Pretty effing cool.

It's been a good day.

My Dove chocolate wrapper's bit of wisdom is to "Go to your special place."

My bit of wisdom?

Blow me.

INTeresting.

Vote Chooser

Maybe not in the V Day spirit?

PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE NOTES

You know what I hate the most about passive aggressive emails at work? The ellipsis at the end of statements. As in: "Sorry to hear that . . ."

Oh, you're sorry, are you? Well, I'm sorry too. Sorry you're an asshole.

See? You don't have to be passive about it.

Happy V-Day, peeps.

Breaking it down:

1. Mindy Smith Radio. Excellent working music. Now that I’m home, I want to go play my old Tracy Chapman CDs. (Note to self: remember to purchase old Cranberries albums – you have no idea where your cassette tapes went.)

2. I desperately need to de-clutter my life, namely my apartment (Oprah says it works wonders.) Books, clothes, etc to Housing Works, STAT -- with the exception of the “good books” (no, not bibles) that I shall try my best to sell on eBay. I’m also thinking of holding an “email” giveaway. Friends like books, no?

3. Turtlenecks = I will never purchase again. I own ONE and that’s one too many. And it’s a sweater type, lovely piece of clothing. But for the love of everything good and pure, I wanted to rip it off my neck all day. Sweet Jesus . . . Talk. About. Uncomfortable.

4. I can’t friggin’ wait to go out to my sister’s house this weekend. I miss her. I miss her child. I miss her hubby (and I’m DEFinitely sure he misses me A LOT, too). OH, and I miss Sober. My niece is talking so much now and I feel a deep need to conversate with her. Things seem to be hopping for that 3-year-old . . . as they should be. She barely has time to spit out all of her goings on before hanging up on me half the time.

5. I ALSO can’t wait to go home to Virginia NEXT weekend to see Faye, George (her new wee tot), Farrah (home from the land of the Brits), me Mam, and me Big Guy. I can’t wait to smell home.

6. Nessi: I’m going to need to squeeze your child soon.

7. Needs to go eats my Tasti now . . . it’s not going to eat itself.

Thank the LORD.

Strike Over

One more week without Grey's and I was going to have to start reading or something.

Someday.

I think I may need to reexamine my motivations. And those hopes and dreams people are always talking about.

Oh, and I need to clean my apartment. Totally need to do that.

have you ever been bent or pulled, have you ever been played like strings?

i will lean into you
and you can be the wind
i will open up my mouth
and you can come rushing in
you can rush in so hard
and make it so i can't breathe
i breathe too much anyway
i can do that anyday

i just wish i knew who you were
i wish you'd make yourself known
probably you don't know i'm her
the woman you want to call home
i'll keep my ear to the wall
i'll keep my eye on the door
'cause i've heard all my own jokes
and they're just not funny anymore
i laugh too much anyway
i can do that anyday

have you ever been bent or pulled
have you ever been played like strings
if i could see you i could strum you
i could break you
make you sing
but i guess you can't really see the wind
it just comes in and fills the space
and everytime something moves
you think that you have seen its face
and i've always got my guitar to play
but i can do that anyday

—ani difranco / anyday

You give me miles and miles of mountains and I'll ask for the sea.

Already

18-1

Cris: Your Boyfriend will be getting you one for V-Day, I'm sure.

So. Effing. True.

WWTDD

if i'm gonna go down, i'm gonna do it with style

life used to be life-like
now it's more like show biz
i wake up in the night
and i don't know where the bathroom is
and i don't know what town i'm in
or what sky i am under
and i wake up in the darkness and i
don't have the will anymore to wonder
everyone has a skeleton
and a closet to keep it in
and you're mine
every song has a you
a you that the singer sings to
and you're it this time
baby, you're it this time

when i need to wipe my face
i use the back of my hand
and i like to take up space
just because i can
and i use my dress
to wipe up my drink
i care less and less
what people think
and you are so lame
you always disappoint me
it's kinda like our running joke
but it's really not funny
i just want you to live up to
the image of you i create
i see you and i'm so unsatisfied
i see you and i dilate

so i'll walk the plank and i'll jump with a smile
if i'm gonna go down
i'm gonna do it with style
and you won't see me surrender
you won't hear me confess
'cuz you've left me with nothing
but i've worked with less
and i learn every room long enough
to make it to the door
and then i hear it click shut behind me
and every key works differently
i forget every time
and the forgetting defines me
that's what defines me

when i say you sucked my brain out
the english translation
is i am in love with you
and it is no fun
but i don't use words like love
'cuz words like that don't matter
but don't look so offended
you know, you should be flattered
i wake up in the night
in some big hotel bed
my hands grope for the light
my hands grope for my head
the world is my oyster
the road is my home
and i know that i'm better
off alone

—ani difranco / dilate

Is it weird that I prefer the ladies' renditions on "An Acoustic Tribute to Dave Matthews" than the original versions? I heart you, Pandora.

Stuck in a system that seeks to suck your blood

Yeah…Yeah…Yeah…Yeah…
You see the road to hell is paved with good intentions
Can't you tell the way they have to mention
How they helped you out, you're such a hopeless victim
Please don't do me any favors, Mr. Intentional.

All their talk is seasoned to perfection
The road they walk commanding your affection
They need to be needed, deceived by motivation, an opportunity to further situation
Why they're so important is without explanation
Please don't patronize me, Mr. Intentional…Oh…

We give rise to ego, by being insecure
The advice that we go desperately searching for
the subconscious effort to support our paramour
Too engaged in denial, to admit we're immature
Validating lies, Mr. Intentional…Oh…

Open up your eyes, Mr. Intentional…

Stuck in a system that seeks to suck your blood
Held emotionally hostage by what everybody does
Counting all the money that you give them just because
Exploiting ignorance in the name of love
Stop before you drop because that's just the way it was
Please don't justify me, Mr. Intentional
So one-dimensional, Mr. Intentional

Don't you do me any favors

Wake up you've been sleeping, take up your bed and walk
Stop blaming other people, it's nobody else's fault
Accept the truth about you
You know that life goes on without you and Your expensive misinventions, disguising your intentions
Don't worship my hurt feelings, Mr. Intentional

See I know you can't help me, Mr. Intentional
The only help I need to live is unprofessional
The only wealth I have to give is not material
And if you need much more than that - I'm not available

Please don't entertain me, Mr. Intentional
I don't need your sympathy, Mr. Intentional
Stay away from me, Mr. Intentional
So one-dimensional, Mr. Promotional, Mr. Emotional, Mr. Intentional…

Lauryn Hill / Mr. Intentional

You've all prolly seen it already . . .

Funny, ain't it?

Pinch punch, first day of the month! White rabbits!

How do you win against a woman who wakes up at the butt crack of dawn to beat you to the punch? . . . The punch! Ha! Get it?? Because "Pinch punch . . ." . . . "PUNCH" . . . hello?

I need to figure out how to transport a pinch and punch through the mail. My mother will be getting hers . . .

Poopy Poop. I forgot the Poopy Poop.

Ten Things Bugging The Piss Out Of Me:

1. I've broken two drinking glasses in under one week. And one of them was my favorite "Ithaca" one from my sister and bro-in-law.

2. Stepping on a tiny shard of glass from second said drinking glass.

3. Jack's Complete Lack Of Exercise.

4. Being behind. At my job, with freelance, with work for friends. I'm an asshole.

5. An always untidy apartment. Balls.

6. An always full laundry basket. Eff.

7. An always full sink of dirty dishes. Poop.

8. My inability to be on time. Ever.

9. My lack of willpower around anything labeled "ice cream."

10. My horrible excuse for keeping in touch with people.

And that's just ten . . . I totally could have gone on. Now, THAT would make for a hearty and interesting blog, eh? Feel free to play the tiny violins now.

I was supposed to go to bed at 11.

Is it possible to be this much of a moron?

Apparently, it is.

NY Press Sex Columnist Quits After Just One Column

Tori Amos and Wayne Brady

One of my favorites . . .



Interesting version . . .



AND, whilst looking for a clip of this song, I saw that Tori also performed on the Wayne Brady show. I didn't choose the clip BUT just his name makes me think of this:



. . . which is just effing great.

the answer came like a shot in the back

the answer came
like a shot in the back
while you were running from your lesson
which might explain
why years later all you could remember
was the terror of the question
plus, you weren't listening
you were stockpiling canned goods
making a bomb shelter of our basement
and i can't believe you let the moral go by
while you were soaking in the product placement

where was your conscience?
where was your consciousness?
and where did you put all those letters
that you wrote to yourself
but could not address?

i'm a good kisser
and you're a fast learner
and that kinda thing could float us
for a pretty long time
then one day you'd realize
you've memorized my phone number
and you'll call it and find
it's a disconnected line
cuz i got tossed out the window of love's el camino
and i shattered into a shower of sparks on the curb
you were smoking me
weren't you?
between your yellow fingers
you just inhaled and exhaled without saying a word

where was your conscience?
where was your consciousness?
and where did you put all those letters
that you wrote to yourself
but could not address?

there's a smorgasbord of unspoken poisons
a whole childhood of potions
that are all bottled up
and so one by one i am dusting off labels
i am uncorking bottles and filling up cups
so go ahead and have a taste of your own medicine
and i'll have a taste of mine
but first let's toast to the lists
that we hold in our fists
of the things that we promise to do
differently next time

cuz the answer came like a shot in the back
while you were running from your lesson
which might explain
why years later all you could remember
was the terror of the question
plus i'm not listening to you anymore
my head is too sore and my heart's perforated
and i'm mired in the marrow of my (well... ain't that) funny bone
learning how to be alone and devastated
where was my conscience?
where was my consciousness?
and what do i do with all these letters
that i wrote to myself
but cannot address?

—ani difranco / marrow