used to be something to look forward to.

now they are dreary.

and tiresome.




On the brain.

shoulda wrote that paper this weekend.
i need sauce.
i am well stocked in garbage bags and toilette paper.
must do a load of sheets.
waking up in the middle of the night to a baby crying and dylan barking.
nakedlunchnakedlunchnakedlunch. psychology of an addict.
run-ins with the past.
wiffle ball prospects.
dancing machine.
mosquito bite x 10.
too much tuna in my belly. signs of mercury poisoning.
bird crap on the side of my car.
my sweater is in malina's car.
forgotten password.
Robert Butler.
5:44 train.
gnocchi party.
boots. need new boots.
car alarms.
sunny skies.
japanese songs.
dry lips.
grumbling belly.
work work work work work.



Ryan gave me a copy of Hunter S. Thompson's The Rum Diary for my birthday. I finished reading it last night and I am now compelled to move to Puerto Rico and swim naked all day and drink rum all night.

Or Mexico City.

I'm a dreamer.



Frozen Peach Pie.
12 pack of Heineken.
Ranch Dressing.
Veggie Burgers.
Bottle of White Wine.

= the things in my fridge.

Yes, I agree, it's time to go food shopping.



It's just one of those days.

achy back.
lack of sleep.
broken blackberry (all of my texts mysteriously vanished over night).
work bs.
school bs.
class tonight.

I am one cranky motherfucker.

The best thing about this day was the chocolate chip cookies that I ate for breakfast. Thanks mom!


Holy Crow.

I said it.

It was amazing.  This weekend.  Pics are up on my flickr.  Check-it check-it out over to the left.

Things that stood out:

Rita and Khalil at O'Reily's.
German intern.
Tiramisu birthday cake.
Breakfast cupcake candle at Alice's.
Lounging on a bench and reading 100 pages of leisure.
Taking the 6 with Kito, Scotty, Daryl and Carlos.
Seeing the lovely Olesya and Bojana two nights in a row.
Bowery poetry club interns.
Goth midget.
Subway photo shoot.
H & H bagels.
Dog park. 
Dinner with Claudio and Steven.
Salsa dance party outside on the stoop. On 84th.  Music and all.
Secret bar 151 at Rivington and Suffolk with the boys.
Plans of bird tattoo gangs.
and Motorcycling to Baja.
Breakfast with my favorite mustache.
Birthday gifts in blood. (he also got me a peach, a poetry book, an adorable card, a pin, a much needed corkscrew...and then...)
...a day full of adventures.
Union Square.
Our bench.
with the junkies.
Virgin Megastore.
Strand bookstore.
The Grey Dog.
Whiskey smoothies in the park.
Burn After Reading.
Trying to locate the car.
Steamy windows.
to wrap up the weekend
I found myself locked out of my apartment at 12:15am today.
Lost my damn key.
Fell right off my keychain.

well, at least my car wasn't broken into.

ha!  I love how I can joke about that now.

I love all of my friends.  You amaze me.  This weekend was so goddamn amazing.


This weekend.

Ok. Woah. I've been so busy this morning that I haven't had a chance to even think about posting.

Here we go.

My weekend begins at exactly 8:20pm tonight. That's when my final class should wrap up. It will continue until 8:30am Tuesday morning.

I will be headed to the city bright and early tomorrow morn. There will be drinking, and dancing, and general debauchery. I hope there will be lots of old friends, and tons of new friendships established as well.

Come hang with me. You can contact me via phone, text message, gchat, email, facebook, carrier pigeon or smoke signals. Please refrain from using the last two forms of communication unless you are completely against the use of modern technology.

As for what you can get me for my birthday, I will only be accepting these things:

1. A hoverboard.
2. Something stolen.
3. Something made.
4. Something made and then stolen.
5. Cupcakes.
6. A drink. (yes, orange gatorade falls under this category)

Let's whoop it up together.



Photo session.

I make funny faces when i drink.

Mustache reprise. In reverse.

I'll have the Tuesday night special.

dreamy phone call.
ding dong.
cell phone batteries.
nike sweatshirt.
combined shadows float down the concrete.

i hate to watch you dress.

waltzing matilda.
back rub.
agreeing to vote for McCain if he invents hoverboards.
tuning my guitar.
death before growing back hair.
Orlando itinerary.
coyote blood.
soft shirts and overalls.
dance lessons at the beer distributor.
fly in our ranch (invented circa 1998).
pizza bagel.
"it's the week, so no milk, no sugar, right?"
20,000 promised kisses.
rum diaries.
that card. added to my shirt collection.
CVS chocolates we forgot to eat.
the geese at the local zoo.
dragging the gut.


Something of interest.

David Foster Wallace at Kenyon College, May 21, 2005

Last night.

Long drive.
Volleyball congregation.
Chipwich bets.
Blue Moon.
PJ Sta. pick-up.
Back roads.
Soup's On.
Saltine eating contest.
Apt over port.
Candy liquor.
Joni Mitchell.
Arcade Fire.
Radiohead on vinyl.
Candy cookies.
Keyboard dance party.
Scotty, Kiesha, Pedro, Ian, Erik, Stephan, Stelios, Kevin.
Good times with old friends.


I suppose I should sum up this weekend.

But I hate looking back on summary posts with dread, so instead I shall make a cryptic compilation of words that I won't even be able to decode in a week or so.

Here goes nothing.

G-chattatatating in the shower. frozen snowman. 6:44 train to Penn. Brickbreaker high scores. olesya and her roses. 34th & 7th. walking downtown. catching a cab. going on a wild goose hunt for some beatnicks. ending up in the west village? walk to soho? where the hell were we? at least we had an umbrella. Ryan, Justin, Marlon. on a bench outside of NoLita. Beer, vodka, beer, dog at the bar. photo session out on the street. attempt at hailing a cab for 5. subway. Williamsburg. lost? found. 10 blocks south. party at maxie graces. S 5th. $5. music. art. booze. got some chicks number. steph. she worked at a salon that specialized in brazilian straightening. odd. fun. dancing. drinking. dancing. dmitri, scotty, kiesha, ian, aleks, brendan. meeting up at Sea. walking back down to the car. falling asleep mid-sentence as scott drove me home.

hangover. work at the yarn store. stories. exhaustion. two requests to get back to the city. party. dinner. two russians. home. long walk with dylan. telephone conversations galore. nap. leggings. white wine. bleach. bathroom scrub down. couch. movie. Central Station. Brazilian. learning portugese. bed.

internship. salmon pink smock. one gray haired man, alone, in his wheel chair, in front of the altar, in the dark, staring up at the image of christ. moved me to tears. psycho troll lady kept making her way into the rec room. first time i've ever felt fear at a nursing home. i felt like she had a message for me. with her pussy eyes and persistence. belly ache. burrito. caffeine. art therapy. monet. mom's for dinner. holding my nephew is the best thing ever. pasta. sauce. pasta. sauce. bread. candy corns. only the white part. football. bull riding. cigarette. dessert. home. intense walk with dylan. bath. homework. passing out. try again. pass out again. one more time. wake up with the lights on, book in my face, dylan curled up in my belly, middle of the night. with unanswered texts and a pounding headache.


I pledge...

To not even drop my phone ONCE tonight.

Who am I kidding.

It's important.

To have friends like Rita. Who listens to your crazy stories and laughs with you, and not directly at you. Who is not afraid to go out and have a drink that we've never even thought of trying before. Who will eat with you until you both have sufficient belly aches. Who will be completely direct and upfront with every single bartender/waiter that overheard our conversation.

We had an incredibly fun night. At the Cheesecake Factory after 4 hours of class, and a half hour of BSing with Christine in the lobby of Hagedorn. Mac's and Cheese. Guacamole. Martini's. Surprise concoctions from Adam, the bartender, who couldn't help but comment on every single thing we talked about.

It's times like that when you realize how lucky you are to have such fun, amazing, outgoing, brilliant friends like Rita.

Love you girl.


rocking socks off feathers floating ruffled.

Do you know what bothers me? When my professors send me 3 emails a day in between our last class meeting and the next class meeting, to assign extra work. What's the point of a syllabus anymore? Also, I love how they plainly state on said syllabus: "Additional assignments may be added during the semester." Yes, because we are all a slave to our f'in email addresses. Technology should make school easier. Instead, it's a means by which we get to be overloaded with homework, and grumpy as all hell for not being in grad school in, say, the 1950's. or 60's, 70's, 80's, and, yes, even the 90's. Fucking A.

I hate homework.

On moving.

where do we get a verde card?
and Rosa.
and Carlos Tamale.
skateboard/literary scene.

diving into the bathtub.

white hipster sunglasses.

"i'm not talking about vacation...i'm talking about escaping"

sending out books.
becoming famous.
finishing school.
making Spanish babies.


Self Portrait

My hair is getting long and unruly.


Memories from last night.

thicker mustache.
immortalized on page 4.
"how does it feel?"
smelly shirt. (smells good)
Elvis Perkins - "While you were sleeping"
stopping time.
button down shirt.
rolled up sleeves.
live music.
Alice in Chains.
black olive wars.
Blue Moon.
familiar faces.
more mustache talk.
slow dance.
twitching on the couch.
somber driving.
reading again.
Page 4.
day dreaming.
of a time machine.




Yesterday was all over the place.

Morning G-chats. Roller coaster words. Pure emotion. Loathing technology.

Mid-day family drama. Discussion. Yelling. Getting up the courage, only to be shot down.

Afternoon loneliness.

Early evening fast driving with the windows down and the radio blasting.

Venting to poor Scott.

Taking my aggression out on the V-ball court, wearing short shorts and bug spray.

Drinks and food with friends.

More drinks.

An hour in the car with the radio on.


Super late. Super tired.
The end.


Forever ago.

I was both lost and found this weekend. Drunk and sober. More drunk. I was in West Islip, Bay Shore, Lindenhurst, on the Upper East Side, in Greenwich Village, in Williamsburg, back on the Upper East Side, in Northport and home. I drank sangria, heineken, corona, patron, and a cosmo? Smoked one hookah. Hung around with boys. Danced. Got soaked in the rain. Crashed a party. Dropped my phone...twice. Spent over $50 in cabs. Polished my toenails. Missed someone terribly. As I write this it comes back to me. I made plans to go to Barcelona in January. Steven is buying me the Rosetta Stone software. Steven. Goddamn I'm lucky that he took excellent care of me all day...Until he allowed me in that cab to Williamsburg. Ugh. But I'm pretty determined. I go where the wind blows me. Even if that wind is accompanied by torrential rains. I spent the better part of yesterday going over my decisions. It was a lonely day of contemplation. No regrets though. Never. But no excuses either. Ok, some excuses. You get 3 excuses like wishes. My first is alcohol, and it's ability to cloud my judgement. The second is love. Love in every single sense of the word you could ever imagine. The good and the bad of it. Love. The love that makes everything feel wonderful and everything feel painful, all at the same time. My third excuse is that I'm onehellofan emotional sonofabitch.





Today, my darling little muffin head, Dylan turns 2 years old! Woah. Time is flying.

I already gave him a few goodies last night (I just couldn't wait!), but I plan on taking him to PetCo at lunchtime so that we can pick out some toys and treats to celebrate the big day.

I owe so much to this pup. It's impossible to put into words. He was my rock through a tough break-up, and my companion when I made the big move to live alone for the first time in my life. He gives me unconditional love, more kisses than I could ever count, and he's, hands down, the best cuddler EVER.

I feel so so so lucky and appreciative that he's in my life. He makes me laugh when life hands out lemons. He kisses my eyes when I cry. He's up for a long walk when I need to think. He's always down for a road trip to the city when I feel like getting away. He makes my work day that much easier by walking across my desk, plopping right down in front of my monitor and demanding kisses.

Everyone should have a dog.

Happy 2nd Birthday Dylan!


So angry.
So so so angry.

So so so angry.

2 reasons.

both stink pigs.

I hate that my dreams always turn into a reality.
Gives me a tummy ache.


And obnoxious requests from an ex.

Fuck me.


All male writers, incidentally, no matter how broke or otherwise objectionable, have pretty wives. Somebody should look into this.

Kurt Vonnegut


In a pickle.


I don't know what to do.

I really really really want to go to Paris. Well, actually, I don't REALLY want to go to Paris. I mean, not nearly as much as I would rather go to, say, Barcelona.

This is where my dilemma lies.

I'm trying to book a hotel for Paris. I have a flight booked, but not a hotel. It's crunch time, seeing as the trip is in a couple weeks. Supposedly.

Well, hotels are all booked up. So I'm going to have to spend a zillion and one dollars to get any type of accommodation.

On top of this, I would have to lend Jackie money for the trip, because she is so so so so so sweet to agree to come with me, but she also lives alone in Manhattan and has a ridiculous rent payment to make (and it was all a bit of short notice, and therefore, she had a lack of time to save).



Although I was stoked to go away for my birthday, I think I'm going to have to postpone my trip...To anywhere.

I feel somewhat defeated, but now I can go somewhere I really want to go, like Barcelona or Rome. Paris is up there, but it's the city of love, and well, you can figure it out.

Someone tell me I'm making the right decision.