I have a sneaking suspicion
that I am getting stupid-durrr.

The Kilowatt Cooker

It seems as if everyone's utmost concern is being happy
and I'm not necessarily saying it's a bad thing.

However.
If happiness is all anyone cares about
(which often comes at the expense of others)--
not being a good person, not trying to improve anyone else's situation--
then. that explains why every stranger I see
is blindly clawing their way towards happiness
no matter how temporary and by whatever means.

Affirmed.

Discussing a belated graduation present from my atehs--

Me: Are these real diamonds?
Mama: Yeah, of course.
Me: I don't wear diamonds.
Mama: Well, just keep it anyway.
Me: Yeah, maybe I can pawn them some day when I'm strapped for cash.
Mama: Exactly!

Not so hidden talents.

Reading over some of my past entries, I've realized that I'm quite self-absorbed and have a knack for complaining.

In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that most people are in fact just so, and the distinction between you and me lies in my transparency; I tend revel just a bit more in my Harry Potter-esque angst whereas others seemed ashamed. My discontent flourishes under both duress and relief, the mark of a true malcontent, question mark. The source of my stress, in which case is pretty much everything, proliferates for no good reason other than to stem boredom and trouble my sleep.

Yes, yes. What am I saying.

Take complainers seriously,
for when the complaints are valid,
it's not thanklessness,
but a crude desire for better.

Whirlings.

A butterfly landed on my shoulder today.
To take a break from the furious flutter of Academy life.

I hope it's a sign of good things to come.

Celebration is in order!

Carne asada fries...in San Francisco?!

Los Olivo's on Larkin between Post and Sutter, the rumors say.
Soon I will confirm or invalidate...

"Table-pounding."

"No, we should go forward, groping our way through the darkness, stumbling perhaps at times, and try to do what good lay in our power." - Camus




Is this how it goes?

Obviousities.

I need more material.
There is too much material.
I need more positivity in my life.
Aimed at a focal point.
I need less clutter around me.
Time to go outside!

Probably not that hilarious in hindsight.

SAD 2

After self-diagnosing myself with a possible case of seasonal affective disorder, it's strangely serendipitous that I would pick up The Plague.

The townspeople in quarantine, joltingly separated from their loved ones by risk of contagion, calibrate their emotions according to the whims of the weather. Camus astutely observes that these townspeople, having formerly placed their loved ones at the foreground of their small, personal landscapes, now lacking focus or drive for feelings of happiness or despair in any tangible sense (that is, in a lover, a friend, or a family member), have come to rely on the weather as substitute source of emotion. Without one particularly potent, meaningful personal relationship to dictate the mercury levels on their emotional thermometers, the sun now represents happiness, cloudy days, despair. Where there was once imperviousness to the seasons, in its place is an unconscious vulnerability to sunshine and raindrops.

SAD

Seasonal affective disorder (also called SAD) is a type of depression that is triggered by the seasons. The most common type of SAD is called winter-onset depression. Symptoms usually begin in late fall or early winter and go away by summer. A much less common type of SAD, known as summer-onset depression, usually begins in the late spring or early summer and goes away by winter. SAD may be related to changes in the amount of daylight during different times of the year.


Though I do love rain.

Underestimated.

The frigidity in San Francisco is unlike any bluster my tippy toes have ever felt.

I must really start wearing socks.

This murderous cold chills so deeply that I'm unsure of its origin--whether the freeze comes from without or, most likely, from within. Each gust of air brings with it a wind chill factor an octave lower than the prior, a sharper set of teeth ready to puncture my skin to bone to soul. I trudge on with recalcitrance, upstream, eyes seared shut due to the caustic qualities of the wind's undertow.

I may be going somewhere scary, a place people fear, where they get material for nightmares. It's a place where no one ever wants to go and if they end up there, it's usually only by force. It is a place of deep loss and pain, the kind that bleeds dry and doesn't clot, the type that never goes numb and rarely ever heals completely.

I'm on my way, so sure I'll make it out alive, though near-fatally wounded. Perhaps, in the direst of straights, the lowest levels of the inferno, this chill will be thawed and, again perhaps, I will finally open my eyes.

Life must not only be lived but loved as well.

The Hunt.

The anticipation itches forth from center palm in a clammy, sick kind of way. As if my hand wants to vomit but, lacking a digestive system, utilizes my pituitary instead. The usual bodily reaction to knowledge of self-betrayal, when one, fully aware of their scruples, no matter how ill-informed, deliberately acts against them. The faux leather kitten heels nip lovingly at my Achille's tendon, so playfully persistent that bloodshed seems imminent. A twenty-something year old preteen playing dress up, another sale item subjected to the demands of some unseen titan dictating decorum and proper etiquette; a conservatively dressed prostitute trying to convince you to buy. Oh, can't take my word for it? Contact my references, because obviously they know better than I know myself. Clamoring desperately for opportunities to shore up my market value, another indent on the ol' resume. Ah yes, my resume!, to have defined myself in the confines of a white paper rectangle, my blood and guts inked black in straight lines, Times New Roman, and bullet points. Two-dimensionalized (for easy transport and consumption), I carry all the essential parts of myself in a plastic folder, next to the tampons, tissues, and chocolate tin merrily jumbled in my purse.

Fuck this faceless system, people reduced to format text, coded numerically on some arbitrary scale according to how much of a moneymaker they can be made into, how easily they assimilate into this economically exploitative agenda. This shit just ain't for me. I have a face, a voice, two hands, and a functioning brain; can't be four-cornered, unwilling to give up my depth. When I walk up in there, oh the tirade I'll unleash! Straighten out these crooks, and swear never to don conservatively colored slacks again! The education I could bestow, knowing the little I know, the refuge found in each verbal blow, this rabid, instinctual urge to rebel and reveal and revolutionize, desmystify. Go on, ask me why, this system so obsessed with paper! I ain't got no fancy art education but you know what color you get when you mix red, white, and blue? GREEN. Mean green, dead presidents' green: the color of our nation. Paper people chasing more paper, this is the stuff Americans are made of. Flammable freedom, once ablaze, how quickly this nation will burn. Unwittingly, leading our lives foolishly on paper, we secede to a future of ashes, resign to inevitable oblivion and the erasure flesh. Paper has elimated the necessity for the corporeal, identities forged in binary code superceding the organic. My face, my voice, my hands, my fuctioning brain--all meaningless without paper backup. It just ain't right! I'll yell. I'll gesticulate as if swatting at millions of bees, infuriated, impassioned, and brutally correct!

Then, a voice shakes, followed by a handshake. All politeness returns to my voice. I take my seat with composure, attentive and docile. Prepared to succumb to questioning, standard procedure. I am content with my proof of existence, flesh and bone solid in front of my adversary, confident in my reality.

My interviewer pulls out my resume.
A needle to a helium balloon.
Looks at it before giving second glance to me.
Punctures the taut, artificial red rubber.
Assured of my existence, she proceeds as if she knows who I am, what I'm capable of.
The sound bursts like an open-palmed slap to the face.
At the end of our interview, she asks if I have any questions.
Red rubber carcass casualty.

Yes, one.
Why am I here?

I don't understand this whole concept of "tough love."
Can someone explain to me how this is supposed to help someone?

Music through Headphones.

I want to destroy it all, reduce concrete titans to rubble, cause even the most formidable edifice to tremble right down to its titanium core, see the fear in the thousand glass eyes of the city.

I want a laser beam gaze, to look at the sun and make it sweat and seek shade, give me eternal night time.

I want my meat raw, bleeding, gutted, still warm and pulsing with life down my esophagus, to swallow without chewing, ripping, tearing, gnashing lips rouged with bloodshed and suffering.

I want my innards to rupture, my body to dismantle itself, my heart to go on beating shamelessly, defiantly, long after my body is beyond recognition, so my next of kin not even knowing if I deserve their grief.

I want to crush civilization in my fists, strangling the life out of this already dead world in which I am forced exist.

I want to be reborn with wings and hummingbird heartstrings, covered in feathers and singing mourning songs, battle cries and love songs during twilight.

This isn't coming out right at all, nope.

Libidinal post.

I want to make green tea EVERYTHING.

So. I will.

Sunday October 12th - nearly failed green tea shortbread cookies. Fruitless hunt for matcha powder, but much road rage. Oh, yes, I've succumbed to recounting the events of my day.

On my way.

Albeit very, VERY slowly.

I'm going for journalism everyone (and I use the term "everyone" loosely). Of course, it's standard for most serious journalism majors to have 2-3 internships fresh out of college. Surprise! Not only do I lack any internship experience, I also lack a degree in journalism.

It's gonna be tough, but I am compelled to write. I'm converting this blog into my own miniature newspaper, media outlet, editorial column, opinion space (which, it pretty much has been anyway). I realize that I'm bound to encounter obstacles not only in the actual realm of finding fulfilling hands-on experience in the journalistic world, but also in my personal style of writing. I lack any sort of formal training in communications/journalism/creative writing, and am, for now, solely relying on the small gift I possess--a passion for the written word--to propel me (again, very, very slowly) into the rough waters of print news media.

Okay, maybe "propel" isn't an apt description for my sluggish journey into the field. Bad word choice. Noted for future reference.

The written word performs the crucial task of bridging perception and reality through a medium that's often taken for granted, often mislabeled as "universal." Yes, journalism is espoused as objective, as fact--but it's spun. Any two people can witness the same event, be told the same information, but, ultimately, when asked what happened or what they heard, two different stories emerge--with both authors swearing with vehement conviction that their story is the "most true." Yes, fact-checking, research, double-triple-septuple edits are going on, but there's hypocrisy inherent in the way journalism is conducted (at least in the U.S.): though stories are meant to be universally understood as the "truth,"because most journalism is conducted through voyeurism and not actual experience, all the public receives is a slanted interpretation of events.

Presently, this characteristic of journalism serves both constructive and destructive purposes. It's no secret that Rupert Murdoch owns pretty much all the major media outlets, transforming all readily accessible news networks into carbon copies of each other; however, though information control is rampant in the U.S., journalists, under the unfortunately conditional right to free speech, can manipulate this system through their own educated opinions. Now, I don't readily believe I could be considered "enlightened," but I don't hesitate to describe myself as inquisitive and hungry, with very little interest in informing people about things they already know. Combine that with a robust dedication to ethics, rebellion, and social justice, and voila! A recipe for some worthwhile reading.

Now, to figure a way out of this funk; writing in this manner feels so foreign, being where I am in this world feels so wrong, so ill-fitting. I must move. I must make elbow room. I must not fall. I must I must I must!

Silence.

Tibor Kalman.

Happy October.

Who runs this city?

Apparently I run this city, as demonstrated by the abundance of traffic paraphernalia clearly marked with my initials. Now, I did not authorize such inconveniences in such vast amounts all over the streets of San Francisco, but there is certainly something intoxicating about seeing your initials strewn about the city, seeing even the largest of cars driven by the largest of people obeying their (my) directional demands. I'm sorry, sir, but, no, you, your hummer, your tribal tattoos, and your three rotweilers cannot pass. Please find an alternate route. Have I gone mad with power? Perhaps. But I've certainly never seen orange, white, and black look so good together (well, except for candy corn, but I think that's more of a taste issue, don't you?).

Last but not least, I'd like to thank my hat for doing such a wonderful job of concealing my extremely aZn/80s news reporter haircut. A prominent city official like myself can't risk ridicule with so much traffic equipment is at stake!

Take some time.

"Hey, how are you?"

Oh, I'm fine, rode my bike with a friend down the beach and back, a little through Golden Gate Park, met up with her family for dinner. Her brother was recently married.

"That sounds really pleasant."

Yeah, lately San Francisco's been unexpectedly beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky.

"How about last night? Did you enjoy your evening?"

Yeah! It was really heartwarming to see all my friends again, I even saw some unexpected faces from the class that graduated before us. The evening ended badly, but otherwise, I had a good time.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I actually gotta go, but I just wanted to call you really quick to see how you're doing."

Thanks for calling me, it means a lot. Have fun!

Self-fucking-deprication, since sleep is out of the question.

Hi, I'm a minion who does exactly what she's told!

Okay, I may have the occasional stray thought from time to time, but when it really comes down to it, who the fuck am I trying to fool? I'll do whatever's expected of me. Independent thought? Not very likely. Independent action? Absolutely out of the question!

Forget my own dreams and aspirations! Don't approve of my progressive antics? Squashed before you can say "That won't make you any money!" I'm ready for the underwhelming and monotonously routine government job for which I'm far too over-quailfied. I love tasks that involve absolutely no conceptual or even conscious thought and I'll do almost anything to avoid a challenge. Endless paperwork? Goody! Cubicles and office chairs? You're turning me on!

Feel free to contact me at aimlow@evenlower.com. Can't wait to hear from you!

Eager to start the end of my life!
-Adrienne



These feelings made possible by my lack of direction and focus, intense fear of failure, and a certain individual who was kind enough to bring all these flaws to light.
Thanks for joining me in this glorious moment of clarity.
I think I'll go back to not sleeping now.

Disoriented.

Let's not get all Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants here.

Limitlessness is more limiting than once thought conceivable. What's the point in having the world as your oyster if you're allergic? If there's no direction to be taken, no aims to pursue, no lemon and butter? Yes, the loss of Academia is disorienting and, sorry Miss Dorothy Parker, neither you nor Mr. Vonnegut can fill that void completely--I can tell the difference between Methadone and the good shit, thanks (though this statement in no way suggests that Dorothy Parker and Kurt Vonnegut are NOT good shit, because that they are). I'm reminded that my library card needs finding, scattered frienships require rekindling, and home is a prison where my parents make margaritas and hold me captive under a very transparent illusion of freedom.

The price of creating dual lives, at this point forced into a "choice" of one quite foreign to me, has resulted in the complexification of my current situation, leading predictably towards brain overflow and God knows, with the little capacity I have left, I can't afford to have an aneurysm just yet (at least until I get some adequate health insurance)!

Stopping time.

Well, not really, of course.
Though, speaking in terms of mutant powers, surely a desirable power to possess.

Lovely, lovely yesterday.
Bodhi Tree in Huntington Beach. I never really could appreciate tricky-wanna-be-meat vegetables, but the food was surprisingly delightful. And affordable. Also, 24minute parking zone beaten.
Nap and chess in the park to aid digestion. Defeated again!
Shaved ice and popcorn chicken to satiate pregnant woman appetite. Football in the parking lot.
Snack sustained us for the ride to the Griffith Observatory. Existential crisis inducing planetarium show, educational as well. Insignificant?
"But you mean everything to me."
Mr. Pizza in LA for dinner. Korean joint. Met my dream pizza: bacon, sour cream, corn, ground beef, onions, sweet potato crust, cheddar cheese, and, yes, potatoes.
Paid the $1.50 parking fee in 69 pennies. God bless the gatekeeper.
Peeped Peter's new pad in LA. A vision for the visionary. Soon to be filled with great artwork.
Stopped in Long Beach on the way home for a flick - The Hulk. Unassumingly hilarious. Yes, Hulk smash!
Home around 2am to rest heads.

♥

Who am I even talking to?

Formerly, I thought the name of this blog to be a bit ridiculous.
It really couldn't be any more appropriate.

Weekend Highlights.

Picked Laura Deely up on Thursday. Boogied.
Graduated on Friday. Been vegetating since.
Got wasted in my room on Saturday. Thank you to the hilarious individuals involved.
Gave myself food poisoning on Sunday. Two day old chow fun does not equal fun chow.
Made very bad pun on Monday. See previous.

Jonesing to write read and crochet. How domestic!

Dear Feist,

Thank you for never failing to express how I feel.
It's almost creepy how accurate you are sometimes.

Thankfully yours,
Me.

Jinxed.

"hm" his response contemplative
terse
telling

apologetically, she joined the rank-and-file
eclipsed, muffled by throated hands and
of course
desperately in love

The bitter man across the way.

Only as I sulk deep into the recesses of my 20 page paper, my malady, and the stifling silence of my apartment can I even begin to comprehend the solitary life of the man across the way. Solitude, I feel, is only bearable when chosen. If forced upon someone, I believe insanity usually ensues.
If I choose to remember this cranky, bitter old man, I hope to do so sympathetically. I'm sure I'd be kind of a jerk if abandoned to my own devices.

In other news, I'm still painfully uninteresting.

Repercussions.

Ill, overwhelmed, inadequate, fatigued, tense, congested, and generally not okay.

Self-medicate

Where can I procur a bottle of "chill pills"? I need my fix.

Losing streak.

We always lose the blame game.

Deep fried.

Both Saturday and Sunday night somehow concluded with a hearty meal at Roscoe's Chicken and Waffle (Long Beach). No complaints here--but if I go into cardiac arrest any time soon, I won't expect you to be too surprised.

However, please don't hesitate to phone an ambulance. It would be much appreciated.

Lakers vs. Hornets - 4/11/08

Astounding how witnessing a sporting event live can transform even the most docile of people into a rabid potty mouth! Apologies to the two small children seated in front of us.

Go Lakers!

Stuporendous.

Ah, the excesses of Las Vegas!
None of the typical gambling done yet gambled a bit of my freedom to get into a 30$ buffet free of charge. Food never tasted so good (though admittedly enjoying my meal without a tremor of paranoia proved difficult).

America's Next Top Model marathons in a 34th floor suite at Mandalay Bay, five of my favorites in two beds, Joss Stone live at the Hard Rock Cafe, cramps worthy of the fetal position, coming across familiar faces, coming across unfamiliar faces, the bearded man at Pure and his imaginary lasso, free admission, snoozing snug in bathtubs, nosebleeds, Advil, foam confetti, elbows and heels, smooth alcohol, boogie into the wee hours, otter trains, Paris New York Egypt Venice Greece and the world of M&M's, inflated cup sizes, starless nights, cigarette smoke eyes, no sleep, and shiny everything.

April Fresh.

Talk about airing my dirty laundry. Impressed?

Triple loads and hysteria in the laundry room. I can't say I won't miss the "spot the red sock in the dryer first" game, the ambitiousness of trying to carry 6 weeks (3 weeks each) worth of laundry back in one laundry basket, and trying to decipher which whose underwear is whose.

Graduation Approaches.

And it makes me want to vomit.

A year ago.

Man, I feel great :)

Toxic

Putting the aphrodisiac potential of photo chemicals aside, I have an allergy to either one or all of the following: developer, stop bath, fixer, or water. Personally, I'm thinking it's the last one. Granted, the darkroom and film closet provide an ample amount of privacy (really, the alluring orange-mute glow of the safety light--how does one resist?), how am I supposed to get it on in there while all those noxious chemicals glisten menacingly in their respective white pans? Just 2-hours in the darkroom and--8 hours later (plus at least 4 handwashes)--my fingers still make me want to sneeze!

Oh lovely lethargy!

Currently reading about heterosexual world domination--but I suppose that's all anyone ever reads about anyway.



In other even less ground-breaking news, Celine Dion knows how to put on a show. Yes, I watched all 90 minutes of her DVD last night (with some rewindings and reviewings of course) and yes, I did in fact get chills. Every copyrighted Celine Dion leg-kick threw me into a French-Canadian frenzy. No, really. Tell everybody.

Peter and I went "real" shopping for the first time on Sunday--by "real" shopping, I mean the kind done in a mall setting.

$1800-5800 for a pair of golf shoes?
Extravagant? Ludicrous? Sinful?! Quite the understatements.

Tacky!

My neck has been adorned with the same leopard print scarf for the past...5 days now? Serendipitously obtained as a free gift-with-purchase at a "thrift store" on Melrose, complete with velcro closure, it looks wonderfully obnoxious coupled with that ridiculously Adrienne-appropriate necklace Kelly personalized for me while she was in Hong Kong. I wonder if this is indicative of whether or not I really have a future in fashion because I'm sure that more than a few of you find that combination more than a little trashy. Actually, I think 'repulsive' would be the more correct adjective.

La Donna E Mobile just came onto my iTunes, haha. How silly.

Predictably, tonight I'll resolve to look decent for once.
Tomorrow morning, it's all leopard print, all over my neck, all over again.

Lucky you!

Yet another blog for me to neglect.
I'm looking to fill this one with the banal events of my pretty ordinary life. At the ripe age of 21, my memory fails me almost on a daily basis. I seem to only recall things that no one else does; not exactly sure what that says about my brain processes, but at least a few less things go completely unarchived. Histories seem to fuel most revolutions--so I suppose that's why I'd like to keep my memory whole and intact.

Yeah, from here on out, prepare yourself for absolute, unadulterated nonsense.