods.

I didn't really get to hang out with anyone, because I was too busy trying to hang out with everyone. But it was still good to see all the peeps, if not to have any actual conversations.

Nunu's is exactly the same, which is mostly why I love it.

I got to see the Pacific Ocean, which will hopefully tide me over until the next time I get to see the Pacific Ocean.

I put way too much mint in the mashed potatoes, so they were kind of like toothpaste mashed potatoes.

I still feel like crappy pants.

Yay New Year's.

Why doesn't Andie end up with Duckie at the end of Pretty in Pink? I can't fathom how someone with a crooked face who never says anything interesting wins out over The Duck Man.

The hair. The shoes. The amazing dancing skills. I would pick Duckie anyday. No question.

Cursing Massachusetts:

Apparently, one cannot buy beer or wine on Thanksgiving Day.

I now have to appear at my friend's mother's house empty handed, because I somehow doubt she would appreciate leftover pizza or macaroni and cheese.

Massachusetts is dumb.

Things I am obsessed with right now: The All-Music Guide, Echo & the Bunnymen, Red Stripe with a lime, learning to play pool, Bookbuilders of Boston, V-8, J. Crew jeans, Sondre Lerche, cursing Massachusetts, vodka marinara, weather, The Mittens, bad 80s movies, California, socks, clean sheets, reading The Shining, The Art of the Mix, Neutrogena Body Oil, "Pass the Dutchie," grocery stores, jangly guitar pop c. 1992, Scrabble.

And this is why I love Ms. Alice. How I miss my slutty friends! How I miss the sharing of indelicate details, the casual sex, the addition of notches on the bedpost! The excitement of ending up in bed unexpectedly with someone new and unknown, the discovery of an unfamiliar body. Oh Christ, it's been too long.

Back in Santa Cruz, I was surrounded by sluts, sluts who had no compunction, no remorse, no regret. Sluts who weren't out looking for "something more." Who didn't agonize over whether they slept with him "too soon," whether he'll call or why he hasn't. Awesome, awesome ladies who got some because they wanted some and never looked back. Goddammit, where are my girlies? Why am I now surrounded by women who, while very cool in very many ways, really, really just want a boyfriend? I think that even if I did get laid, I wouldn't want to tell any of them about it, because they wouldn't understand if I didn't give a damn whether I ever saw him again, they wouldn't understand if I didn't remember his name, they would just give me that look. That look they give me when I know they think I'm from another planet.

The fact, though, is this: I'm picky, and I'm not likely to meet someone I actually want a relationship with anytime soon. Why in hell should I let that stop me from getting laid? And why doesn't anyone out here understand that?

Oh, Alice, how I miss you, you salacious, slutty slammerkin.

Interesting statistic of the day:

"With unemployment rates among young people soaring, about 40 percent of recent college graduates intend to move back home." - BusinessWeek

Cheerful thought, isn't it?

The job search is so debilitating. I don't even want to talk about it.

I can't believe it's already November. My mom used to tell me that when I was older, I would wish time didn't pass so quickly, I would wish to be a kid again. Of course I didn't believe her, because I think you're never supposed to believe anything your mom tells you until you're old enough. And as with most other things she told me, she was right. However, I still get carded to buy cigarettes, so obviously I don't yet look older than 18. Sweet.

I read a great book last night: The Blue Bedspread by Raj Kamal Jha. It is sweet, and sad, and lovely, and haunting. A man spends a night writing the stories of his family for his newly orphaned, one-day-old baby niece, who sleeps on a blue bedspread, a bedspread that threads its way through his stories. They are full of circular images, phrases that repeat, quietly, here and there. If you're looking for plot, or traditional narrative, or a book that will answer all of your questions at the end, you won't find it here. You will find, instead, something heartbreaking and diffuse, but beautiful nonetheless.

I have also been reading the stories of Paul Bowles, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about them yet.

I watched Focus last night, and likewise, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.

I think I'm getting stupid.

I just spent way too much time discovering the strangeness of newsgroups. There are about a gazillion usenet newsgroups out there. How is one to decide between alt.dirty.whores and alt.fan.dan-quayle? What is the point? Why are people so endlessly specific in their interests? I'm intriqued. Of course, I had to subscribe to the alt.beer newsgroup, and the alt.cynicism group, and who could neglect alt.culture.theory? I'll probably be bored with all this in about three days.

I'm still not bored with Friendster, though.

I am bored with looking for a job. I just pray that I won't have to be doing this periodically still when I'm in my forties. Cause it sucks.

We're going to see School of Rock tomorrow. John Vanderslice this weekend. Death Cab next weekend. Oh the joy.

The New England autumn is definitely upon us. It's getting cold and I don't have nearly enough sweaters. I went to New Hampshah last weekend, and it was lovely, despite the fact that it rained the entire time. I saw a loon. And leaves that were a strange red color. We don't have those in Cafilornia.

Speaking of Cafilornia, it's certain now: I can never move back. Why, you ask? It should be obvious.

Last night my housemates and I went to Target. This was a very exciting field trip we had been planning for weeks. You scoff at the excitement level of a trip to Target, but you underestimate its magic and allure. Target is far away, out in the wilds of Somerville, so this trip was an undertaking akin to Conrad's journey into the heart of the jungle. We got lots of neat stuff, including (are you sitting down? This is very thrilling.) a crock pot! Yay crock pots! Or, as the French call them, mijoteuses. Yeahhh. Hours (and hours and hours) of slow cooking joy await the girls of 31 A Asticou Road.

The Red Sox are down two games, and Boston is holding one big collective breath. I didn't realize people could take baseball this seriously. But I'm all wrapped up myself, so I can't really laugh at them. It's exciting, and the Yankees should lose because the Yankees are bad for baseball. And the Red Sox are good because...because...well, they won't tell me the reason, but I'm sure they have one.

I finally watched Citizen Kane last night, after borrowing it from Will about 4 months ago and promising everytime I saw him that I would watch it that week. So, it was really good. It was really long. But it was great! And I feel like a better person for having seen it.

I've been hugely antisocial lately and I don't really know why. I don't go out anymore, ever. I only hang out with two people, besides my housemates, and we only ever sit around watching movies. Everytime I do venture out of doors to a pub or restaurant or something, I spend the whole time wanting to go home. Is something wrong with me? For anyone who knows me at all, this is highly unusual. Maybe I've been taken over by strange alien lifeforms. Domestic, homebody lifeforms. It's a possibility.

Mmmm. I'm still basking in the glow of our Target adventure. Target. Yeahhh.

When I created this whole web log thing I never intended it to usurp the main writing I was supposed to do for this site. I obviously underestimated my own laziness. It's amazing, really. You'd think that after 24 years I would know my own laziness backwards and forwards, and never give it the benefit of the doubt. You'd be wrong.

It's not that I sit and stare at the walls. I've been reading all kinds of books. And watching all kinds of movies.

I was working on a very cool book for Beacon.

Yeah, alright, I'm a lazy bum.

Alright, I suppose it's about time that I do some updatin'. Life in Boston has been lovely recently, but I haven't had much to say. It's starting to turn into fall, about which I can't decide if I'm happy or scared. I quit my job at the crappy cafe, although I am still waitress extraordinaire at Bella Luna. How could I give up those $2 beers?

The exciting thing is that I'm a bona fide freelancer. So what if right now I'm only getting typing assignments? Typing is exciting...or something. It's my plan to pick up some copyediting assignments soon, so I've been spending a lot of my time perusing the Chicago Manual of Style (you know I'm a dork because I find it genuinely interesting), and talking to my compatriots at Beacon Press. They have been awesome to me there, and are teaching me many and varied important publishing things. It's swell.

I've been watching lots of movies (I just watched Bull Durham for the million and twelfth time; it was great), and playing with my fancy new 'puter, and burning CDs like a banshee on fire. Yeah. Anyway, my music collection is expanding exponentially. I'm a music thief!!! Mwah ha ha ha ha!

I have plans to revise the main and important parts of this website, and will have plenty of free time in the coming week to do so. So just you wait. It'll be so exciting. You'll pee your pants, that's how exciting it's going to be. Mmm hm.

"I take a breath,
pull the air in til there's nothing left.
I'm feeling green,
like teenage lovers between the sheets.

Knuckles clenched to white
as the landing gear detract for flight.
My head's a balloon,
inflating with the altitude.

I watch the patchwork farms
slow fade
into the ocean's arms.
From here they can't see me stare;
the stale taste of recycled air.
Calm down, release your cares;
the stale taste of recycled air."

-The Postal Service

A pile of random zines mysteriously appeared on our coffee table the other night. I used to be a zine addict, but sometime during my second year of college, when I no longer had the time or energy to create my own, my addiction faded and I really haven't even glimpsed one since then. I had kind of forgotten all about them. And now, this mysterious pile of them in our living room.

A lot of them are just amazing and beautiful. There are lovely silkscreened covers and fancy typography and one has a tiny envelope pasted to the inside backcover, with another tiny zine inside, closed up with little silver star sticker. So much energy, and time, and dedication, and creativity put into intricate projects for no real reason whatsoever. I loved this little corner of the world, these people. I miss it all. I remember that there was a time in my life when I actually did things.

Now I just sit around on the couch and read books all day. I don't create anything. Nothing original or interesting comes out of my head.

I can't decide if reading all these mystery zines is making me happy and excited to do something again, or just sad and even more exhausted.

Why do I feel like such an old lady?

Oh if I could only find the time, the energy, the mental prowess, to write. Something...anything. I can't even write a decent email anymore. I no longer have anything interesting whatsoever to say. According to some people, I never did have anything interesting to say, but I know those people (and you know who you are) were really just jealous of my eloquence and wit. So ha.

You have nothing to be jealous of anymore, however, as both the eloquence and wit have disappeared.

Just go read the news, it's much better than this. And then come back and tell me what's happening in the world, as I no longer pay any attention. Yeah, theeeeanks.

I'd give my big toe to get out of going to work today. These 11 hour days are kicking my arse to hell and back, and I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

I interviewed for an Editorial Assistant position yesterday. This is the job I moved here for, this is the company I moved here to work with, I want it so badly it's like an itch somewhere deep in my brain that I can't scratch, and I think I really fucked up the the interview. Oy. I am quite possibly the world's worst interviewee. I'm going to be a waitress forever, I can feel it.

Shoot me.

I think I realized why I feel so at home in Boston, why I loved it almost instantly. Boston clings as tenaciously to its history as I do to mine. It feeds on its history, it obsesses over its history, it seizes every opportunity to talk about its history and point out significant features and events. History settles over the landscape of Boston like a fine, golden dust. Things that are happening right now in Boston are already history; you can almost hear the city figuring out how it's going to tell the story later on, in the future.

I am the same way. Me and Boston, we're like soulmates.

I work way too much. Way, way too much. And when I'm not at work I'm usually too tired to do much of anything besides sleep. I haven't written anything in I don't even know how long, and it's taking me over two weeks to read one measly book (About Town: The New Yorker and the World it Made), which is unprecedented. But by some kind of blessed miracle, I have tomorrow off. ('Yes,' most of you are probably thinking 'of course she does, it's the 4th of July.' You've obviously never worked in the food service industry.)

I turn 24 on Sunday. Half of the time I feel like I'm still 13. The other half, I feel 80. Does anyone ever feel like they are the age they are most of the time? Is it some kind of weird generational glitch that people my age feel like it's impossible for us to grow up? And is it ok for me to hate all those people who were published in The New Yorker by the time they were my age?

I'm starting to doubt that I'll ever be a writer. I guess I'm starting to doubt a lot of things. Like my sanity.

But to answer my own pondering non-question of the last post: I love Boston. I remembered it the minute I got on the train coming back from the airport. I don't really know why, but I love Boston intensely. Is that strange?

Hm. I still need more coffee.

I'm heading back to Massachusetts. Sweaty humid goodness...yeehaw.

Kick me in the arse if you will, but I'm starting to wonder what the hell I'm doing out there.

I know I couldn't live in Santa Cruz anymore. I know I love Boston, and it's good that I live there, and I don't regret it in the slightest. But...

Hm. I need coffee.

Ahhh California. I am beginning to realize that even if I never come back to reside in this state, it will always, always be home. And despite my all too frequent complaints about Santa Cruz, it has an insurmountable charm. Sitting in the Poet and Patriot yesterday afternoon I realized that, while Boston may be the US capitol of Irish pubs, the Poet blows them all away. I fear I may never find a pub as great as that one. Le sigh.

Everything is the same, and yet slightly, almost imperceptibly not. I feel at home and yet displaced. It's strange, but I'm still happy to be here. I got my tasty nachos, I saw my favorite Zachary's peeps, I got to drink beer in the Rush Inn and complain about the fact that it's being overrun by hipsters, and the weather...oh, the weather. It's fantastic.

But I'm tired and hungover, and I have to get ready to eat excellent Chinese food tonight (once you've eaten at the O'mei, no other Chinese food will satisfy you, I promise you that). I don't care what I say, I heart Santa Cruz. We just have a very volatile relationship.