relieving sinus congestion in theory since just a few minutes ago

Oh my god this has never happened before in the history of human kind I am posting for the second time in one day, just hours after my last mind alteringly magniloquent post, only this time I have to say something.

I can't find my camera today so, either:

a) My bitch ass friends took my camera last night, with out asking and I will kill them slowly with a dull potato peeler, or maybe just make a couple of snotty with a tinge of pouty comments about how they have officially ruined my life, and compromised the quality of today’s literary endeavors.

b) I pulled a Tiffers. By this I mean, I made a stationary pass with my eyes around the room, barely turning my neck, lifting nothing, and finding nothing, all the while, growing increasingly morose and resentful of my theiving friends, plotting their eliminations by rusted kitchen implements, or verbal battery.

c) A and B were actually the only two possibilities.

d)I have these really weird little lumpy things inside my bottom lip, and now that I mention it, also my top lip, that I've always had and I've always chewed on for fun or boredom or if I don't have gum, do you have them too, are they cancer? Chew on your tumors if you've got em! HOLLA!

e) Encyclopedia

A lot of times I have things to write about, but sometimes, i.e. now, I don't so I just start writing things and then I erase them, and they are condemned to the annals of temporary computer space wastage, but don't worry they go to heaven for they have been redeemed.

I wrote part of a song about Jesus. It's still under construction, but I'm sure, with the good Lord's blessing, they rest of it will be as beautiful and inspired as what you're about to read.
Quick addendum: I'd like you to bear in mind that this is not the ideal medium for relaying this piece of music (ha ha music is mucis for a dyslexic). Imagine, if you will, the following piece vocalized in my angelic tenor, with a very slight twist of Cartman.
Enjoy...

Verse: Jesus is my best friend
His face is beautiful
He makes me eggs and bacon
He is so super cool

Chorus: Oh Jesus Jesus
Oh Jesus Jesus
Merry Christmas Jesus
Jiggity Jesus Jew

Verse: Jesus wrote the bible
Comforting the poor
Nuclear technology
Miracles galore

Repeat Chorus

That's all I've got so far.

If any one has any input of any kind, groovy, because I think I've included everything I've ever thought about Jesus in that song. I even embellished a little.

One really funny aside... If you replace the 'N' in nuclear wth an 'M', you get MUCLEAR! Am I the only one who thinks I just hit on a gold mine idea. I'm going to need some chemists to collaborate with on this, but I think I just coined the term for the next big thing in congestion alleviation.
I even have the catch phrase. "Blow sinus congestion away with Muclear technology. Muclear (by SE Johnson Wax)"
Oh my BeJeezus! I am a motherfucking GENIUS!

The problem with canned soups

It’s 9 o’clock in the morning, and here are the things I’ve already done:

Woke up
Read a text message
Got out of bed
Prepared a glass of ice water
Filled BOTH ice trays
Signed for a Fed Ex package that isn’t even for me
Put on the Boston Hoodie
Turned on Amon Tobin (not sexually…I meant his music)
Started writing this list

p.s. I’ve also looked out the window several times to enjoy the still dew dabbled and newly verdant back yard view to my right. Eventually there will be a sunny day again, I’m sure, since this is Texas, a place most people misconceive to be made entirely of desert, not the deluvian Pacific Northwest.
p.s. The song Back From Space by the aforementioned Amon Tobin + said overcast and slightly moist weather conundrum = disquieting ambiance for the Candice.

I’m leaving on Tuesday for LA, a.k.a. Smoggy Chancre on a Festering Boil in Sunny California. I won’t have a camera (shucks) which is disappointing, not because of the visually stunning photo opportunities of transcendent resplendence I will be unable to exploit, but because I’ll be unable to appease my blog inspired interest in the documentation of generally everything I do. P.S. I have more pictures of the Tiffers on the toilet than you’d care to know about, and while this isn’t something that I’ve done per say, it is something that occurs in my life roughly 12-16 times a day, that affects me significantly, as the bathroom door is rarely closed. Just as an example.

The reason that I won’t have a camera is because I’ve offered, out of the supple pink goodness of my heart, to let my friend James take my camera on the Appalachian Trail with him. He is leaving on Tuesday as well. He will be gone for about 6 months. This means certain death for my camera. I have reconciled the morality of this in my mind, since my camera was diagnosed in early December with a terminal case of Pixelitus.

Pixelitus affects the pixels on the display screen of digital cameras. Pixels will, for reasons as yet undetermined by scientists, turn black in completely random areas. Depending on the designs that the dead pixels have created on the display screen, the effect of this condition can be devastating or quite hilarious. In the case of my camera, people in vertically snapped photos often have a pointy, Captain Morgan-esque goatee. That’s funny.

But despite the hilarity of the disease in the case of my camera, I’ve decided to utilize this opportunity to flaunt my generosity whilst creating a impregnable reason to get a newer, smaller, cuter camera, with a bigger, blackened pixel free display. Everyone wins.
But in the mean time, I will be buying Kodak single use cameras which complicates my life to a dizzying degree (not really) unless I can convince Trenton to let me borrow his camera, I promise I will take care of it, I’ve had my camera for 2 years, I am dependable.

Also, if seen gallivanting about LA, with the likes of people who are the likes of which I’ll be gallivanting about with in LA, with a bright yellow Kodak fun shot 3,000 or whatever the fuck, I would be judged. And since I’m Candice, I’m used to doing the judging. (Okay, I WILL still be judging, but that’s not the point.) Comments will be made about lack of outdoor plumbing, horses and wagons as transport, and the ubiquitous lack of anything, namely cameras, non-disposable in the hick state of Texas.

What if they don’t like me!?!

Sometimes when I fart it smells like a newly opened can of vegetable soup. I was going to say ‘generic brand of vegetable soup’ but that’s unfair. This is quality. This is Campbell’s.

Cirrhosis in 4 days

So delightfully hazy
Laughing and dancing
Dance with me
Nonsensical
I want to touch and
Let me draw you
Just let me
Please
We’re breathing
Sucking bubbles
Together
You know
I want to know
Let me know you
Let me love you
Turn that song off
Let me go
So ordinarily magic
Temporary
And changing
See?
Itslaughter grab it
If you grab and shake it
Let it work
Be free
The room is quick
It spins
And I want off
I have to see
If the rules of love apply
Or just
The rules of gravity
So easy
Not to notice
You sitting there
You touching me
Lights flicker fast
And falter
Let me up
You’re sputtering
The world falls down
I struggle up
Don’t laugh at me
Me me me me
Who brought the sun
I hate the sun
I hate you too
I just need sleep

Waiting...since I can't think of anything better right now

Are you sitting half dressed in your recently abandoned room, with a one eyed, not just dog, but pug?

Are you waiting to go some where?

Waiting to realize something, like Zing! and the answer appears, and you are delivered, the demons have been exorcised?

Waiting for someone to tell you what to do/say/wear/eat, hello Jesus I’m talking to you, p.s. I read your book, it sucks?

Waiting to go eat sushi with friends when you know you really need to be alone, even though you don’t want to be alone because you can’t shake the feeling of waiting?

Waiting for those compulsions to pass? No I don’t want a cigarette. No I don’t need a drink. I am aware these things do not solve problems. Or do they?

Are you waiting for that part Dayvan Cowboy for change your life again for the first time?

Are you waiting?
It’s not just the feeling of waiting for something you can’t define, just cannot put your finger on, something that exists only in another universe or dimension, or in a fabled garden, guarded by twirling swords. It’s the feeling of immobility, inability. Every opportunity exists, so no opportunity exists.
Meh… I suppose it’s all just a matter of perspective. And at this particular juncture in the space time continuum, the part of Negator will be played by Candice. Please turn off your cell phones and keep your kids quiet or so help me god I will smash them in their aurally chafing mouths. Fuck! I hate kids.
No but seriously.
I really don’t like kids at all; they aren’t even as cute as puppies. Fuck em. I’m having my tubes tied.
You’re welcome world.
I guess I just want what all waiters want; a good tip. Except I’m not that kind of waiter, besides if I was a culinary transport specialist, I would be dubbed either ‘waitress’ as I have tits and a vajayjay, or the more PC, non-gender-defining, but still inherently and obviously demeaning ‘server’.
“Here are your pancakes…I AIN’T YO BITCH!....sir….”
Again, seriously…
I guess I just want either an answer or an escape. A bottle of vodka or enlightenment. A cigarette or the Rosetta Stone. A roll or the key to the Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle…on Friday.
But it seems like I’m getting the answers in the Sunday paper, Sarah smoked the last cigarette, the liquor store is closed (*remember, it’s Sunday, and this is Texas), and the Buddha wrapped up all the enlightenment in his meditation mat and b-lined it out of this dimly lit shit hole and straight into Nirvana.
And the Oscar for most stellar performance in accurate portrayal of fictitious character created by girl whose blog no one reads, goes to…….Candice for her role as Negator!
Clapping, cheering, laughter, one rotten banana thrown, more clapping, all around general conviviality and satisfaction with the decision except from that one guy with the banana who’s being escorted out as we speak, don’t worry he’s being taken care of, I know a guy.
p.s. I also won a Pulitzer Prize for best ever usage, placement, construction, and clever delivery of run on sentences. It is on my mantle. Wearing a rhinestone tiara. Don’t ask.

When good coffee goes bad..

I am such an uber grumpy biotch today.

I made the Tiffers go away, I angered James with tactless abruptitude, I accidentally hit One Iris while I was sleeping.

Some one just walked in. I will kill them.

It was the Tiffers. I roasted her to ashes with my menacing death stare 9,000. I'm sorry Tiffers. Rise like a P-hoe-nix from your pile of charred remains, and go to sun your white ass in the back yard. Fire crotch!

I am utterly evil.

This is what you will become if you move to Austin and are allergic to anything at all. Don't do it. Try New Mexico. Everything is dead there so nothing can kill you. Except rattlesnakes.

Fuck it, I'm getting a bubble to live in.

We tried to lift our communal spirits earlier by going to Spiderhouse for coffee. We even brought One Iris who escaped by crawling under the less than secure fence and also she scratched my leg, but she is so cute and she always snores. I love her. Things seemed to be going along swimmingly; it's a beautiful day, we listened to Playground Love on the way over, Iris is a cycolps, we're going to have coffee. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, this'll teach you to count all your chickens' eggs before they hatch in one basket.

I order my large coffee (yes large, I deserve a special treat today) and prepare it with the utmost care, slowly stirring in the carefully apportioned unrefined sugar crystals, pouring in the thick, rich half & half in a circular fashion, the black coffee ribboned with white swirls of heaven as it gradually turns to mocha, and then to that perfect shade of caramel. The undulating, convoluting spectral steam rises from the ambrosial surface as I carry my prized fluid concoction to the table, where I plan to sip it contentedly in the soft, enveloping spring sunlight.

As I make myself comfortable in my tetanus infested, yet delightfully quirky retro chair, I reach for my coffee, skipping over the inhalation of the roasted bean aroma since I can't smell for shit right now, close my eyes in a relaxed anticipation, bring the cup to my lips, and take the first glorious sip. Ahhhhhhhh.....

Wait! No! Not 'ahhh....' at all. More like 'AHHH!'

I can't taste a god damn thing. Seriously nothing at all. That's when I realized why I couldn't taste the foulness that are my unbrushed teeth.

All the joy is gone from my life.

Some people eat to live, some people live to eat. And if you know me at all, you'll know that I am part of the latter group. Why has god not only given me horrendous allergies, but, to add insult to injury, taken away my means of indulging my one true passion; my sense of taste?

Take my eyes!

Take my nose! (oh wait you already did you mother fucker!)

Goddammit!

Nothing really interesting happened at all today, so I said to the Tiffers, "Do something interesting, " and she made a funny face. It was slightly interesting.

One thing though... We went on a bike ride this morning to get the blood flowing before breakfast you know, and One Iris rode in the basket of the front of my bike which the Tiffers was riding, and we passed by this guy with his dog who was both big, and shitting and I said, "That dog is taking a shit. DROP THAT DEUCE!" and his owner laughed and the Tiffers and I also laughed as we kept peddling by, but I was also a little embarrassed at being white trash. Either that or I'm 'delightfully tacky, yet unrefined' to borrow from Hooters.

I'm going to go refill my 'single use' Jack-in-the-Box styrofoam giganti-cup with ice water, and enjoy it thoroughly since water doesn't taste like anything and I can't taste anything, therefore we are soul mates.

Someone please smash me in the face now

Whatever you do, if you don't love to have a constantly running, red, chafed nose hole, and a continuously watering eye ball which is also red and your eye lid is veiny and chapped from wiping, and also your voice sounds like a retarded cartoon rabbit, and also you can't hear very well because your ears are pressurized, which means you can't really hear your stupid voice which your friends are snickering at over dinner, and also you can barely taste your food, and if you don't like to be hopped up on Benadryl strips that make your tongue first taste like disgusting and then make it numb all while not working at all except at making you a space cadet fuck tard, then for the love sweet baby jesus, DO NOT MOVE TO AUSTIN!
P.S. What culinary genuis thought of putting the fries ON the burger!?! My heart is either welling with joy, or seizing up from arterial plaque. It's hard to say which.
I'm sure we figured this out from my last entry, but I love Boards of Canada. Seriously. we are engaged
Note: I am listening to BOC and also I'm drugged up so I have nothing in my brain to write about since my brain is actually melting into the snot that is pouring forth abuntantly from my facial orifices.

Dayvan Cowboy

The cluster of radio towers in Westlake. You know, the ones studded with red flashing lights. The ones that always conjure my Grandma's lamp, oil dripping down the circular arrangement of guitar strings, a figurine in the center, slowly. The one that we drove around for hours to find the provenance of that night; we hopped the fence, we stared the 'radiation' warning signs in the figurative face, and copped a defiant squat. We weren't high, but felt so in that misty, unearthly, undulating red light.


The feeling I get when I see them, from any point in Austin, a huddle of giants in the hills.


Looking out over the ocean, at night, lights from the string of hotels and resorts blighting the beach shining behind my head, and the sea is that much darker. It is black as pitch. There is no moon. It is infinite, and I am so small. I am so very small. That is magic.


Falling back into a swimming pool, sinking to the bottom, weightless and nearly drowning as my air escapes, elevates, in a plume of a billion bubbles. Looking up. The sun. The quiet. And that would be a good way to die.


The sun setting from an airplane window, vivid on the curved horizon.


That song. What is that strange chord it strikes in me? The undeniable one I can't identify. I feel so 'mortal.' I feel....

Burger Tex should pay me for this

Here's a poem

God gave me style
God gave me head
God put his muddy boots
On my bed

Imagine this: You awake, unreasonably early in the morning (10) considering how late you went to sleep and also how drunk you were and how many left over (delicious) mashed potatoes you ate just before cozying up to your red headed friends dirty pillows (boobies). You are confused for a moment about where you are and who you are/aren't with, considering you haven't slept at home in a few days. You have to take a humassive morning after drinking, solid at the beginning, runny towards the end, shit. But mostly (take notes, this is important), you are hungry, and you are thirsty, and this, for the mother fucking love of god must be remedied pronto, other wise ginger haired (though completely undeserving) heads will roll.
"But where, " you ask, "can I get delicious and filling food in abundant variety, that is also healthy because I don't want to ruin the de-flabifying roll I've been on (liquid diet) since I've been back from Thailand, because, well, I don't care if I'm a cunt, as long as I'm thin?"
To which I respond, "Souper Salad."
I'm changing from 2nd person omniscient to 1st person narrative now. Look alive.
So you/I and also the Tiffer's put on our flippy-do's (I'm actually lobbying at present to have the unpalatable colloquialism "flip flop" changed , for obvious reasons, to the superior and, I'd venture to say, musical "flippy-do." I'm sure I have your support in this), forgot our phones, and headed in the direction of the vegetable smorgasbord that was our destiny.
While en route, using meticulously selected back streets so as to maximize efficiency, and minimize a) fuel consumption, b) time consumption, and c) my frustration (p.s. I am a master navigator), we wound up behind this total smeghead in a Lincoln or some other ugly, and in this situation, slow going car. As I was road raging at him, borrowing generously from my reserves of outdated urban vernacular, the Tiffers and I noticed simultaneously, that we were passing by Burger Tex, at a ludicrously slow pace. And we looked at each other, and we knew. Salad was not in the stars for us. Not today anyway.
As a quick aside, I feel I have to explain something. I have passed by said Burger Tex hundreds, nay, thousands of times in my life, never thinking to stop and have a bite even once. But all that changed Saturday, when I had the most enjoyable, life-altering experience (I can die happy now) imaginable; a mushroom swiss burger from Burger Tex. Thank you Nick, I will name my new fat after you.
Continuing. Well, getting to the point anyway, we abandoned any hopes of self satisfied smugness at our iron resolve to better our lives through the consumption of healthy food, and got 2 delicious burgers, one each, and ate them with zealous gusto, and now we are fat, but elated, praise the lord! it is a beautiful day in Austin!

A Discussion of Intriguing Topics

Today I am so (insert adjective). I wish I could just (insert verb) all day until (insert pronoun) (insert verb, past tense) all over (insert pronoun) (insert noun).


Whew! Good to get that off my chest.


This morning Tiffers and I, in a frenzy of previous evening alcohol mixing induced ravenousness, went to Taco Cabana for a smidgen of their glorious breakfast tacos. While en route, a long and harrowing route filled with trials and tribulations of a terrifying nature, I was saying really hilarious things to distract us from vomiting up the non contents of our stomachs. one item of said hilarity was this...


(Note: I am adding a verbatim transcript of the conversation in order to demonstrate, in addition to the obvious humour of the comment, the contextual genius as well.)


Tiffany: "If they aren't serving breakfast any more, I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra cheese."


Me: "I'm ordering a bean and cheese taco with extra taco."


HAHAHAHAHA! You are laughing.


And now for the latest installment of The Death Shoe Chronicles.


They are fucking rank, and they are Tiffany's and not mine and they are also boots and not shoes and let's get some Dr. Scholl's foot stank spray for the love of god, my lungs are being melted by the noxious vapors.


I want to address an issue really quick, as I'm sure it's been on the front burner (the big one) of everyones thoughts, and I'd hate to be an inconsiderate twat and not quell any curiosities/fears/insatiable desires. So here goes: I am fully aware that I say heaps of nothing with words in equal proportion. But my question to you, kind sir a.k.a. fuck wad, is this; what do you have to say? I have an unfortunate medical condition, incurable I'm afraid, where in I have been blessed with an extraordinarily large vocabulary (snicker) and an immensely enviable and innovative mastery of the English language, but I am incapable of contriving a single interesting or original thought beyond what our kids would look like if cilantro and I copulated (more on this later).


So anyway, the real point is this. There is no point. If you'd like to see a free verbal masturbation show, read on. If not, do something other than read on.


I like to use masturbation in analogies. Also, abortions, interracial comradery, the stock market, and lion pride hierarchy/feeding habits. Fascinating.


Back to cilantro. Whilst on the previously mentioned Taco Cabana outing, something revelatory happened to me. But before I can even think about opening that bag of chips, I feel the need to prologue the story with a bit of Taco Cabana 101.


While Taco Cabana's fare is both delectable and authentic (made by real Mexicans), neither of these qualities are what made the establishment into the fast Mexican food empire that it is today. No, what makes Taco Cabana truly great is their all you can eat condiment bar, which features a dizzying array of fresh salsas, pico de gallo, fresh onions, limes, and jalapenos, and, you guessed it, cilantro. Ask any one, tell your friends. It is the shit. Take a big whiff.


That said, I can begin the story. As I tore into my potato, egg, and cheese breakfast taco, wrapped in a thick hand made tortilla, topped with a tongue teasing rojo salsa, pico, and a sprinkling of tender cilantro leaves, something, I'd venture to say, life altering occurred to me. I realized, I love cilantro. I can't deny it. My salivary glands squirt out their lubricious fluids at the very thought of that scintillating herb rolling around in my mouth, being ground by my molars, becoming an embarrassing green thing in my front teeth, and finally, fatefully, coming to rest in my welcoming stomach, nourishing, not only my body with its chlorophyllous goodness, but also my soul. Cliantro raises your IQ by 3 points on each occasion that you eat it. I am now a genius. (Wouldn't it be funny if I spelled genius like 'genyus' whilst proclaiming to be one. Woo Hoo!) My mind then wandered, as girls minds are wont to do when thinking of the things we love, to marriage, and then to baby making. Before long (3 seconds), I found myself wondering what out offspring would look like. After much contemplation, I arrived at this.

I hope this means as much to you as it did, and will continue to mean to me.
Something terrible actually happened a couple of minutes ago, which was that Tiffers asked me if I wanted to go for coffee, and you know what? I do.
Now I am distracted and hurrying through this and I am not giving my writing my 100% super star effort, so I'm going to stop and feed the beast.

Fecal Matters!

This shit is serious.
It is Fat Tuesday, which means it is Tuesday and you are fat.
But seriously, I think we should take a moment, on this most solemn of days, to reflect on what it means to get completely leathered and either a) bare your mammaries for strands of tawdry plastic baubles, or b) try, in your state of retarded inebriation, to steady your video camera as you record said exposed mammaries for (self) pleasurable viewing at a later time.
That was yesterday.
Today is Ash Wednesday, and I have no idea what that means to people of the Catholic description, except that you can't do anything fun any more for a long while. Yes. And something to do with ashes.
It actually all just came flooding back to me in a moment of omniscient clarity. On Fat Tuesday, Jesus, turns water into wine (things get a little crazy, women are showing their ankles, a holy tradition begins), on Ash Wednesday, Jesus is cremated (resurrect that, you sum-bitch), skip (insert adjective) Thursday, on Good Friday, Jesus makes a miraculous comeback with the single 'Love Your Neighbor, All Night Long', Saturday, Shomer Shabbas, and finally on Sunday, Jesus goes to IHOP for breakfast, waits 2 hours for substandard pancakes, all the while cursing the church going crowd for flooding the 24 hour breakfast market. And that, my friends, is the story of the Easter related holidays, and the foundation on which the whole of New Orleans' economy is based.
I am the queen of run on sentences.
As much as I'd love to bitch today, and believe me, I always can (Complainator), I am instead going to write about the weather conditions in Austin, Texas today.
It is lovely.
Tiffany, James and I went to the Barton Springs spillway in, get this, flip flops and shorts, tanned for a minute, had iced vanilla lattes of the non fat variety, and now I'm here, pecking out this verbal virtuosity, for you to enjoy, you being James, Lindsay, Tiffany, or any of my friends whom I force to read my blog and tell me how funny it is.
Yesterday, Tiffers and I went to a fire station, tried on their fire proofing awesome costumes, climbed the pole, ate chocolate chip cookies with cream of the ice and whipped denominations, and watched Face Off in extremely comfortable recliners until we could no longer bear to witness the nauseating spectacle of over aged, over actor showmanship. The we left to go get pissed. Yay!
Tonight I'm going to work, and I am convincing myself that I am uber excited about this by writing right now about how I am uber excited to be going to work.
Holla!

I live for my rug! Interpret as you see fit.

Is it wrong to buy a bottle/box of aged wine (the product turnover at that liquor store is deplorably low), a value sized container of economically piquant grape drink, at 5:20 in the evening, and not only consume the entire thing solo, but in under 30 minutes?

I may do this regardless of your morally superior (incorrect) opinion of, "Yes, it is wrong."

I was considering changing the, what I thought to be no longer aptly applied, name of my blog, the other day. I stopped considering that, when I realized that it is not only quite apt, but probably more so now that I've started writing from a perspective other than some sort of idealistic highhorse.

Who wants to wrap themselves in a cozy blanket of self-deprecating-glorifying-pitying, world weary, cynical, sarcastic, and boringly magniloquent humour? Well step on up kids, I've got a variety (one type) of cheap vino, 1 lb of peanut M&M's (half gone), a tub of crisco (also half gone) and a black rubber dildo (very broken in) the size of two Coke cans stacked. What the fuck does that even mean (shut up you twat)?

Update: Cigarettes are more powerful than god+jesus+black holes+infinite gravity+the compulsion to masturbate with a pillow when ever left alone for even a moment. They are not more powerful than Satan (god rest his soul) as they are made of a carefully rendered composite of the dark lord's nail clippings, semen, fromunda cheese, and just a dash of heroin(shocker!). The amalgamation is then roasted to a scrumptous crispiness (I'll give you one guess as to where), packaged and deilvered to my nearest convenience store, or as I like to call them, Chinese people, where they idle their time, preforming one seductive siren song or another, until I actually have to throw my car keys into the nearest pond (which is actually farther than the 'Chinese people') to avoid succumbing.

p.s. The car keys part is an artful embellishment, meant to enhance the appeal and intrigue of the former factual, even if dull, statements.

I just thought of a game. Let's think of something good that happened to us today.

.......

Well, that was a nice mental exercise in futility.

No no no. I can breathe. And that's always good. Also, I have a functioning healthy body.

The sad part of this all is, I don't even have a box of cheap wine with which to inebriate myself to a stupid degree. I made that all up.

But I am not a para... or better yet, quadraplegic. And that is good for me. Not for wheelchair production companies. But for me, it rocks.

I also have a very cool rug. It really ties the room together.

Wow! I'm feeling so much better.

Wow! I wish there was an internationally recognized font meant for conveying sarcastic tone.

The latter sentence was not sarcastic. The former was. Note the difference in font. Viva La Revolucion!

For your viewing pleasure, here is a photo of me passed out on V.D. over a plastic bag I had just thrown up into. Go on, have a laugh.

p.s. Is it wrong to rub one off to a picture of a kid you had a crush on in 5th grade, if said picture is a yearbook picture, and said yearbook is from 5th grade?

Purely hypothetical people. Tranquilo.

British people are known for bland food

I just over heard a girl at the table opposite mine say that. Apparently they boil everything into a flavorless mush, and that is why they invented Worcestershire sauce. I'm going to have to disagree here. I think they deep fry everything to a heart attack facilitating, yet delicious crispiness, and that is why they invented HP Brown Sauce.
But it's all speculation.
I am looking at a painting of an ecstatic whale, who I only imagine is ecstatic as he is suspended weightlessly in green water that fades to yellow, he can hold his breath for an uber long time, and words are floating with him in that spring colored abyss. I am projecting. I would be ecstatic. To be honest though, his face looks a bit smug. But he has every right to be. He's a behemoth in the 2nd dimension.
SNAP!
I'm sad-ish today. I'm having a coffee at Spiderhouse in attempt to cheer myself with caffeinated good and the hope and endorphin inducing possibility of hot boy seeing, especially one particular hot boy employee, who I thought I just saw, and my stomach jumped, but it wasn't him, and I was disappointed.
It is really hard to be funny or clever when you're down. I am trying to think of things, but instead of actually thinking, I am being repeatedly caught by curious yet apalled onlookers
with my fingers inside my nostrils. I'm not picking! It's a comfort thing. My other comfort thing is putting my hand in my pants and cupping my vajayjay. It's warm and soft and it makes me feel safe. So I'm obviously choosing the less offensive of publicly inappropriate comfort devices. Sod off!
Maybe I'll just run to my mom's house, pick up some of my early to mid-teenage 'woe is me, I've managed to convince every one that I will take my life with an entire bottle of Advil soon, and leave my tortured life in a headache free condition' poetry, transcribe it on to my blog, and call it a day.
One thing though, is that they are playing Black Sabbath/Ozzy Osbourne, I can't tell which because, as I'm getting to saying, I don't like either and I don't give a frick, but the point is that it's annoying and affecting the purity of my self pitying mood, distorting it into a 'I'd like to infect myself with rabies' sort of mood, which is obviously not my desired state.
I also quit smoking yesterday afternoon, which is gay, because it seems like everyday in my life is a bad day to quit smoking. Or maybe everyday is too bad a day to quit smoking because the day has been sullied with attempts at nicotine abstinence. The chicken, the egg? Who fucking knows.
I'm probably just going to procure a beret, a fresh cup of coffee, and a package of existentialistic, brown papered, French cigarettes, which, while not less carcinogenic, are infused with such a high concentration of coolness and superficiality dispelling ponderance, you grow in awesomeness purely by attempting to pronounce their name.
Fuck a Duck!
This motivational incidence of perseverance through the trials of shit early satan worshipping metal, rejection dejection, and bowel shattering cigarette withdrawals, brought to you by a true crusader of awesome, a warrior for fabulous of the highest distinction; me.
I'm feeling 1.3% better.

1969 in the Sunshine

I have intentions today of extracting the diahorrea from my cranium and smearing it around on this vitrual sheet of crispy white paper, with a stick, or a log of harder shit, and I will hand it into your kindergarden teacher, and it will be art. You love it.
I get a gold star.
Speaking of shit, you know how some times after you take a really humassive shit, you feel like you've been anally raped, but from the inside? Well, after last night's, Candice has some how gone from delightfully tipsy, to violent heaving, of both the wet and dry varieties, into Cuba Libres toilet along with her vomit streaked hair debacle, that's sort of how my throat feels. Like it was violated, lubelessly, by a huge phallic object. But hey, maybe it was. Seeing as how I can't remember much beyond, "Hey Lins, let's go to the bathroom, " I'd say it's quite possible that I forceably, and finally, learned to deep throat, as a group of 6 or more random, viral menengitus hosting blokes gang banged my throat. I will be dead in 4 hours.
As my last literary testament to the world, in summation of my life, which absolutely teems with platinum accomplishments, to get down to brass tacks, and thick red wine reductions, I'd like to say, "I don't know how bulemics do it."
So, today I am grouchy and am compelled to be productive by making t-shirts for my new t-shirt making company 'Babies with Rabies, Inc.' which is soooo about to exFUCKINGplode, p.s. that awesome Thai vagrant dog inspired company name is so copyrighted, so don't even think about pilferring it, you poon. My posse should be here before too long, and then it's off to Hobby Lobby for supplies.
I am hungry.

random entry that two people in the world will understand

good times on koh phangan
what you see:
Marcus, Martyn and myself....The Calm Before the Storm
what you didn't see:
the hedonistic smorgasbord that ensued where we feasted on the delicacies excavated from Marcus' nose

ah buckets and sleeping with Martyn in the sand under someone's bungalow with only a stolen bath mat on which to lay our leathered heads
thank you Martyn, for losing my wallet
i will always cherish that memory
so worth it

good times

Posing the Important Questions, Addressing the Hard Hitting Issues

Why is it that food designers think that an organized salad is an appetizing salad?

CJ's the Art of Coffee and Dog Molestation

I love the smell of brewing coffee.

The way the house fills with yummy scents, as the pot fills with coffee.
Fantabulous.
I love freecycle and the freecyclers, who made my home coffee brewing possible.
I love not dealing with that snooty Quacks barista who is never friendly to me just because he has a "cool" shitty job.
I do miss riding my bike to get the coffee though, but I still ride my bike other places.
I love finally using my bunny coffee cup, compliments of Goodwill's dumpster.

Let's not forget the hovering coffee fairy, who blesses all who partake with the gifts of her vitality and alluring stench.

That was dumb. I just added it because of the above picture that I found.

I wish I could that I could say that I'm just feeling very loving in general this subjective morning, but I am not.
I hate the world, damn the man, dudes can't commit, girls are scandalous ho's, they put onions on my burger, I wasn't hugged enough as a child, the gays are threatening the American family.
But at least I have coffee, and all the accompanying accoutrements of wonder.

Put your bananas in the fridge. Yum! For real.

I am a little apprehensive abour writing this down, since plans are always so tentative, but I'm planning a 3 month solo trip to Southeast Asia in November. Toni is invited, as is my friend Sara Lula, but they're both probably gonna flake out. See? Scandalous ho's.
Whatever.
I'm going to go to my aunt's house for tilapia and some sort of activity other than TV. I'm following your advice Toni. Sort of.
I'll probably love on the dogs, scratching their bellies, lowering my blood pressure, extending my life.

This is one of the dogs I will molester. Zweedle!

poem

remember those days
lonely
walking to the
poorly stocked library
buying coffee
you had no money for
remember those days
wresting
stubborn haiku
from a moment

it's easy to look back
into the past
and think
"it's good"
it's good because it's easy
but it's easy because
it's over

all the time
spent reminiscing
remembering
those days not
anymore
while those days of
now
of not quite yet
shift into them

remembering those days
writing
poems of the future
slipping
to the past
examining the rosy
colored time
that didn't last

then was now
now will be
then
where will i be
walking to the library
drinking coffee
i can't afford
suffering some new
suffer
longing
for the suffer
of before

Harvest

A Shorty...What do you think

She's sitting at a counter having a coffee. It is the color of a caramel chew. The stirring spoon, left in a bus bin. Each time she sips her tepid libation, she pinches her nose with her first finger and thumb.
Looking up from her book, through the window, directly infront of the counter at which she is sitting, she watches a girl in a floppy woven hat, standing on the pedals of her bike as it rolls by of it's own momentum. Noticing the four full racks in her field of vision, she thinks:
"Every body rides bikes here."
She had, in fact, ridden her bike there.

A too skinny, shirtless, surferesque guy, in flip flops and swimming trunks.
A kind of nerdy guy, with intellectual looking hair and glasses, Val Kilmer lips.
A jungle green car pulling into a parking spot in front of the cafe.
"That car's just like mine."
That car is yours.

See the key scratch down the side from that long ago drunken debacle.
See the dented front fender, the battle scar of a shopping cart war gone awry.
See him opening the driver side door, a glance and a smile to his right, locking the door, stepping out.
See her opening the passenger door, moving to get out, pulled back into place by the forgotten lap belt.
"My lap belt."
Yes, your lap belt.
They both chuckle.

She takes another sip of her quickly cooling coffee, the coagulating cream floating on the surface, creating the pattern of wind blown sand on a surface of a dune, floating down her throat, into her stomach, acid with acid, her nose left unplugged.
She doesn't notice.

LEFT LANE FOR PASSING ONLY

I'm passing all y'all motherfuckers!

I seriously think this everytime I pass a "left lane for passing only" sign.

I swear.

I know....I'm cool.

Cheese Curds...A Love Poem

what is it about cheese curds?

sometimes i think i should watch
what/how much i eat
maybe drop 5ish pounds.
all that somehow seems
to magically vanish
when it comes time to eat.

i just ate white rice
with miso dressing
and kraft mexican blend
cheese melted on it,
and then
about a 1/2 cup of cottage cheese.

what is it about cheese curds?

Nuevo Blog

Since no one ever reads this blog, I am now writing here. You know, just in case some one stumbled upon this blog, and was mildly intrigued.

Celebration and Consumerism...Yay!

I just spent so much time writing clever things for a profile on a web site that I don't even care about and I lost it.
It was clever I tell you.
This website is called New American Dream, and it's all about conscious living and making your own choices for living instead of living off the inertia of decisions and ideals made generations ago. It's basically giving a new thrust for it's own brand of future inertia. I think they have good intentions, don't get me wrong, but you can't just start running Mac programs on a PC. You just can't. And that's alot of what I think they're trying to do. They want to make changes, but just a little bit. They want to change just enough so that they can stay comfortable. Which reminds me of some Fiona Apple lyrics from the song Extraordinary Machine.

I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes, and
I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot, it's a slow climb
But I'm good at being uncomfortable so I can't stop changing all the time

I noticed that my opponent is always on the go, and
Won't go slow so's not to focus and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide as long as they go fast from whence he came
But he's no good at being uncomfortable so he can't stop staying exactly the same

I thought it was relevant.
So, an example of what I'm talking about is that this website, as well as other magazines, books, and organizations I've encountered, focus so much on what is good for you to buy, and how the things you have been buying are bad, but I think that they're completely missing the point. It's the buying, the constant consuming that's the problem. There is such a thing as an organic, free range, fair trade, local buying consumer whore. If you are buying, you are using limited resources.
But as long as people can still buy as much shit as they want, and ease their consciences a bit by making responsible product choices, then I guess we are making real progress, and real changes, and all is bright and sunny wonderful in the world.
Mostly though, I just don't like organizations telling people how to live and what to think, be they religious (the most obvious target), ecological, political, psychological, societal, cultural, gastronomical, commercial, musical, or rectal. I just don't like it. And I don't like that people are so lazy that they subscribe to these things, with barely, if any, a consideration of how they feel themselves.
Anyhow. I don't really care about this stuff really. That is one of the "clever" points I was making on my late profile. One of the little boxes that you were supposed to fill in asked "If you could, what corporate of governmental policies would you change?"
To that I said that the data available to me, and the brain available to me for processing data, are both too limited for me to know what changes I could make for the better. My scope of the big picture is far too narrow for me to anticipate what sort of repercussions would result from even the most minute change I might make. I would have to be omniscient to answer that question rightly. What might seem wrong, ugly, and appalling to me, may be a natural and necessary part of the future of this planet. As we "liberals" are so fond of saying to the "conservatives", just because it's my opinion and I believe it, doesn't mean it should be law.
So I've taken to AA mantra as my own in this regard. I am accepting the the things I can't (and maybe shouldn't) change, and I am trying to have the courage to change the things I can. And the only thing I can change, the only thing I have control over, is myself.
So I can't be bothered with the fuckedupedness of the world. It's out of my hands.
I'm just trying to have a happy life. I'm trying to be the woman of my dreams, living the life of my dreams.

Now I'm eating some Christmas dinner leftovers, and I'm feeling a little more relaxed. I was feeling a bit high strung there for a minute. I needed another dose of tryptophan to calm me down. I better write quickly. I'll soon be in a coma.
Christmas was good. Last night we had home made hot cocoa, played board games, and listened to corny Christmas songs on one of the television music channels. Then we all exchanges letters we wrote to one another. I wrote, what I think was, an especially inspired and lovely letter to James. No TV watching, not computer-ing. We just spent quality Christmas Eve family time together.
Today there was alot of eating and gift opening. I don't really care too much for gift opening. I think the gifts are so much more lovely the night before, all beautifully wrapped, sitting under the sparkley fake tree, glowing with all the anticipation of the next morning.
Then, the next morning, the gifts are all unwrapped and under appreciated, everyone is tired and maybe just a little disappointed, and all the accrued anticipation of the days leading up to then, is scattered around the living room in wads of crumpled, festively printed paper.
It's like really great sex, topped off with an orgasm that's just kind of, eh.
You know what I'm talking about.
But Christmas was good. I got a Henkel paring knife, a gift card for a cooking class at Central Market, a cook book, and a hundred dollars, with which I'll buy jeans.
Christmas with my family is tomorrow. I sense a Barnes and Noble gift card in my future.
Anyway, Zoe is getting antsy. I think she needs a walk.

Every Rose Has It's Bush

Aloneness.
Today is the first day back to normal life since Grandma died exactly one week, one hour, and 24 minutes ago. Since then it’s been family, and mourning, and Thanksgiving, and driving, and acquiring Katie for a month trial period. Today it’s life as normal until Christmas time. Work, reading, dog park, etc.
I think life as normal is the hardest thing there is. If there is nothing else to distract you, you are forced to confront yourself.
While cruising back from Houston earlier today, I realized that for the first time as an idea unto itself.
For so long I struggled with my jealousy. It was my biggest source of negativity, suffering and self-loathing. It’s a miracle James’ and my relationship survived And now, while I on occasion relapse, but more often than not, only begin to relapse, I am fixed. That bud has been nipped.
I can’t even begin to tell you the anger, the bitterness, the feeling of unfairness I’ve felt toward Dad and Ruthie over the years for the difficulty of my adolescence. For not actually doing their best, and for, even if they were, if not being good enough. But now, as my Grandma’s already diminished health, deteriorated so rapidly and completely, I began to make amends in my mind. I began to forgive.
I saw all of the long kept resentment, grudges and blame between my Grandma and her first born son, Scott. I saw them not over come those feelings, ever. They never spoke before she died. Now they never can. I saw the life long sibling animosity my Dad holds for my Aunt remain solid and in tact, even as my family came together at my Grandparents house to mourn just hours after Grandma’s death. She tried to hug him, to let him know that despite all their differences over the years, he was still her brother, and she still loves him, and as she did, he just stood there, unresponsive.
I saw these things and realized the pettiness of it. The reasons are unimportant. To shut your family out of your life and to let your anger fester inside of you. There is not a good reason for that. I saw I had to understand and to forgive and to rise above. I will not one day be my Uncle Scott. That bud is holding on by one browning, fibrous string.
There are smaller things. I have to come into a zen-like balance with my work. I do not cry before going. I respect myself. And I do not put up with any shit. That bud has been nipped.
(On a side note about work, I realized that your life will be spent however you spend it. So I am not satisfied with my job. It is not what I will be remembered as, whether by my survivors, or by my elderly self. I can do better. I can do something I love. Anyway. Back to the buds.)
I can cruise (see aforementioned description of driving back from Houston), instead of stressing myself, hurrying to wherever I’m going. I’m able to not feel like I’m, as I’ve been so fond of saying in the past, “wasting my life” while driving. I throw on the autopilot, and enjoy myself. Another bud nipped.
I eat more slowly, enjoying my food more. This seems like a stupid thing to mention, I know, but you should have seen me eat before. Jesus.
So, I’m finding a new balance in all of these different areas of my life. All of these buds nipped. All of these symptoms and distractions removed.
But without all of these buds and blooms clouding my vision, distracting me, I am now acutely aware of the bush. The source. My self. My life. And it is overwhelming.
Now with out all of the death, and mourning, and traveling, and old dog adoption, I am left again, to stare at this thorny and formidable bush, to formulate and to attempt, all while nursing each new prick.
And in comparison, the jealousy, resentment, and bitterness all seems like little fireball breathing flowers in the Super Mario of life. I’m just now to King Koopa.

My brain keeps wanting to think about tomorrow. To imagine my responsibilities. When I’ll work this week, cleaning, dog park, all that. It keeps trying to incite me to consume. “Don’t you want a special treat Candice?…How about a coffee?…You also need groceries…Treats for the dogs….Don’t they deserve them?… They’ve had a hard day.”
And so on. But I’m stopping that. I’m letting myself feel good about spending time alone. When was the last time? Two weeks ago.
I have Zero 7 playing, my red Chinese paper lantern and some candles lit, and I’m writing. I don’t have to do anything else. I don’t want a coffee. I am not hungry. The dogs are sleeping. I am fine.
Maybe I won’t solve the conundrum that is life, not even my own, tonight. Probably not after many nights like this. But it is such a good feeling, a long transient feeling since my first serious boyfriend came along, and I am glad to have it tonight.

It’s occurred to me recently, that I hardly ever spend time doing just exactly what I want. I sleep when I think I should sleep, eat when I think I should eat, work when I think I should work. When I wake up, I always jump out of bed, and brush my teeth. I never wake up, and lay there, reading for a couple of hours. I never don’t brush my teeth. I never sing when there are people around, even if I feel like it. I shower when I really don’t want to. I drive because I think I have to hurry. I don’t linger at the pool of whirling leaves in the creek for long if there’s anyone around. I don’t stay up later than I “should”, listening to music, drinking wine, alone. I’ve never gone downtown dancing alone. I’ve never gone into work at 10.
Starting now, I’m going to do what ever I feel like, even if it’s a “waste of time,” even if my teeth will rot, even if I won’t be productive, even if I’ll be drunk alone, even if I’m coloring in my Lion King coloring book for 5 hours.
I feel like beinsg myself and forgiving myself for it.

Lizzie McGuire = Big Mac

I know know know that I would write more if I had my own computer con internet. Every time I'm in Houston, I'm writing.
Needless to say, I'm in Houston. Richmond to be specific. James and I are at his mom's for second Thanksgiving visitations. We had first Thanksgiving at my mom's on the 24th.
Whatever.
That's not what I came here today to talk about.
I came here to talk about nothing in particular. I guess I just wanted to listen to myself type.

Am I wrong for finding Hilary Duff revoltingly annoying?
Marilee, my common law sister-in-law, is watching the Lizzy McGuire movie. It just started and I felt little curds of revulsion jiggling in my tummy while watching her trite and so blatantly rehearsed "I'm singing and dancing alone in my room and no one's watching" fiasco.
I ain't a hater.
She's cute, and I'm sure she's a sweet person, but she's, as far as I can see, talentless and her work is unoriginal.

Do movies like Lizzie McGuire fall into the Arts category?
To be sure, all film, including both movies and television, have their origins in theatre, an art in which I'm not too well versed (it's never been my thing), but I know is a display of people in exaggerated situations, exaggerating emotions in order to bring them to the front of our consiousness and look at them, both on a stage and in ourselves. But come on.
It's like trying to call a Big Mac a product of the culinary arts.
There's garbage mass produced for mass consumption, by people with less discerning tastes.
And then there's creation.
To create is to push beyond our mere animal nature. It is to become divine. It is evolution.
It is as beautiful as birth. It is the same thing, only it comes from our mind and soul, not just our bodies. It is pushing our potential. It is transcendence, the transcendence of ourselves.
To create is to acknowledge that which is God-like, that which is divine in all of us.
To mass produce is succumb to the instinctual fear of famine, which translates itself in our modern times as greed. When we must have as much as we possibly can, for fear there may not be enough, or difficult times may come. Capitalism.
(No, I'm not a communist. I'm a Candice-ist. I can think for myself, thank you.)
So, in summary, Lizzie McGuire is not art. It is a Big Mac.

That hurt my brain, all that thinking I just did.

Thanksgiving Thanks

Thanksgiving Day.
I wish I could say I'm feeling warm, fuzzy, thankfullness this morning, but I'd be lying.
I guess these things have to sometimes be induced.
So, in an attempt to both be in a more appreciative state of mind today, and to elevate the situation of my life to someting not so desperate, I think I'll try and list a few things I'm greatful for.
I know. How trite.

*James, who probably is the only person who really knows me, understands me, agrees with me (mostly). I love him so much.
*Auntie, whose heart is as big as her weight in gold. Wait, does that make sense?
*Mom, Pa, and Bra, for being the normal, relatively, part of my family.
*Zoe, my pup, even though she likes James better than me.
*Toni, my oldest and closest friend. Probably the only female who gets me.
*Fo the people who bring out the goofy in me...Crazy Kathy a.k.a. Alex, and Vanaynay.
*Those moments when I really understand. When I know everything is not just going to be, but actually is, okay.
*For magic, imagination, fantasy, subjective reality, and it never being, necessarily, better to grow up.
*Good books, and Tom Robbins.
*Creativity
*Food, and despite things I don't like about it, the fact the I am lucky enough ot have been born in a country of abundance, where I can have so much of so many different foods to try.
*Me, my good looks, cleverness, wit, occasional clarity of mind and understanding, and super hot body. Also that my brain isn't completely retarded.

I don't want this to just turn into a list of things that I like, although that would be a positive contribution to the lightening renovation of my blog. But, another entry.
In reality (subjective of course), there are many other things, small things, I know I am thankful for, but don't realize, like maybe global commerce, which allows me mangos year round, and electrticity, and scientists who take the trouble to figure out things that benefit me but I don't really find interesting enough to bother with myself.
This is my shoutout to all of those innumerable things, which are too many for my not completely retarded brain to even concieve of. HOLLA!

Any how. Life is good, lovin' rocks, money doesn't matter...Erleichda!

Houston.....not so dull this time.

The hurricane is less than 24 hours away from hitting. James and I are stuck in Houston at my familys house. We barely had enough gas to get here from his mom's, much less get back to Austin. I'd say 4/5 of the gas stations along the way were out of gas, and the other 1/5 of them had lines at least 45 minutes long.
I didn't get any pics of that, but when we went to the grocery store for some last minute supplies, I got these. A little taste of chaos.
Mom and our last mintue necessities.
Breadless.
Canned goodless.
Waterless...except for the impending floods.
Meatless.

Thirteen

Last night we took turns dodging pillows the other two threw, all the time, trying to keep our laughter at a low hiss.
We put on Marilee's clock radio, and showed each other our dance moves, chewing Lemonheads, and more Lemonheads.
We played Bullshit, but said "BS," once again, trying to keep our giggles low.
We moved our card game to Ivanna's room, after being told one too many times to keep it down, where were told one last time to keep it down, or we (not me), would have to go to bed.
We played rummy, crazy 8's. We did the splits and backbends. We talked about crushes. We ate string cheese and farted.
Then they went to bed.
And I got to be thirteen again.

Listen All A Y'all, This is Sabotage

As always, I am beginning to sabotage myself.
Watching Team America, I feel a tiny longing to visit France, sitting in cafes, wlking over bridges, buying flowers from flower stalls, eating fries.
Watching Malto Mario, I want to sample Italy's finest food, gathered around a large old wooden table, with 4 generations of my Sicilian family, laughing, lingering, drinking wine poured from a jog.
(I am no part Italian, it's a fantasy. Jesus!)
Watching BBC America today, I wanted to buy my ticket right then to England, to see the cloudy skies, formal, yet lush gardens, and dark pubs.
And so the travel sickness once again shows it's ugly symptoms.
Just when I have a good plan.
I can't just work a shit job, save money and travel for the rest of my life. If I did, I would only really be living, doing something I love, about 1/3 of the time. And that's not even factoring in sleeping, showering, shitting.
One day I'll be old, and I won't be able to work just any shit job any more. And with all the medications I'll have to buy, for my alzheimers and diabetes and erectile dysfunction, I'll probably just barely be scraping by.
Am I overly concerned about a future that may never even come to be?
Am I trying to insure my life?
No.
I just know what it's like to live the way I live because I've been living that way for quite a while by now.
I am not satisfied. I am not happy with it. I am not living my dream.
I am not fulfilled.
So it's time to move along, to commit to something (at least for now...he he), and not fall back into my habitual way of life, because it's that...a habit.
I don't suspect that I'll ever stop travelling. I love it. I need it.
I get these serious cravings that HAVE to be pacified. It's like heroin for me.
But at this point in my life, travelling can never be for me, anything more than a diversion from the cruel reality of my soul killing job.
I can't join the Peace Corps. I can't teach English in Japan.
I don't know if I am currently capable of combining my passions with my responsibilites.

Oh no...
We were just talking about Fredericksberg, and the awesome German food, and Enchanted rock. James was reminiscently complaining about the price of camping there, and compared it to the average costs of National Parks.
And suddenly, I was longing for the view of the entrance booth, the beauty abounding on either side of the road, the map at the trailhead, the treasures to be discovered along the path.
I want another shot at Denali. I want to be deep in Olympic. The Great Smoky Mountains, Yosemite, Yellowstone, Grand Teton. I want it all again.
And then, think of all the National Parks in other countries...Croatia, Costa Rica, Australia, Kenya. Jesus Christ!

See what I'm saying?
Frick a lick on a stick!

Commitment and Eclairs

I always get a little swirrl of anxiety when I sit down to write.
Maybe it's not knowing the outcome.
Maybe it's the uncertainty that I'll find the words.
But I'm feeling it now.

I'm writing because I was inspired by my friend Dani's blog entry that she wrote recently about herself. More specifically, things she finds wrong with herself.
With this train of thought, fresh and in the back of my mind, I wrote to my friend Toni. I haven't been in too close of contact with her in a while, so I was telling her about what's been going on in my life.
It was during this e-mail that I realized, I am afraid of commitment.
Maybe "afraid" isn't the right word.
Maybe I have an aversion to commitment.
Maybe I'm allergic.
Whatever the appropriate term for my inability to commit to things, the fact is, I am unable to commit to things.
I'm not talking about relationships. James and I have been together 4 years as of the 10th of October. I am very commited to him. I don't know about marriage, but that's a whole other story.
I'm talking about commitment to any direction in my life.
I'm talking about to anything lasting longer than a couple of weeks.
Por Ejemplo: In the past 4ish years, I have been intensly and passionately interested in crochet, belly dance, beading, poi, and haiku, all for about a month each. And those are just the examples I can think of right off the top of my head.
I have made arrangements to roommate with 4 different people, Julie, Toni, Melody, and Jen. I have followed through with only Julie, and that was only for a month and a half. The rest, I've decided against after a couple weeks thought, thus ruining other's plans and nearly breaking up my sister, Melody, and her fiance.
I can't even commit to simple plans to hang out with people. I make the plan, I decide I don't want to hang out after all, I never call, and when that person calls me, I don't answer the phone. people who know me really well have come to understand this about me: I am a flake.
So, at this particular juncture in my life, I have a plan, as I usually do.
I am going to save money, for roughly a year. Then I'm going to take out loans for school, at the same time, investing the money I've saved, with James' help. Then I'll go to school. When I'm finished with school, I'll use the money I had originally saved to pay off my loans before they accure any interest, and I'll keep the money I made off that money in the stock market, so it can make me some mo monies.
An excellent plan I think. I really like this one.
But you don't understand. I've made SOOOOOO many plans. And SOOOOO few have come to fruition.
Why? Because I can't commit. Therefore, I get little accomplished.
Therefore, much of the time I feel like I'm floating around, just stayin' alive.
I imagine such great things for myself. Such wonderful experiences and accomplishments. I expect a wonderful life.
Buy how the frick am I supposed to experience and accomplish great things if I can't commit to something for more than a month?
Maybe I have a short attention span.
There are only a few long lasting passions in my life, and those are, in order of age (though definitely not in order of importance), food, writing, cooking, and James.
Travel also actually, but as it's not on a front burner for me right now, I hesitate to add it to the previous list.

So I'm a commitment-phobe. What do I do? I feel ya guys.

I just want to add, I made eclairs from scratch today. If you've only had doughnut shop eclairs, then you've never had one. SHAZAAM!

The Playground

And I thought there was nothing to photograph in this neighborhood.

The Background

It's retarded.
On this blog, I've recently discovered, I don't feel free to write about stupid random shit.
I know some would disagree, were they to read back over my previous entries, but I personally always feel that I have to at least stir a certain amount of cleverness into my entries.
When I log on to Blogger, I feel.....pressure.
Maybe it's the imposing grey background.
Maybe, well, that's actually all I can think of.
I think I'll change the background.

That's better.

Flawed

I had so much good, clean, and productive fun yesterday with the series of "Flawed" photos, and others I took in James' Mom's van and the fabric store, I think I'll do it again today.
I had been looking through some peoples photos on Deviantart, and regretting the fact that the 3rd dimension does strange things to my face, and therefore, obviously, I could not model for myself in photos.
Then it occured to me that maybe I was looking for the wrong things in a model.
Some old dead guy, like Goethe, or Mussolini, or some one said,
"Ugly can be beautiful, but pretty, never."
And I realized that all those distorted angles, and imperfect features, were infinitely more interesting than a scarless chin, or a perfect button nose.
So I will continue in my "Flawed" series, to appreciate, through very blunt photos, all of my previously unloved parts.

The Fruits of Todays Labor

Urban Exploration and The Elusive Poly-Cot Grail (also random photo)

Sorting through fabrics at Hancock's, looking for the perfect material for James' Urban Monk thingamajiggy, I was thinking of an Urban something else.
Drinking my to go coffee, after eating my big salad at Cafe Express, I was also thinking about the Urban something else.
I wasn't thinking about it when I was trying to get James with the two finger snake bite attack. That takes too much concentration, especially when holding the aforementioned to go coffee.

That Urban something else, is Urban Exploration. It's something that James and I have practiced, sort of, around Austin.
I think that technically, Urban Exploration, is going into abandoned, closed off, forgotten, or forbidden places, with a flashlight, and maybe a camera, and seeing what you can see.
This is something I haven't really thought about doing before, and I am inspired.
I heard about it by reading Toni's blog, where she mentions it in passing.
But I don't just want to go into tunnels and abandoned mills and what not.
In my idea of UE (for short), it is really urban exploration. Discovering all sorts of hidden nooks and crannies around your city. It can be anything.
ANYTHING!
Even tiny things, like seed pods, fuse boxes, whatever.
Isn't the spirit of it discovery, of anything?
I only say this because I was looking at UE websites last night, to get an idea of what Toni was talking about, and they really seemed focused on specific kinds of places, like tunnels, and sewers, abandoned houses, buildings, and factories, rooftops, etc. Places of moisture, fungi, rust, and general dilapidation.
But it can be so much more.
Now I'm really looking forward to getting back to "the 512" and and diggin' in.
Heck, I might even have a go here, in "H town", whenever all the family is busy. I know I'll have time at my mom's.
I'm excited. Maybe I'll look around today.

On a sadder note, fate didn't bring James and his fabric soul mate together today.
Keep searching brave knight, for that polyester/cotton blend grail, and we will all keep you in our prayers.

Sometimes...(plus random photos)

Sometimes I get so tired of listening to my own bullshit.
I just read back over my post before last.
Sometimes I can sound so pompous.
But it's good to have your moments of pompousitude, and all other moments for that matter, recorded. It can really give you perspective.
It can really remind you that "this too shall pass," whether it's good or bad, it's not meant to last.
My life functions in currents, waves.
Sometimes I'm really in the swing of it. I'm thoughtful, metaphysical, spiritual. I'm changing, making progress. I'm getting shit done!
Sometimes (one of which was when I started this blog, hence the name "The Desperate Situation Of My Life"), everything feels very well FUCKED. And it's little cherry will ever after be just a brown stain on a sheet.
Sometimes I'm a stoner. No need to elaborate on that one.
Sometimes I am super creative. Whatever medium, I am Mrs. God, omnipotent weaver of things, haver of ideas, sculpter of curlicues, whisker of sauces. Whatever.
Sometimes I am a drinking, gossiping, x-doing, girly girl, idiot.
Sometimes I just am, floating around, living hand to mouth, not just financially, but completely. Those times may be the worst. Like feeding and watering myself, until I die.
Sometimes I have to be moving. Where ever I am is wrong. That's the wanderlust, and I have no illusions that I'll ever be rid of that.
But always, I am a booty shaking, "nigga" saying, wanksta.
But that's just how I roll.
I am 1/32 black, after all.

So I suppose I have to forgive my pompousitude. That's just how I was way back then, a month ago.

Ice

Isn't ice one of the most beautiful and amazing, and let us not leave out, refreshing things on the entire planet?
I'm not talking about "bling." I'm talking about wonderful little morsels of frozen water. I'm talking about crushed, and cubed, and berged, and glacierized ice.
I think back to our Mexico adventure and recall craving and missing, more than anything, ice.
I'd say it's my favorite food.
Does it count as a food?
It is solid. I do crunch it with my teeth and then swallow it.
It rejuvinates, it reenergizes.
It's water, only infinitely more entertaining for my mouth.
But ice is also lovely. Extremely.
I've caught myself, staring into my glass of ice water or tea, in either a pre or post gulp trance. The light hits it just right, the color of the glass, the lemon wedge distorted by the smooth glassy pebbles, the sun reflected into a star that rotates along with the varying width of my squinting of my eye.
To look through the side of the glass, through the beading and dripping condensation, and the transparent mass floating at the top of the glass. Or the middle of the glass.
Depends on how much you drank.

I love ice.

Coming Soon to a Computer Near You

It's been so long since I've written here, but I am still alive.
I got so burnt out with writing, what with keeping up with my travel blog, and my personal journal, and those 4 post cards I wrote while I was in Mexico, I just haven't been able to muster any words.
But I feel it coming back.
Little bubbles of verbal inspiration.
A tiny little popcorn pop in the back of my mind.
I need to make space. I need to make energy.
Collect energy rather.
Whatever.
Oh yeah...Puppies and Butterflies.