When it hasn't been your day, month or even your year...

I am jennifer aniston, I am rachel karen green, i am She. Let me tell you how.

I walked into my lil sisters apartment prepared for a great sunday feast that those girls always seem to turn out. But they were all in sweats eating mac n'cheese and with a fresh new friends DVD gearing up to go. I pulled out my yoga mats and blanket and sat down for a nap/friends marathon.

After what i could only guess to be the 14th or 15th episode in a row, i was so strongly identifying with Rachel that it felt weird to still be so attracted to her.

She is a chaser. I am a chaser. Upon meeting an attractive potential the air we breath, the food we eat the simple actions to sustain life take on the purpose of making sure we can maintain the chase of this attractive potential.

We know they would fall in such deep, meaningful, sitcom-based love with us, if only they could let us show who we really are. A resilient confidence based on our own perceived attractiveness.

Our daily high points and dive-bombs are usually relative to how well interactions with the potential went.

In potential romantic situations exclusively, there isn't enough sleeve to wear our emotions on. We don't even sit on the handle anymore because we fly so often off of it. Confrontation yay!

Now Rachel is just a character and a sitcom character at that. Meaning she is inherently shallow compared to my marinas trench of personality traits. But wow i enjoyed the comparison even if i had to force it a bit. a lot.

Original & Determined

I HATE HIPSTER GIRLS!!! This has been a claim that has been a long time coming. But only because i have such a deeply rooted disposition to being so incredibly attracted to you types it has been very hard for me to come these terms. Ever since a young'in i knew the value of a skinny to the ankle pair of jeans. No magazine ever needed to tell me that bohemian styled and cut shirts, cardigans, changing in suggestiveness and body coverage with the seasons was all i ever wanted in life. I wanted as many rings, bracelets, necklaces, lockets, bandannas, scarfs, sachels, carpet bags, back slanted beanies, hair string thingys, artsy ironic earrings, 2nd hand belts worn 4" above the actual pants, and kitten slippers as i could get. Long flowing soft cotton skirts starting right below the hip bones and ending at knees could stop me in traffic anytime. I wanted your hair to be in crazy wavy patterns tied up in flowery bows. "Please" i said in my head, "don't just stop at two colors in your whole outfit, catch the whole FREAKING rainbow." I would think treason if i didn't see a stylishly small leather jacket worn over a horizontal stripped loose fit tank-top. I was sure Buddy Holly, Elvis Costello and Rivers Cumos meant something to every thick rimmed glasses girl i saw. I never believed your finger nails could not be some outrageous clashing color, never. I knew irony was what i wanted before i could even use the word right.

You see i have spent my whole "interested-in-women" life watching the Hipster girl. I know probably as much about the essence of hipster than the most bohemian of you. But hipster girls, i hate you. Your dress and style to me always suggested originality and determination. They said to me, she thinks for herself and loves it like that. I would assume if you were that determined to be yourself you would respect yourself as well. Well you have never substantiated these claims i made on your behalf (should i have made them?). Eventual failure on either the originality or the determination or some of both always would surpass. I say i hate hipster girls, but i could never give up hope. Even though now masses and throngs impersonate the much publicized image of originality de la bohemian chic without embodying the hipster soul. I am too ingrained to find you gorgeous, compelling, and entrancing to give up hope that the original idea of why a hipster girl is what she is and there to fore, is what i want. (see title)

How much Post-rock fits into one Friday Night?

At one point when i was a young and confused high schooler with too much emo running through my veins I tried a social experiment where i didn't call anybody Friday or Saturday night to see if anyone would call me. No one did, and it had a very downward spiral effect on my social life. No calls meant more angst, more angst meant more motivation to continue not calling, which in turn meant even less calls.

Then college in Utah back in '05 came and if i didn't have some poor girl attracted to my rebelliousness to smooze with then yet again my Fridays and Saturdays were very vacant. Somewhere in these moments i developed an intense sense of failure if i didn't have plans for the weekend nights. Like super depressed, desperate and dumb acts were contemplated and committed because of it (do not worry my wrists never took the brunt of that). I would go on solo building break-in's in industrial areas of town, just to snoop around and past a lonely night. I would listen to a lot of sad music, not so much angry tunes but sad stuff. Lots of drawn out instrumentals and Smashing Pumpkins, i hadn't found The Smiths yet but they would of been in heavy rotation no doubt.

Anyways fast forward to tonight, i am super tired from an incredibly chemically imbalanced kid at work. I have offers to do things but i find myself saying i'll nap but not falling asleep. I am listening to the long drawn post-rock tunes of Mogwai, Rachel, My Bloody Valentine, B.M. Pierce and kinda getting nostalgic about that weekend pain. Slowly and surely as i grow up i confront my adolescent short-comings and fears. I smile at how they used to really get me like nothing else could, and how my actions and thoughts in those times have played a part in making the me now. But most of all i enjoy looking back on that pain and not feeling it now. A dew from heaven for sure.

needles and pins in my closet

Bow-chica-bow-bow. Thats the sound that should be bumping by some floating ghetto blaster next to me as i have walked around these past few days. It is a lot like that Broadway musical part of 500 days of summer but more egotistically founded and no ridiculous cartoon birds. Not to say that i haven't lately experienced similar yet "Mormon-esque" moments as what prompted the dance scene in 500 days. But thats not why i am really walking with a swagger and a grin. I just cut my hair. I have been doing this since high school. I have developed a cycle that fits itself about 2-3 times into a year. Newly cut (must use goo to style)--> Long & thick enough to use natural grease and genetically thickness to faux hawk--> 1st ugly phase too long to hawk, too short for flip, wear a lot of beanies--> start of the hipster flip, looking good with beanies-->full on shag can you say ashton kutcher--> slick back like undercover cop--> cut back leave front--> get really pissed at something non-hair related and hack it all off--> restart. Now no matter what song is blasting in the ears, that bass beat is meant for me and my steps. Do i imagine myself just getting more looks from pretty passing girls? Probably. But i'd look at me at least.

Step 1. straddle your space-heater

My room became my room today. Up till recently I hated being down there in the cold basement nook that I pay $235 + utilities a month to sleep in and store everything I own. I would sleep there, get dressed there, watch an occasional hulu episode there, come back home to sleep and start that all over again. I hated to spend any time there, I would even walk all the way up to library to do some night studying so I wouldn’t have to do it in my own room. The walls radiate the cold and are periwinkle purple from some dumb wanna-be beatnik granola chic before me. Her poems written on the back of the closet door sucked too. I decorate in a painfully required effort with relics I picked up from the mission, to give the illusion that I actually think home-décor says something about my persona. I have thumb tacked personally designed gospel pep-talks anywhere near my bed. Wither I am bringing just myself or others into bed or pulling just myself or others out of bed I’ll know that to stay humble I must keep a heart full of charity. I know where the traffic is. I have a bench press that has made itself equally useful as an upper-core tonner as a towel drying rack. My windows are frozen shut and the one wall outlet has two power grids plugged into it. So if I want to run my space heater, electric blanket, laptop, laptop connected sound system, and cell phone charger I’d have 5 more plug-ins left but only 20 seconds before I blow the fuse. I don’t have a chair for my desk which is really only like my wider but less deep trash can. Finally, cleaning up really means doing the laundry and kicking the electronic cords back under the desk.

I didn’t like this place until today when I had to study a whole bunch for a test and then write a whole bunch for a group project. I enjoyed the time spent sitting the floor against my bed with my laptop on my lap and my space heater between my legs. The one remaining 60 watt light bulb is so dim that it will not cast that annoying glare on my glossy textbook pages whilst I read. I can reach anything I need from sitting here or assuming a prone position across the floor. At least for tonight I am enjoying my den, my pad, my room. Yeah for acceptance of ones surroundings!