I'd say Grace Kelly is lovely, but that would be a non sequitur.

I sometimes wonder how a biographer would look at this period of my life. If could go one of two ways in my mind: 1) the transition period in my life where I've decided to slow down and chug the coffee (why would you smell it?), dallying through the days and focusing my attention on what makes me smile instead of manically planning the microbial details of what will get me ahead; or 2) the transition period in my life where I've become aimless and apathetic, stalling on the road map to a secure future to instead waste my time on fleeting trifles and fancies.


I'm not sure what to think of that, really.

The past six-or-so months have been somewhat of a rabbit hole for me. Before this summer I cannot remember a time when I wasn't stressed and unhappy, at least in some corner of my mind. I always seemed to be afraid that something in the no-wiggle-room plan for my life would be derailed. I was always doubting myself, my family, my friends -- human species as a whole, to be quite honest.

Something shifted drastically, though: as in, one morning I woke up and thought, "I should stop crying over Goodbye Yellow Brick Road on repeat and go outside, because it's a beautiful day and life's worth living." Now, if someone held a gun to my head and demanded to know what, exactly, it was that changed, well -- the last time you'd see me would be on the 8 o'clock news.

I've been swinging between blissful, sleepy, and content, with no substantial dark clouds on my horizon to speak of. Not that bad or anxiety-inducing things haven't happened, just that, although my brain may register the event and label it as "mucho unhappy times," the unpleasant feelings that logic dictates should follow never do. I sometimes wonder if this is a true transformation so much as the psychological equivalent of endorphins, the body's natural anesthetic.

While this entire post smacks a little too much of the inane ramblings of a burned out teenage goth post The Cure bender for my taste, it . . . well, there is no excuse, really . . . "this is my blog, so deal"? Yeah, that works.

I was feeling a little introspective. So sue me.

In Which I Am a Stick in the Mud

Halloween is such an odd holiday to me. It seems like only yesterday we were celebrating it by slaughtering livestock for wintertime, right? We did this every year for whoknowshowlong, until one day it's like wha-bam! and we're hemming our gingham dresses up to out hoo-has.

I'd like to be a able to offer you a detailed, thoughtful analysis on what caused this shift in paradox, but that's not what I'm going to school for; because honestly, where can Holiday Studies 101 get me in life? And I'm too lazy to read the whole Wikipedia page.

I'd assume that somewhere down the line people realized it was sort of a BS endeavor to be wearing masks and lighting bonfires in an attempt to placate evil spirits that threatened the harvest. The specifics of this realization evolving into "so let's instead wear cheaply manufactured costumes that would fit my 12-year-old sister" I'm not sure. It might have something to do with the psychological need to embrace or acknowledge, and therefore release the fear of, one's "shadow aspect" -- those dark wants (e.g. to be OMG naughty) in our nature -- as Jung would say; or possibly as a way to gain control over others through shock, if someone felt she had very little power in her life. But I'm just taking a shot in the dark, here.

My point? Gorging on Twix, I love. Having Halloween being fashioned ever more surely into a holiday centered solely around skank wear, however, makes me cry a little in the dark. I miss the bed sheet ghosts and thrift store hobos of my childhood.

Mob Involvement on Wikipedia

Wikipedia are such Nazis. They didn't even give my revision to David Bowie's page two minutes to live.

(Click to enlarge. I'm gonna toot my own horn and say it's worth it.)

Excuse Me, Boy Who Gave Me a Flower?

Is that really you? Wow, small world. Yeah, yeah, I've been great. Going to school, reading, spending time on the internet . . . and, you know, going to lots of parties with drugs and hookers and stuff. And yourself? Oh, how lovely for you.

Look, I don't mean to be forward, but I need to get something off my chest with you. Retract your hand. I didn't mean that.

You see, Flower Boy, I've been thinking about you lately. You want to know why? Because whatever we could've had was ruined by your lack of balls.

You're right, that was kind of harsh -- I'm sorry. No I'm not.

The thing is, you were the first person who's ever given me flowers. Why would you even bring that up? Yes, I know it was technically a single flower, but dontcha think it helps your case if we pretend it was more? Imagination is a rainbow.

But I digress.

Point being, we could've had something, because I was dazzled by your froufrou card and brightly colored vegetation. Cross my heart, you could've been a dead ringer for Gary Busey and I would've fallen all over you -- because you gave me my first flower.

Really, are you twelve? Not that flower. I'm trying to have an adult conversation here, stunted-romanticist to stunted-romanticist. Hang with me.

But you blew it, turtledove. You blew it because it was anonymous. You gave me an anonymous present. At first this didn't bother me, because I was certain you would identify yourself at a later date. Well, as my French professor would say, "J'ai eu tort." I was wronger than Kanye West at the VMA's.

Well, yes, I know Kanye was wrong as in "improper" and I was wrong as in "incorrect" but I was just trying to be funny. You know what, no one cares what you think about Taylor Swift's feelings. Can we just move on? I have a conclusion here I'd like to make.

I don't know what you felt for me, anonymous-flower-boy, but I do know this: whatever it was, you should've told me. Giving me that pretty flower and then letting it wilt without me ever knowing your name is like writing your girlfriend a break-up note on a molding Cheez-It -- it's dirty and upsetting.

I've moved on now, AFB, to someone who isn't an emotional coward, to someone who has the drive to go after what he wants without dropping cryptic gifty hints before class then leaving me to hang. I'm happy, and I'm sure you are too, but I can't help but thinking about it some nights when I'm fighting sleep.

Who knows: Maybe you'd have changed the course of my unborn children's future if you'd just grown a pair.

Sorry, that's my order -- I've gotta fly. Aw, don't look at me like. Remember, it takes less muscles to smile!