Bus stop banter

In the City of Roses, singles' eyes meet each other's by chance. At bus stops, on streets, in stores. I think, here more than anywhere I've ever lived, there is more of a desire not to be alone. I'm still unsure why that is, and right now I'm like Wilco: It's good to be alone, but here you can see it in others, they do not. They are reading on buses, in coffee shops, at home, where you can't see them but can understand them, and they're alone and don't want to be. The problem is most of the refugees here, the fugitives, the self-absorbed, the sweetly artistic, yet somewhat darkened beings seriously find a richness in not finding another person. The joy of being alone for them is getting along with the one person that they want to share with another. And that's when the throat gets sore. Around us there is so much to take in: it's tasty but it's also poisonous. Fill you mouth and follow through with a gulp. Send it all down to where it will set in the stomach, in the cells, in the soul. Shared with others, these bodies of myth can take on a new form. Dangerous to a degree is what keeps most from allowing the possibility to exist.

The roses are gone. It's getting cold(er) out. Find a warm cup and fill up with something that makes you feel good inside.

overwrite is really an insert

Now I know.

I remember early on in my typing a frustration I had. It was that damn insert button. I would push it and then make mistakes of course, try to re-type and end up losing stuff. For a while there I couldn't figure out the overwrite. This time I purposfully do it. I'll make a post to overwrite my last.

It's not that I regret things that I write. I have never been one to pull anything that I've posted here. I just feel I could do better. I'm here at a cafe, have access to the machine and am going on.

Good news to report: I got an internship at a weekly here in town. I'll commit three month -- without pay -- to a learning experience. Free journalism lessons is how I look at it. I'm thrilled about this as it falls on my one year anniversary. I look forward to a graduate school prospect as well. And the possiblity of saving some money with both a roommate or two moving in, and being too busy to spend any of my hard-earned, book shelving dollars.

I'm giving up women for amibition, an attractive trait, that I've lacked for a little while.

Wonder Woman, wait and see.

If I quit this...

I can't quit. I'm good at it, sure. I've quit lots of suff. There was gymnastics. There was piano lessons. I quit learning spanish. I gave up on algebra. I quit working at a relationship once. I tried to keep, but ended up quitting a job that paid me pretty well. I quit going to church. I stopped writing for awhile. I quit caring. I quit smoking, then quit quitting. I quit flossing, though I'm starting to think that that would be worth starting up again. I guess you could say, I'm a quiter.

Oh well. Funny word, that quit.

There is quite. Like Donovan says: Quite Right.

There's quiet. I've been quiet for too long -- silent Kit.

There's Quo -- what's your's?

And now I'm no longer making sense. As for carsonation, well it's not quit-tionation. So I think I'll keep posting. Let's be nice to eachother, alright bitches?

Oh, I forgot to mention. Caught Death Cab for Cutie last night. Good show. They play again tonight. I have to worth, though, and I'm afraid they blew their load this first night anyway. I recommend listening to them, or one of Ben's other projects: Postal Service, All Time Quarterback, Post Nasal Drip, etc.

Other music recs include: Wolf Parade, Broken Social Scene, Of Montreal, eels, the new Danger Mouse...

...I quit...for now.

comment no more

Fruit Stripes Gum! You fools are out of control. No wait, just out. There will be no more personality tests on this site. I expell you. Shit's re-fucking-dick-you-lass. I hate. Comments bigger than blog? More brutal? That's the last thing I want. I get the last word in. I'll walk away from this, so help me God, if you keep frightening the others. There are better things to write about. Other places. I know it.

But for now...

Girl troubles continue in carsonation. I wish I was Jay-Z. I wish that a bitch wasn't one of my 99 problems. But I'm going to have to go ahead and say that what keeps me up at night, the last two anyway is two particular bitches. And since they probably don't read this, I'll write about them.

Thought I found a cute one. Maybe not the One. But an one. OK. So I met her at a party. She reminded me of that. Funny thing about memory. I remember her by her tatoo. And maybe I've told you this before, when I saw it, our conversation came back to me. So we meet again. And again. It's our third date and we're in my bed. She says she wants to be honest. I remind her that in bed we are supposed to lie. She tells the truth anyway.

There's another guy, she says. He knows about you and doesn't have a problem with it.

If there was ever a mood killer, a turn off, a time when I wish she'd keep comments like that to herself, it was then. I couldn't go forth. And called it a night. She wanted more. Wanted to me to say that nothing changes. Can't, I say, not my way. I don't play that game. And suddenly I'm synical. So be it.

I must have failed sharing in kindercare.

Same night, I shit you not, I get a call that I shouldn't have answered. At 2:15 in the morning with a former showing herself on caller ID, it's best not to answer. Little lesson for the kids there.

Surprise, she's dunk.

I'm not going to share all the details. It wouldn't be right. You wouldn't get it, anyway. But, I'll tell you one thing said. One thing that kept me in bed the next two hours without a wink of sleep. One thing that got me to work on time but with heavy eyes. And it was this:

You hate me because I don't love you.

When I get mad -- and I don't hate -- I just turn sad.

26 Red Alert

The weekend of my birhday proved to be entertaining at least. I was looking for a roommate, and more found who I'd rather not live with.

My first applicatant -- who just followed up -- was a girl that was the safest from me falling for. She was not unattractive. But I wasn't attracted to her. She comes in with a puppy, expecting a father. But Maury told me this: you are not the father. So I had to pass. I told her on the phone today that a friend showed interest, and that he would probably be moving in. Which isn't entirely untrue.

It's true that a friend of ours wants to move in. He's shown interest. Unfortunatly for him, he's shown us too much of what he's interested in.

The second caller was a girl I'll call Katie, even though I know her only as Katherine, but was actually probably Kathryn. She was a cutie. Checked out the digs and sat on the couch for a Q&A. I think my roommate scared her off, though. She looked like a Katie that he dated. Acted a little like her. It could have been her. Maybe a clone. He freaked her out with his shocking stares. We said she could move in at anytime. That we were ready for her, and that was probably a little creepy. She said she'd call us, and has yet to.

Back to our friend who, drunkenly tells us both on Saturday night that he's a shoe-in. I say, yeah, but what about your girlfriend. She brings mad drama with you. He agrees, but we insist that that might not be the worst thing in the world.

The third and final girl that comes over is named Libby. I liked Libby. My co-interviewer wasn't around though and I had one comment for him: She looks like your sister. Nope, she's out. Hmmm. I guess sometimes it's a good idea not to say those types of things.

Meanwhile, my drinking friend and potential third roommate is suggesting we go to Union Jacks, one of Portland's many strip clubs. And if it wasn't for the Beam, if it wasn't for the girls that also wanted to go, if I hadn't been at the Matador right before, I might have argued that this wasn't a good idea. But we went.

I saw a naked girl for the second time in as many weeks. Happy Birthday to me. Skinny ones, tatooed ones, tall ones, small titted ones, hot ones, ones I feared carried diseases I don't want, and, finally fire breathing ones.

This one stripper ate fire. She blew fire. She lit herself on fire, and as her finally she tried to light the strip club on fire. It worked. The place didn't burn down, but it caught. The fire eating stripper caught the smoke eating machine on the ceiling on fire and I thought we were going to die. I had my birthday scarf over my breathing holes. I was scared though. I didn't want to leave. I hopped there would be a free lap dance out of this. I was wrong. I did see another show, though. I saw my drunken, potential, now off the list roommate make out with a girl I assumed would marry me. I was wrong.

The attraction for a girl pretty much disappears when you see her making out with a drunken friend at a strip club. You friend pretty much loses his chances of moving in with you when he does such things.

That, and too many babies are having babies. Too many babies having grandbabies. JD. No, JB.

birthday eve.

I was wrong when I said it's never too late.

I was a fool when I said to myself, I'm too tired. I was right when I said you're hard to replace. And you were right to say that it was wrong to think of it that way. We were both right, I guess. Sometimes were were wrong. And maybe we were both right and both wrong and maybe even both at the same time.

It's fine for me if you'd rather not speak. I'd understand. It could very well be the best thing to happen. I'd be lying if I said that I want it this way. I never did. You'd know I was telling you the truth if I said it to you directly. You know when I'm being honest. It's possible that I've mades some sense in my saying. That if it's made sense to you, too, then it's a fact that I'm still here, and growing older, 26 years tomorrow.