I'm All Shook Up!

These last few days I've been living like a madwoman. I'm taking a week-long journalism class from 9 AM to 8 PM at Columbia, and it's very strange feeling. I've taken this class every summer since eighth grade, making this my third, and I've been a different person each time I've taken it. I spent a while talking to Matt about this, and then to Harry: when I was younger, I saw all these things that people did--went to concerts, had great style, wrote good poetry, became well-read--and believed that they were what made people cool or interesting. Now I do all of those things, and I've come to see that the two are unrelated; having interests and passions are just side-effects of being a strong person. And in a moment of artistic despair I realized that having reached those markers doesn't mean anything if the core that they cleave to is absent. When I can't write I feel like I'm nothing. Then I thought a bit and talked to Matt and he said some very prolific things and I started to feel a bit better.

As a means of consoling myself in the only hour of spare time I found, I organized all the stray jewlery in my dresser. Do not let the simplicity of this task mask its difficulty. I own a lot of shit. I've forgotten about some things I have simply because they're so deeply buried that I never see them. Now I'm clearing things out, giving things away, and using what I have to take myself to a whole new level of style--MY style, a Veronica style that nobody else has. And I love the Veronica that chose those pieces, because each of them reflects and expresses me in a profound way.

At Columbia I'm meeting some really interesting people. They're all strikingly normal on the surface: I've been called "bohemian" four times in the last two days because I contrast so much to their outward appearances. But appearances aren't everything. They're something, I know; the way a person chooses to be seen reflects something about them. But some people like to dress as normally as possible so that they are noticed only for their personalities. I look at myself in comparison and wonder, is this cowardice, this mask of silver and bangles and antiquity?

Oh, and Harry's country house. We swam in the pool, ate fresh delicious food, watched three starkly different movies, discussed life with his parents, and woke up when we felt like it, which was refreshingly new to me. We watched Terminator II because last summer we'd watched Terminator I.

I have and will be writing in this, by the way, if you feel like checking it out. I have another poem in my head right now, but I can't write it just yet. It'll take a little while. I'll have it before I leave, folks, and if not, I'll have something else. I won't let it die.

I just got back from seeing All Shook Up!, a Broadway musical that uses only Elvis songs. The acting was terrible, but the song-and-dance numbers were dazzling, resiliant, enlivening. They superimposed Hound Dog and Teddy Bear and had four people singing different refrains at the same time and managed to make it sound amazing. Show me another musical that can boast that power!

I'm writing now, by the way, from the lobby of a glass-and-metal building called Lerner Hall at Columbia. They provide the students with free internet access--and the students provide me with amazing classical piano music, completely free of additional surcharges. I only wish I were given access to this campus all summer. My other class lets me audit any New School classes I'm interested in, but so far I haven't had time for anything. I love this campus, though. I love its granedur and privacy and safety and the novelty of its antiquity; I love the people who trust me; I love the teachers who don't look twice when you walk in an hour late; I love the conversion of people who share my interests and my desire to learn, and I love the confidence I've found in myself and showcased here. I don't feel pressured to constantly be with people, and I'm not friendless, even though it's only been three days now, so I get a perfect medley of experience, conversation one moment and solitary meditation the next. I don't feel intimidated by anyone, not even my teachers; I feel respect, and I feel respected. It's a lovely feeling, especially since half of it comes from me. I feel like I can take this person with me. I feel her presence inside of me.

And I finished Lolita on the subway this morning and am now devoting myself entirely to Ovid and Adrienne Rich.

In these respects, this week has been a wonderful one.

I've also recieved some horribly devastating news over the last week, some of which happened long ago, but as it doesn't concern anyone that my readers know I feel that providing details would only serve to disrespect those whom it affected most. I want only to convey my grief and mask its cause.

...and I have class now. Over and out.

Harry In A Hurry!

Okay, that's not a song. But my mom was singing it anyway.

"Where's Harry, V?" she asks.
"I don't know, mom."
"V, where's your buddy Harry?"
"I have no idea!"
"Is he hurrying?"
"I'm sure he is. I'm sure he's hurrying."
"Harry's hurrying. Harry's in a hurry."
"Yup."
"Harry's in a hurry... Harry in a hurry... Harry in a hurry... Curry in a hurry... do you remember that place?... Harry in a hurry..."

...and it just never ends.

Anyway. Some concert pictures I took off of my cell phone for your satisfaction.

Steve Winwood of Traffic and the Spencer-Davis Group:







Fountains of Wayne





The Who







R.E.M.





Patti Smith





Bob Dylan



Robert Plant







John Fogherty of CCR



Ringo Starr and the Roundheads







Dunno, just thought this was cool



I just realized that only the ones with higher resolution blew themselves up.
...Sorry.

"Your buddy better hurry up! It's getting late!"
"He's coming!"
"What are you doing?"
"Putting some pictures on my blog."
"V, be careful! Nothing personal, right, V?"
"Nothing personal."
"Don't put up anything personal, V. V, where's your buddy?"
"He's coming!"
"Run, buddy!"

I love my mom.

Another one of them hum-drum days...

My posts are going to be sparser after this, because I'm going to Harry's country house for the weekend and after that I'll be working from morning to nightfall at my Columbia Journalism Workshop. Which should be fun. As soon as that's over I'm going to Texas, so it'll be two weeks until these posts get back to normal. I don't think there's internet where I'm going in Texas, so there won't be any posts from there.

Everyone keeps asking me the same questions, so I'm going to Clear It Up Onceandforall:

What I've been doing:

Recent Concerts:
John Fogherty (a while back)
Ringo Starr
Little Richard

Coming Up:
Robert Plant
Real Big Fish
Steve Winwood (I hope!)
Paul McCartney in September

What I'm Reading:
Lolita by Nabokov
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy (it's longer than it looks)
The Metamorphoses by Ovid
Future Shock by Alvin Toffler

How My Day (Invariably) Was:
Woke up too early
Took a shower
Wandered
Went to thrift shops
Saw a friend
Played my harmonica
Saw/talked to Harry
Skipped a meal
Got guilt-ed by my parents for not spending time with them
Listened to some music
Went to class/did my homework
Rented/went to a movie
Got yelled at
Went to bed
Read for a few hours
Fell asleep
Woke up at two in the morning
Fell asleep
Woke up at four
Finally fell asleep

Yesterday Laura-the-lovely and I walked from 60th to my house and discussed life and people and everything and finally collapsed onto my bed with glasses of ice-water to discuss music and my room. I went to class and then Harry and Travis came over, which was amusing, because they're a live two-person comedy act. On our way to Ben & Jerry's Harry spotted Jaya being sexy and we all got ice cream (almost all) and met David Tay and went to Batman, except for Jaya, who went home. Ran into Will Curly at the movies and a bunch of his friends who I'd never met. I found a piece of popcorn between my bra cups when I got home.

So I guess it was an okay day.
:D

¥

(^^^That was a typo but it looks cool and I have no idea how to do it again.)

...to New Jersey... and beyond!
Ciao!

I couldn't care less about them dues you say I got...

Things I should probably stop doing:

Biting my nails
Singing duets with Renata out-of-doors, because we always run into people we know
Stopping at thrift shops on a daily basis
Not answering my cell phone when it's my parents
Taking money from the house purse as I need it, even if it's only five bucks
Reading until two or three in the morning
Eating fatty things
Checking people's blogs every morning
Letting my period make me pissy
Pathalogically lying to strangers
Doubting myself
Waking up so late
Buying obscure Japanese candy at Sunrise Mart
Letting myself get nervous around people
Being distracted in class
Drawing in class
Drinking coffee
Forgetting to blog
Forgetting to shave my pits and wearing tank tops
Forgetting to shave my legs and wearing dresses
Sleeping without a bra, 'cause it hurts in the morning
Worrying about my body
Talking to hoboes
Losing my cell phone and calling it instead of looking for it
Missing my sister when she's only been gone for three days
Forgetting about a concert and telling people I'll babysit for them
Assembling the toys in cereal boxes and leaving them by my computer
Obsessively going to the Strand at least every other day
Breaking my harmonicas
Buying cheap-ass things in Chinatown
Encouraging my sister to be anti-authoritarian
Spending hours reading Wigu
Calling people and waking them up
Doing physics in my head on the subway
Carrying black notebooks everywhere
Singing in the shower
Kissing Harry in front of my parents and/or friends
Posting embarrassing photos of my friends, family and self on here
Eating nothing but baguette with butter for breakfast
Getting excited about being able to work the HTML of this thing
Buying copies of books I already have because I want to take more notes
Keeping dead flowers in a vase in the living room
Forgetting to feed the fish
Sitting around in my bathrobe for hours
Letting Gorky plays depress me
Lending books to people who won't give them back
Talking to my sister's friends online
Beinga a hobo

Pssst! I just saw Richard Starkey at Irving, ten feet away!

(^^^was amazing. will blog more later.)

some photos:

she's beautiful, my sister.



...and on top of being overtly artsy, I'm also genuinely not a morning person.



The beach. Maya never sent the rest of the pictures, but I thought these were pretty amazing, although I don't look especially human in most of them. I tell myself I'm not photogenic and shrug most of the time.

Renata's in Ireland and Elena's in France now and Maya and Hally will soon be gone, but it was nice while it lasted. We all used to be very close, so the whole day was a nice reunion for us. We're all incredibly comfortable with each other.

Jack, Jack, Jack, head in a sack...

I drafted the last post because when I got my piece back yesterday evening my teacher had really understood it and also found its weaknesses in ways that I hadn't been able to see. She's really pretty sharp. And the piece needs a lot of work.

Here's to keeping one's ego in check.

I guess I have this simultaneous inferiority-superiority complex. I get nervous talking to people and stuff, and easily intimidated, but I also think I'm pretty smart and like to hang out with people who I feel are also pretty intelligent. I make up for my internal timidness by being pretty outgoing, but it's always a push. I feel like people are judging me by a different standard than the one I use to judge them, I guess, and I don't know how I'm going to measure up.

The thing is, in spite of understanding that I have this complex, I still think I'm pretty smart and I still get intimidated by people. At the same time I know that I'm no prophet and I'm no Katz; I'm not drowning in either belief. Anyway.

I've made another blog to post my crappy poetry on, although there's nothing there yet. Don't feel pressured to read it; it's really just for me, a motivation to keep writing, so I don't slip up and stagnate. I'm not going to put a tracker on it or anything. Maybe I'll take it off the site and just give its URL to people who ask me for it. Or something. It may just die as I get too lazy to type everything up.

After being sleep-deprived all week (mostly because I've been watching Star Wars with Elena past midnight for the past two nights--I have a new convert!), I finally slept until noon today. When I woke up this morning the house was empty--Renata went to see a movie with her boyfriend--and the computer was already opened to TKTS.com. I took it as a sign and checked everyone's blogs over Honey Nut Cheerios.

When Maya sends me the rest of the pictures from Elena, Maya, Hally and I's day at the beach in fifty-five degree weather, I'll post them. (Grammar nazis, I beg your forgiveness.) It was ridiculously fun. We wandered to DUMBO and mingled with the artistes and ate at Grimaldi's and had ice cream and spilled Snapple in the car and generally had a great day. More about this later, though. The pictures are hilarious. I promise.

My mom has gotten into this kick where she really wants to spend time with me. I'm not objecting, because my mom is pretty awesome, and "quality time" between us usually involves going to Daffy's or the Strand, although our seperate tastes also make these occasions tense. Recently, though, she's started trying to get me home earlier and continually poking me with her hands and feet while I watch Star Wars with Elena and Hally from a beanbag chair. She thinks it's very funny and laughs when I protest--"I'm trying to watch the movie, mom!" "V, you're a cutie, you know that?" "Mom!" "Ooooh, you're so fiesty! You're a real teen-ager now, right, V?" How is one supposed to respond to this? The things we live with. If I turn into an insane old lady with lots of cats, you'll know why.

I still need to buy a new harmonica. I'm thinking of trying a lower key so that I can play more blues. Still, a fancier harmonica costs more, and it sounds less raw. I like playing five-dollar Bluesbands that are harder to work. They give a wider range of sounds. Buying a Bluesband is like buying a crappy amp so you can play with the feedback. It sounds crazy, but there is a point to it.

Oh slutmonkeys, I'm turning into Lucas. Time to take a shower.

Edited in:

Unhappy harmonica :(



Found this in my iphoto thingy. It's Harry's, but I thought it was awesome and I wanted to share it. He really is hilarious. I try to refrain from blogging about him, but it's hard, especially since even as I speak (you know, type) I'm wearing his flannel pijama pants.

Can't blame you, Lelenya

It's amazing how difficult it is to write two pages about the weather. It feels impossible right now.

Instead: my weekend, though probably not as exciting as yours, if you're a senior/interesting person.

Friday was Renata's graduation. Was everyone else's graduation. Was Prom. Was beautiful.

Saturday I took a dozen now-freshman to Lazar Park and tried to ignore the sleazy guy who worked there and kept hitting on me and telling me to call him "big daddy." After spending an hour or so drinking coffee and reading Steinbeck and Thomas Hardy I felt strong. "I have a boyfriend who's a black belt," I said when I picked them up again, just for the hell of it. I lied a little, but it doesn't matter because I don't think he heard me. Harry was off winning arm wrestling matches on Fire Island anyway.

Sunday I went to Harry's house for a while and then suddenly got very sick and left the restaurant that Harry and Travis and I were at without eating and went back to lie on his sofa. It seemed vitally important to know the name of every book on the shelf, except for the red ones because I read somewhere that red is the hardest color to read off of. I kept saying I was fine until I started vomiting. Poor Harry had to clean it up and find a t-shirt for me and a box of strong mints to clear the taste. Not very romantic, I'll admit. Renata came upstairs to get me (my parents thought I had apendixitis for some reason) and both of H.'s parents thought she was me. Travis went mute. I think he was just disgusted by the whole thing. When I started feeling better I went home and collapsed into bed.

Monday morning I woke up starved and ate some cereal and had a cup of coffee and felt better. Renata and I walked around the village and shopped at various underground thrift shops and ate baguette and tapioca tea and then I went to graduation with Tia (I showed up a little late) and listened to Eric making jokes and socialized a little and generally felt proud of my silly Bogo San and his whole grade, which is really pretty awesome. Had dinner at Zen Palate with his family, picked up Tia, put on a funky/revealing caftan-dress with a belt and some beads and went to Grad Party but didn't actually go in, came back to my house and looked over the yearbook and talked ruthlessly about people. I continued to be a dork and try to persuade Renata to read Pushkin's plays (especially Mozart and Salieri).

People really have stopped reading this. And somehow I don't mind. I'm becoming something of a hermit--people are amazing, but some days I can take them or leave them. Very strange. I guess I just sort of write for myself now, with no regard for the readability and deepness or lack thereof of my posts. I've got about twenty unpublished posts in my files now. Is this creative laziness? Is this some weird blindness to how I actually am? Some moral defecit? Am I even a "good" person? Somehow I don't care. I feel mellow. Renata's reading Battle Angel Alita (god damn you infiltrative otaku!) in her pijamas and looking lovely, as always. She's started making little claymation films of people melting and forming and changing into animals and things. She dragged me to Utrecht to find her more clay. The people were nice. It was empty and poignantly new and sad. My window-box flowers are dying. My guitar sits untouched. The lovely white flowers Harry brought before Prom are still fresh in the living room and lovely as ever. I'm wearing the harmonica shirt Oona made for me before I knew if we were friends. Do I know any better now? I've lost even more weight, another two pounds. Am I imagining that my pants are looser and softer? Why don't I understand anime? I want to see then new Miyazaki movie but I'd take Oona's drawings any day. Or Renata's. Or my own, even.

Enough of this. It's too late for rhetorical questions. Here are some photos. Here is my life and my sister and my boyfriend and myself.

I like taking pictures of myself. I don't know why I do it. I guess it makes me feel individual or real or something.



Renata's graduation



How I remember Renata's graduation



I'm sure I was saying something important...



...and this was his reaction:



Edit: I don't care if you read my blog or not, but this is a different story. It doesn't matter who you are or how you got here. Just read it!

Gotta Love That Rock 'N' Roll

Wednesday was the last day of finals.

I went to Irving that night to see Creedence Clearwater Revival. Just John Fogherty, actually, but as far as I'm concerned that's CCR, although I heard through the grapevine that he's reuniting with the other John at Jones Beach this summer.

He was amazing. He was Elvis and James Dean and the Lovin' Spoonful rolled into one, all my childhood idols and all the songs that were burned into me forcibly and whose patterned scars I learned to love. He wore a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up to his arms. Who the hell wears a denim shirt? He looked incredibly cool in it, too. His hair was still full and wild and dark and his whole band was amazing. Renata and I made friends with the people near us and one of the guards started hitting on me. I avoided him completely. I never thought I'd hear Suzie Q, Rolling On The River, California Highway and I Heard It Through The Grapevine played live. I got excited chills every five minutes. Renata and I danced the whole time and the guy next to us pointed out that my dad was standing next to Glen Close. My mom danced with her. (Renata and I went to the balcony because we didn't like the nastiness of the first-row crowd; mom and dad went to the front because CCR used to be my mom's favorite band.) He danced John Travolta-style and modestly let his band members have fun playng around. He played about ten different guitars, all of them beautiful. His whole shirt changed color with his sweat. He wore Beatle Boots. My mom handed him a handkerchief and he thanked her and used it all night. He threw her a guitar pick. My dad tried to catch it and it bounced off his palm and the guard wouldn't let him get it because it was in the section Rolling Stone had reserved for photographers. Renata and I ran through the sprinklers on the way home and I fell asleep in my clothes and dreamed about good clean rock.

We got our finals back the next day. Mine were awful.
(Feel free to ignore this category. It's probably completely uninteresting to you.)

History paper: I mixed up world wars. Entirely my fault, I admit. Bram wrote "not relevant" next to practically every paragraph and his awful purple handwriting wrote "Rhetorical questions? V.V., I would have thought it were above you!" next to a particularly bad paragraph, a clear indication that he was not in fact buying the crap I tried to feed him. Past two AM, I thought bitterly, nothing is above me.

Spanish: There was one verb that we had to conjugate in fifty different sentences. I forgot that it had an irregular stem. I lost 33 points on that section alone. I got all 20 or so of the multiple choice questions right.

Math: 74, although it should have been 73. Ms. Daly kind of took pity on me. I have no excuse for this one, although I don't understand it. I really did know what I was doing.

Chem: 80. What I deserved.

English: B+. You just can't tie all three essay questions together in two hours, no matter how many independent essays you've read on Othello. Especially if you stop to talk to Tom O'Connor in the hallway about German plays for twenty minutes on your way back from the bathroom. I still love him, though. I guess I secretly wanted an A and I feel like I've failed Camille in some way.

I had to leave early for a doctor's appointment and nearly cried because the only class I really wanted to go to was the one I had to miss. I kept myself from flat-out crying all day. I wrote crappy poetry in the waiting room instead and threw it away on my way out.

I hate finals. I hate feeling like they're rating your intellectual success with a number, and I hate feeling like effort and effortless intelligence don't count for shit. I've decided not to dwell on them.

Fortunately, I had my first writing class at The New School afterwards. It was lovely. I let myself get lost in the stories. I made some friends and talked a lot. The teacher thought I was in college and that I talked too much.

I hate the way when I talk to my mom on the phone and break my bad news to me she gets sweet and tells me that at least it's over and I can relax all summer and not worry about it until school starts again next year. Because when I come home happy after my class she gets stone-faced and tells me that I have nothing to be happy about and that she's not happy about my results and that she doesn't want to hear me singing or talking about my friends. I tried to leave her in peace by blogging but for some reason that irritated her too, so I had to go back to my Thomas Hardy.

The next morning I put on a long skirt and a dozen necklaces and a black tank top and a fringed table-runner I'd bought for a quarter in Wisconsin and donned my converse and headed for Renata's graduation. Somehow it seemed much sadder when I was in eighth grade. Her friends aren't all leaving, which helps. My dad took about a million pictures. I talked to Andy Fish, my sometime shrink and confidante, and he changed the We <3 Donovan Hohn club's blank sign in my yearbook to say We <3 V.V. I'm going to miss him terribly.

I went to St. Mark's for a four-dollar calzone afterwards and got asked for a third time to play a harmonica gig, this time with a band. I turned it down because I can't jam in a given key to save my soul. I'm getting pretty good, though. I've learned to go from cross-harp to straight-harp without messing up the transitions, and I've gotten good at bending notes with my fingers. My sense of beat is improving, too.

I also ran into my friend Justin, who'd just come back from his college orientation (he moved away at the beginning of last year). He's got a mohawk now. I meant to give him this URL but I forgot. His smile is undefeatable.

Then I came back for the senior's May Project presentations, although I missed Harry's and a few others by accident. Matt, Chloe, DaSilva, Zack, Harry and I bought a Vermonster at Ben & Jerry's with a few other people just for the hell of it. It was delicious and disgusting.

I'm not going to say anything more about prom than that it was truly beatiful. I'd forgotten how to dance, and Harry never knew, but we embarassed ourselves all night long. I felt like a white orchid in a fine flower shop: lovely and no better or worse than anyone else. I just fit. We stopped at St. Mark's place afterwards. Nobody recognized me. Nobody offered me a gig (although the gay guy waiting for the bathroom behind me at the pizza shop said "Girl, you shouldn't be allowed to be that hot." "I break a lot of rules," I said).

I'll probably remember almost everything, but Frankie was right. What I'll remember best is how sweet and tender my date was, and how he made the mini-limo wait while he tucked me into bed afterwards and kissed me goodnight and whispered in my ear how much he loved me.

I love John Fogherty as a musician. I love Harry as a person. I love my friends, I love my sister, I love my sister's friends even though they made me spend my Saturday taking them to Lazar Park. I loved going to Prom, I loved seeing Justin, I love St. Mark's and New York and being a gypsy and being an orchid and a suit and playing the harmonica and I love the thrift-shop volunteer who gave me another free necklace and I love the books I read and I love my writing class and I love my blog and I love my own ability to love.

I'm not always happy. But the good always seems to outweigh the bad. And it's summer now and I've gone back to being myself and everything seems peaceful right now and I love my rock 'n' roll life.

everyone he meets, he stays a stranger...

Finals so far:
Chem--either an A or a C. With Schubert I'm never sure.
English--A or B
Spanish--B or below
History--B, although I needed an A to get into AP
Math--haven't taken it yet, but it's going to be horrible.

So maybe I'll get lucky and get an A or two. Probably not.

I already posted today, but I'm not in the mood to study and I feel like writing some more. I took my Spanish final and then realized that conducir has an irregular root. There go the fifty verb-conjugation sentences.

I realized this almost as soon as I finished the test. I was standing in the hall with Eddie, Lucas, Chris, Taylor, Tia and Ella and I just froze up. I got into this weird funk where I felt like the most awkward person ever and couldn't talk. Tia and I went to Cosi to eat sandwiches and then to Urban Outfitters. I remembered with a twinge of comfort that Elena called me Bohemian there yesterday. I bought a simple shirt. We left. I showed Tia my prom dress, making her the only female that's seen it so far (I'm not using the orange one). Not counting my mom or Renata.

The combined faces of Dolly Parton, Simon & Garfunkel, Elton John, Buddy Holly, Jerry Garcia, Elvis, Joan Baez, Richie Havens and the Eisley Brothers are staring at me from the cover of a songbook on the piano. Renata is gossiping on the phone. I feel like I'm under a microscope. I think it's a finals thing.

I've realized that I like wearing dresses.
I wish I could go ballroom dancing.

Wow. My mom just called (talk about being under a microscope) and told me that the way I conjugated the verbs was correct. I feel much lighter suddenly.

Sophomore year was pretty easy, in retrospect. Although I didn't do amazingly, so I really can't talk. Freshman year seemed harder. Maybe it's because I had less friends. Hmmm.

So after talking to Tia and thinking about Oona I've decided that the ultimate aim of my high school life will be being an amazing senior who's worshipped by the lowerclassmen.

My seniors were:
Adrian
Jaya
Legacy (yeah, yeah, I know)
Misa--I thought she was a senior. I know better now, but I still think of her that way.
Sean Tyrer
Hayley Blatt, and
Chloe-whose-last-name-I-don't-know. She was in my yoga class and was shy and possibly drugged most of time and I loved her.
Oh yeah. Moira was pretty cool too.

Despite my every effort to be unlike my parents, I've begun making lists. I also wear beer-logo shirts and ripped jeans and go to thrift shops and finish novels without skipping to the end, though, so I'm still their polar opposite in some respect.

I wanna be a high school goddess. Waaaah.
I'm hungry.
This was a really disjointed post.
The quality of my blog is definately going down. It will return this summer. I promise.
I guess the photos have turned into a bread-and-circuses tactic.
Right now I like being in my body because it kind of reflects me.
I hope I'm a really cool old lady.
Ohmygodgottastudymathaaah!!!!!!

Put it in the pantry with your cupcakes...

Sunday night I stayed up late writing my history paper and dropped into bed without brushing my teeth without brushing my hair without washing my face without flossing without changing and slept in a Ramones shirt and underwear.

When I woke up I went back to the essay. Somehow I couldn't concentrate for more than five minutes straight. This guy came walking on my fire escape while I was writing and I ran away to put on some pants. I think he was a census worker or something. He had a clipboard and was looking at the rivets on the fire escape very closely. I couldn't focus much after that. I turned it in ten minutes late (Bram forgave) and spent a while with Oona and Amanda in the park and then went shopping for a birthday present for my sister, who's pissed that I'm going to prom on her birthday.

All I need now is a purse. I don't even want a purse. I want a pocket. But the stupid social whatchamacallit protocol says I should probably get one. Stupid protocol. I want to sew a pocket.

So I went to a thrift shop near the river and got in an hour-long conversation with the volunteer about African mysticism and the history of religions and it was incredibly interesting and he gave me a necklace for free. He knew what my necklaces meant, even though they're all from different places, and he knew what the real colors of Mexico are and what the ring Harry gave me meant, too. He had one in a glass box.

I'm definately going back.

I did manage to get some stuff for my sister, and I ran into Elena and she and I picked an Urban Outfitters t-shirt for Renata and Elena came up and gave it to her. Renata loved it. Them. There were two shirts. It was lovely and I wished school were over so I could hang out with her more and bug her about how far she's gotten in the books I lent her.

And this morning my mom in her infinate awesomeness helped me with my spanish a lot and I took a pen and drew all over myself. I wrote an adjective to describe each body part on every part of my body except my face. I covered my feet and legs and fingers and stomach in intricate designs and quotes and faces until she left and I took a shower and washed them all away. It felt especially nice because I hadn't taken one the day before, and I almost never miss a shower.

Yeah this was a boring post.
Whatever. Here are some pictures.

Where I'm blogging from. Not immensely interesting, but whatever. I'm cool anyway.



Frankie, this one's for you. His name is Tweedy.



I dunno, I thought this was funny. It's from Mexico.

Sweet Coconut Girl

(Footnote: that's not a song title. Or if it is, it was unintentional. It just came into my head. Sounds like one, though.)

I'm going to go insane if I don't write.

I hate finals.

I'm in love with Thomas Hardy.

I AM Jude the Obscure.

I'm so, so doomed.

Funny. I wrote a long post defending my sanity last night but this morning I just couldn't bring myself to post it.

Harry called me. "Jesus," I said. "Your ring tone terrifies me."
"I'm sorry! (Giggle) Hey, V... do you like coconuts?"
"What??"
"I'm coming over, by the way."
"I'm studying!"
"I'll just stay for five minutes."
"Are you bringing a coconut?"
"(Giggle) No... why would I be bringing a coconut?"
"I don't know, you're crazy!"
"Veronica. Don't be silly. Where would I get a coconut?"
"From a street vendor?"
"No. There's no coconut."
"Are you sure?"

It went on like that for a while. Then he showed up at my door with a coconut. We had to hammer a chisel into it on my kitchen counter. That's what you get for dating... well, someone like Harry. Tuxedoes and coconuts.

So now I'm a Sweet Coconut Girl taking pictures and thinking about the Creedence Clearwater concert this Wednesday and desperately longing to be Thomas Hardy, or at least Jude the Obscure.

I didn't think I was going to like the book.

I took a walk today.
Everyone in the world should have a harmonica.
I jammed with a hobo.
It was awesome.
I felt like Amanda.
He was really cool.
I just need some roller skates...

Yeah, so. Random photos. Here.

This is the Naval Academy's graduation. This photo makes me sad somehow, even though everyone in it is just glad to be out of college. I think they're saluting or something.



These are Renata's pretty shoes. I just had to try them on.



Me wearing Renata's pretty shoes. I like that mirror a lot.



My family on my Dad's side. Some of them are cool. Nico--the one with his head tilted to the left--is a lot like me. He's a Russian Lit major.



My sister is so awesome. This is a terrible shot of her, but I'm going to post it anyway because it has a mood to it.



Maybe later I'll post funny pictures of me and Harry making faces.

Or maybe not.

Picture of the day...

Condom flowers.

Yup.