Help Wanted: Bring Me Exceptional Circumstances

I haven't written anything since October. It's not that I have nothing to say, it's... I don't know what it is. But looking back on the past two months, I'm not so sure I've found myself in any exceptional circumstances.

I must say I'm disappointed.

Bleh.

I need to stop coming straight home after work. Take the long way home. Sit at a bar alone. Hang out at the book store and watch people awkwardly approach the "erotica" section. I need to do these things so that I have something to share with my future self (with the purpose of this blog). Sure, things are great, I am happy, and life is good.

But it's not enough. I can't even remember the last time I was asked to break into a bathroom to make sure some dirty punk girl was alive. Where are my little encouters with weird people that I used to get daily?!

I have to go out and find them I guess.

But not tonight. It's raining.

Upstairs at Risque: They'll bang you over your clothes

Watching men take off their clothes is the perfect way to celebrate a female friend getting married. It's also necessary to drink your beverage from a penis straw, eat penis shaped candy, penis shaped pasta, and cupcakes designed to look like a boob. Without these ingredients, you're not embracing the theme of the most important right of passage: the bachelorette party.

Having only been to one party of the sort I thought I knew what to expect. The previous bachelorette party took place at "The Cave." At The Cave, the men dance on stage and bounce their (presumably) stuffed banana hammocks up and down. When you guy a shot of girly sugary goodness, a man picks you up, you take the shot tube out of his moth, and he throws you back to help it go down smooth?

Doesn't sound too embarrassing right? Just scream animialistically at girating men as they discard their firemen costumes. Piece of cake. MAN cake.

Lauren's bachelorette party did not take place at The Cave. It took place Upstairs at Risque (http://www.myspace.com/menofclubrisque). The Upstairs is Risque "naughty little secret" where women go to view buff shaved men without shame or modesty.

Realizing I was wrong about the way of the male strip club only took 3 minutes. A man was assigned to each bride to be and when the music started, my jaw dropped. Instead of "dancing," the men do something that could best be described as "dry humping." When the guy put my friend up on his shoulders and buried his face into her crotch area, I thought that was as far as it goes. But I realized I was wrong about that when he spun her into what can best be described as a "stand up 69 position."

If you were lucky enough to get into the "hot seat" then you really got nailed (over the clothes). It was a long night of insane over the clothes fucking and harassment that you pay for. Our table was surely the lamest and least enthused when men in thongs approached we shewed them away with ones.

Boyfriend made an accurate observation when he said, "At strip clubs, women take off their clothes and are paid to deal with men ogling them and touching them. At male strip clubs, the men take off their clothes and the women are paying to be ogled and touched." He didn't use those exact words but it's pretty close and it was right on.

So if you're looking for a girls night out that involves being tossed around by muscular men in thongs, Upstairs at Risque is the destination for you. Be prepared to just let go and enjoy the attention. I highly suggest you drink an obscene amount of alcohol before you arrive.

Bruce Springsteen Brings out the Numbers Man

Dear Natalie of the future,

This weekend you attended an Obama rally of sorts headlined by Bruce Springsteen. You love anything involving a crowd. The more people there are, the more people you can watch. Oh how you, Natalie of age 27 love to people watch.

And you should look back on this day fondly. The day you saw "The Boss" play for free a few blocks from your house. You and two friends submerged yourselves into a crowd of thousands. You successfully fought every urge to retreat to freedom from claustrophobia and stayed in one space for over an hour.

Today, you were helpful. You and your friend (the female one) suggested short people "stand right here" to help them get a better angle. And when the short people's friends would leave, you let them know and gave them direction. When people wanted to get by, you let them pass. When drunken assholes with full cups of beer stomped through the crowd yelling incoherents towards the stage, you politely stared forward and waited for them to move on.

When a man approached your friend with a medallion showing the astrological sign for Taurus and started speaking in numbers, you weren't rude at all. Even when you ignored him. And as he went on and on, only reciting birthdays, you stopped ignoring him and engaged him in conversation. "Who's birthday is that? I do believe you. Oh, yes, that is a pretty Jesus bracelet."

This is where you take after your mother. The people that no one else will talk to always find you. And you only encourage them.

The numbers man watched mass at 5:30 this morning and then watch Action News. He listened to Thunder Road for 2 and a half hours and traveled 20 miles to be here. "Bruce Springsteen is 37 minutes late," he tells you.

On this day, when the numbers man didn't stop talking for more than 4 seconds, you were grateful that your male friend was there to step in and say, "Why don't you stand near me honey?" Your friend did an excellent job at intervening by lighting a cigarette and chasing the numbers man away with a cloud of smoke.

When Bruce Springsteen comes on, the thousands of people on the street are happy. And you watch them be happy. You seek out the die hard Boss fans and watch their movements. The look of satisfaction on their faces. The corny sense of unity in the city and the intro to the 2nd song give you goosebumps. Your face might even leak- but just a little.

On this day you're appreciative of living in Philadelphia.

Your friend,
Natalie of 2008

Flatulence, Banister, Keepsake, and a quarter life crisis

Dear Natalie 10 years from now,

Quarter life crisis. I guess that's what it's called. Age 27 earning a good living but wondering what else is "out there." You think about the people you know that spent the first 4 years out of high school continuing their education. For a living, they don't utilize anything they did in school. So what's the most general degree you can get just to have that piece of paper saying you're more valuable than the other guy that's only running on experience- not education.

Communications. At least that's the thought as of today. You enjoy communicating. Shit, you may as well learn how to do it properly. With perfect grammar.

Instead of jumping into a 2 year degree program to get into x-rays and sonograms and the like, just to find out that you can't stand it... you can go to CCP for communications and figure out your direction along the way. You were never one for planning ahead so maybe this'll be perfect.

In the meantime.... you've been toying with a book called "The Write Brain." It basically gives you silly writing assignments. Keep your mind stimulated. Keep it movin, sister. Maybe you should sharpen your math skills too. I hear that helps prevent Alzheimer's. Good luck.

With love,
Natalie of 2008

In case you, the reader, were wondering... The first "assignment" was to use the following words in a story:

• Banister
• Flatulence
• Keepsake

So if you'd like to try the assignment, let me know. We can share our stories. I've already written one but it's sexual in nature and my mom occasionally reads this blog.

Me and Jake Gyllenhaal's Great Grandfather Kinda "did it."

"Where have you been?"

"Gosh, I don't know. So much has happened but nothing's changed at all."

I did, in one plane of existence or another, venture back in time to the 1920's. It was there that I encountered the great grandfather of a well known actor, Jake Gyllenhaal (sp?). I've always been a fan of his teeth and find him sexually attractive since his early work of Donny Darko. So it would only be appropriate to run into his great grandfather during a brief stint of time travel.

With my fantastic finger waves and my blue flapper dress, I determined that since I've accomplished time travel, I should use this opportunity to have some sort of physical contact with Jake Gyllenhaal great grandfather. It would be a challenge because he's off eyeing up this beatiful blond female that has glowing eyes.

I spend my the evening trying to catch his attention but come to realize I'm not the hot number I used to be. Which is why I have to trap him in a room. I don't know how we both ended up in the room but I did something to the door to make it stick shut. And then I turned on my charm.

Soon enough we got to making out. I realized that Jake Gyllenhaal's great grandfather is not the worlds greatest kisser. I credit the evolution of kissing as the cause of my disappointment. I think about that man of mine that's asleep next to my body in the world of consciousness. He's a much better kisser than Jake's great grandfather. I ponder if I should feel guilty about this but I figure boyfriend would be ok with the sheer randomness of my time travel.

During the making out, Jake Gyllenhaal's grandfather morphed from looking like Jake to looking like John Travolta with a 5:00 shadow. It was terribly unpleasant and I decided to get the fuck out of there.

Upon my return to the conscious world, I told boyfriend about my experience. He was happy to know that he's a better kisser than Jake Gyllenhaal's great grandfather and glad I made it home safe.

According to Wikipedia...

Leonard Gyllenhaal was a leading Swedenborgian who supported the printing and spreading of Swedenborg's writings. His grandson, the Swedish-American journalist Anders Leonard Gyllenhaal, retained the faith of his grandfather and was a member of the Swedenborgian New Church. His descendants in the American branch of the family include the actor siblings Jake and Maggie Gyllenhaal.

Secret Police Convention

You're going to the Kyber because it has the best happy hour prices in town and you're now a gal on a tight budget. Beer at the Phillies game you're heading to is going to be 7 times the price of what you're about to drink so it only makes sense to stock up here. You'll regret this later in the evening and even more in the morning.

You bring a City Paper as your only defense against possible uncomfortable conversations with some random bar patron(s). Being a friendly female can be a weakness that prevents you from walking away from a conversation about bunyuns. The inability to say "Fuck off!" has trapped you many times. Deep down you love the human interaction but despise your inability to "grow a pair."



Interaction with people around you is unavoidable at Kyber. The regulars are very regular and also mostly friendly. The bartender is attentive and usually there's a weird Japanese game show on TV. If anything, you'll talk about the show but in past experiences you've also be advised on what South Philly bars have oldies bands play weekly, what apartment complexes to look at, how to lose weight, and how to weasel free shit from beer distributors. Conversation is going to happen. It's all a matter of time and content.



The characters at this bar are a diverse crowd made up of hipster twenty somethings, juke box enthusiasts, and thrifty folks of any age looking to not be raped on the price of a domestic beer. Today you've sat in between two men that appear to be regulars. You know this because bartender knows and uses their first names.

Bob, as it would turn out, is a homeless street performer. He wears circle glasses, Indian jewelry, a hat with a bandanna, and a snazzy country jacket. Bob's comparing 2 $5 bills and testing their durability by pulling the sides causing the paper to make a snapping thud noise. He asks you, "Did you know about the secret police convention going on this week?"

You look up from the "I love you, I hate you" section from the City paper and shake your head, "Can't say that I have."

And with a smile he says, "That's because it's a secret."

Special Forces

You walk into a bar and a boy stops you immediately and says, "How are you?" You answer his question and ask how he is doing to be polite. His answer is, "I love you!" You can't help but smile and safely assume he has said this to many MANY girls in this particular evening. You realize you're right after he approaches you at your table.

"I just want to tell you your beautiful. I just got back from Afghanastan 2 weeks ago. I have two bullet wounds, do you want to see?"

The difference between you and the other girls is yes, you do in fact, want to see and even touch his bullet wounds. Because this is something you've never done before. You can cross it off of your list now.

He asks you if you if your boyfriend is here. When you shake your head, his eyes light up, "Do you HAVE a boyfriend?" And you try to tell him your boyfriend is "deployed" in a strange place called Florida. But he's too wasted to stop kissing your hand to listen to what you're saying.

Your friend at the table explains that he did the same thing to her on her way in. The only difference between you and your friend is that her boyfriend was there. And for a strange reason you feel bad that this soldier boy is having such tough luck with the ladies. You consider buying him a drink and later appreciate the decision NOT to.

Before the rest of the night moves on, this soldier boy comes over and kisses your friend that beat you to the bar on the cheek. Jokingly you say, "You cheating on me?" And instead of kissing you on the cheek, he kisses you on the entire bottom portion of your face. You've never held your mouth closed so tight before.

You threaten his testicles but he returns several times to kiss your hand, forehead, cheek, etc. You're amongst people you know and you figure he knows someone you know so you don't want to punch him in the face. Not yet. But he's pushing that envelope.

Outside, while listening to a story about something that was very entertaining but you can't quite remember at this moment, soldier boy walks through the door and smiles with his chipped teeth and almost crossed drunk eyes. You hold up your hand indicating, "I'll deal with you in a moment but please stay the fuck away from me."

Once the story is finished, you turn to this soldier and advise him to keep his face far from any parts of your body. "I'd stay here for 20 more minutes just to look at you," he says. This poor guy. Just home from a place that his country forgets we're in. Holes in his body, chips in his teeth, and all he wants to do is get laid. He's in the wrong place for that because the females inside have no interest in war stories or getting shot. His approach is a FAIL and you decide to tell him this. You give him advice saying, "You can USE that! Girls will be all over that!!" about something he said that would've been intriguing to some single gal.

While all this is happening you're thinking about how you'll have to tell boyfriend that some guy rapekissed your face and you continued to be nice to him. You're feeling embarassed not so much because that took place but because you didn't act like a wretched bitch and cuss him out in front of everyone. How could you? He's wasted and obviously in a unique mental state. Outside you threatened that his testicles will be yours if he came near your face again. But no one heard that threat so it wasn't as gratifying.

Any sensation of guilt will be widdled away when you remember boyfriend sent you a text indicating he was at a strip club for longer than he should've been. When you pick him up, you start to tell him the story about your night and remember this text. You remind him that he was managing an errection brought on by naked women that AREN'T you and this is what brings balance.

You're so glad that he's home and you're even more thrilled that he didn't go to Afghanastan.

May 8, 2008 was a good day.

Angry conversations did me in. Conversations about city violence, a bum stealing the wallet of a man having a seisure, and annoying encounters with people in general made it quite simple to bask in misery for 8 hours of my life today.

It didn't help that the sun stayed home.

You have to embrace your misery so you can easily move on. and if you do it right, surely you'll find humor in it. But after spending the most part of your day being almost completely miserable, you can only hope that the Universe will do its thang to cheer you up.

I call them "my people." They're my cheer up troop. My bringers of joy. My smile enthusiasts. They're plopped in my path with the sole purpose of putting a smile on my face.

that's how important I am.

It usually doesn't take much to turn a shitty day into a happy ending- and it's pretty easy to ruin a perfectly good day. But for the most part, I'm easily cheered up. For example, watching a homeless man give another homeless man a hair cut in Love Park humbled my irritability. Or dogs sniffing each other's butts. That can always cheer me up. the irony of birds fighting over a chicken wing on the street is a hoot too.

But today, "my people" were out in full force today. I would've settled with the trash can drum man- he's enough to turn my day around. but the little screaming asian kids running the way only little screaming asian kids can run and still look cute? i thought that was the icing on the cake.

but it didn't stop there.

imagine walking down the street and seeing what seems to be a random act of silliness. people in robes with purple kite things smiling and waving at anyone that makes eye contact. You can't help but smile. And everyone does- EVERYONE.

my favorite homeless guy- the guy that never asks for money and smiles with his eyes- he smiled with his face at the sight of the kite people. He also has a relatively new pair of New Balances which gave me great joy to see.

It turns out these kite people weren't random. They were promoting Circ de Sollie (however you spell it). i wish i didn't know this, but seeing the faces of people passing by- the smiles and the camera phone pictures being taken- was enough to make that thing called my heart burst.

like i said, it's easy. easy to make me feel like the world is okay. easy to make my face leak water from my seeing holes. and if it's at all possible, I encourage you to make it easy for you too. there's not a lot of time on this earth so it's good to soak in all you can. you'll thank me, i promise.

with love,
sappy nerdalie.

And here I thought it was a mental disturbance.

quite some time has passed since my griping about the birds. and you should know that we let them stay for a little bit because we heard baby birds take about 2 weeks to learn how to fly and leave the nest. we waited two weeks. but one of them was a little slow and didn't survive the eviction. he made a gallant effort in landing gracefully but could not withstand the blunt force trauma that is inflicted by a 3 story soar to the ground.

i'm sitting here, not in the mood for punctuation or proper spacing. hell, i may not even utilize spell check. but i'm sitting here procrastinating going to bed for some reason. i've been getting a little anxious when it comes time to sleep due to the sudden solitary bedtime.

boyfriend is serving his country in Tampa, FL for two entire weeks. this will be the most time spent apart in over 2 years.

i think.

yes. it is. last time he went on a road trip with his brother and i flew to florida to meet them. i spent one day in sarasota while they were at a wedding. and then rode shotgun in the car for 2 days back to philly. the trip is high up on my list of "random destinations" mostly because i spent more time in a car than at my destination.

but this time i'm not flying to florida. because boyfriend is sleeping on a pull out in a hotel room with one of his comrades. or whatever they call each other. either way, i'm having a strange time missing him. it's exciting. the fact that i miss him is probably a good sign. i couldn't concentrate at work today because i was trying to plan out what i'll wear to pick him up on friday. i was planning my week around cleaning up. maybe even put my laundry away!

i watched a sad as shit episode of house tonight. it's one of those, "appreciate what you've got because you don't know how long you've got it" themed episodes that make you want to hug a pillow/person/animal/freshly showered homeless man/etc.

and all i have is a thermal shirt that he left on the floor. it's ripe with armpit funk and i rub my nose in it every night.

apparently, this is that thing called "love." and here I thought it was a mental disturbance. all of this ga-ga-ness still here after 2 and a half years. it's quite shocking for a girl who's relationships tend to fizzle around month 9 (plus an additional 5 months trying to break up without hurting anyone's feelings).

it's been 7 days and 15 hours since i smelled this jerk's fart as we said goodbye in the car (flying makes him nervous?). THAT'S IT. one week and i'm retarded. and to think, he was going to go to afganastan for a 30 day deployment. imagine that. 30 days with no text messaging correspondence. no nightly phone call. and instead of tampa, he's in a desert half way around the world. a desert where people die.

this is 2 weeks is good practice.

love is so weird.

bird alarm.

Waking up to the chirping of birds- well there are worse things I could think of waking up to. For a few days it was like having nature as an alarm clock- SO much better than a jarring "wrah wrah" of the conventional alarm. Until we discovered that they are building something (a nest probably, or maybe a free clinic or hospital or something productive for the bird community) under our air conditioner.

Big deal right? "So they're building a f*cking nest under your AC unit, boo hoo."

Yeah well bite me. Amanda had a bird's nest resting on TOP of her AC unit at her new apartment. When I stayed there, I took a picture of the momma bird resting on her chicks. "They're feathers look like sticks!" I said as I snapped the photo with my camera phone. We joked about it being the nature channel and that was that.

Apparently birds leave their nests when everyone's grown and ready to do their thing(s). During their stay, birds attract "bird mites" which feed off of the blood of the birds. When the birds leave, the mites need to find new sources of blood. And this is why the million of them decided to hunt in Amanda's apartment. Long story short, it was a bitch and a half to get them to go away and Amanda had to not stay at home for a few days AND she had to wash EVERYTHING.

So yeah, we're a little paranoid about the nest. But they don't seem to be procreating- which is good. Maybe it's a social club. Either way, we bang on the wall to scare them away and occassionally stick a long ruler under the AC unit to pull their club out and let it float haphazardly to the ground.

So Your Mom is an Asian Trannie

A relationship during holidays are all about compromise and sacrifice. When your families live more than an hour apart, you essentially have to plead your case for why it's more important to see your family on any particular holiday. Since my family says grace before dinner (although we forgot this year), we went to my family's for Easter dinner.



Since I can remember, I associated Easter with my birthday. Even though I resented the holiday overshadowing the celebration of my birth, I always appreciated the fact that more family members would show up for Easter but be tricked into celebrating my arrival into this world. From the perspective of a child: more family members here on my birthday = more presents. So yeah, how could I complain?



This year Easter landed far enough away from my birthday that we could celebrate each event on completely different weekends. From the perspective of a grown ass woman that doesn't see her family enough: more reasons to celebrate = more motivation to see your family. Everybody wins.



Although I was baptised Catholic, I was never very good at it. By that I mean, because I'm a good person and have a good heart, I practice many fundamentals of Christianity without being told by a book to do so or out of fear of damnation. But I could never get the knack of this organized religion stuff. Like Easter: I don't know if I can fully grasp what this holiday stands for- I get the basics and all, but I still don't know where bunnies, candy, and ham come into play. You see?



This year for me, Easter stood for technology. Women over 50 and technology. Have you ever tried to teach a 4 month old baby how to high five? Well it's easier and probably less frustrating than teaching your mother how to play Guitar Hero. Teaching your grandmother how to play bowling on Nintendo Wii is also more difficult than teaching a 4 month old how to high five. I know this because I've tried to do both.



You have to consider that the technology we spend our lives adjusting to will soon be gone and a new technology will be here making you feel retarded. Like having 4 remotes for the tv, cable, dvd player, and surround sound. So many remotes gives me enough anxiety that I'd rather pick up a book.



So here is my mom, whom I've grown to appreciate very much in my adult years- and I'm not saying this because she reads my blogs. She's about to play her 11 year old nephew in bowling. On this new fangled game system, you can pick the character that plays you! Cousin already has a character with his name. His character slightly resembles him. Apparently, this is the point of building your character- to make it a digital version of you.



My mom complains when cousin selects a female character that doesn't resemble her. She complains again when he selects an unattractive female character. It's then that we see the character named "Ben S." My aunt and I yell for cousin to pick Ben S. to be my mom. We laughed wildly as the disappointment filled her eyes. "Your Wii Bowling character does not define you as a person, mom!" I had to say. She was concerned that we chose this character because deep down we felt that it resembled her in some way. I could see why she'd be concerned with this. Because this was her character:





Besides the fact that my mom is in fact an Asian tranie with a huge mole and goatee, this character looks nothing like her in real life. She would never wear pink and her hair certainly isn't blond.

In the end, she beat my 11 year old cousin. Afterwards, she went outside to smoke and contemplate an identity crisis caused by this new technology.

The lesson to be learned this Easter is that you should probably not hurt a parent's feelings by assigning an Asian Trannie to represent him or her in a serious game of digital bowling. Until next time, Happy Day.

Last night's noises were Narwal and Woodchuck.

Settling into the 5th place in 4 years and I'm disappointed that we can hear our downstairs neighbor's phone conversation. But at least he sounds like a nice guy.

You see, I can tolerate hearing neighbors but I'm not so comfortable with them hearing me. Because sometimes we like to "do it" and I'm very private with this. Mostly because of the animal noises I enjoy making during the act.

But in any event, I saw boyfriend's optimistic "I heart this place" wide eyed contentedness drain from his face as he said, "I can hear him like he's sitting in the room!"

He'll have to deal with it. After this move and all the preparing of walls, I'm not itchin to go anywhere for the next couple of years. Our friends have already signed and notarized a contract stating they aren't required to help us move until 2010.

Our walls here are yellow. Like the DEFINITION of yellow. It takes about 6 minutes for you to adjust to the stream of emotions you feel upon walking into our apartment. First you feel a little jarred- like someone smacked you in the face with the sun. Next it's a little anxious because its brightness makes you feel like you should be productive at every breathing moment. And finally, you simply feel awake and comfortable.

I wish we could say we did this on purpose. But really it turned out much more "yellow" than we anticipated. We like it. Well, I *think* I like it- I go back and forth on the subject.

Our street is lovely. A clean street where people pay $400,000 for their row homes. It makes me nervous because clean expensive neighborhoods can bring nosey mf's. Lauren reassured me by saying, "You WANT to live in a place where people care about their surroundings! I came home yesterday to blunt guts sitting on my step! People just leave there trash right in front of our house!!" And I guess she's right.

I'm just one in 36,164

My coworker is known for luck with gambling. After a weekend of banking on whims and gut feelings, I asked her to buy (for me) a Powerball ticket. I wanted nothing to do with the purchase of this ticket so I had her take the dollar out of my wallet, purchase the ticket and drop it in my drawer. I promised to split my winnings with her and spent the weekend talking about what I'd do with millions of dollars.

My first "vacation" would probably be volunteering at an orphanage in Africa. I've been toying with the thought for some time but oddly enough, such a volunteer mission costs a bitch money. From there, I'd go to Thailand and pay $325 a week to take care of elephants. Since I'm not trained to deal with such large mammals, I'd probably have to just hose them down and clean up their poop. But I'm THAT into elephants that it'd be delightful. Oh, and I'd also have to sleep in a tent. I suspect the mosquitos in the jungle are the size of hummingbirds.

I'd buy my dad and stepmom a larger house. I'd buy my mom that small house in Runnamede that she used to talk about buying if it ever gets put up for sale. I'd invest in my friends shop because I love it and want to see it succeed. I'd give a great deal of money to charity and probably continue to work- or at least volunteer somewhere. I'd pay for my sibling's education and go back to school full time. I'd give money to the people that feed the homeless outside of the Free Library so that the homeless people can eat free range chicken and homemade mac and cheese.

If I bought a car, it'd be a Smart Car. Or a hybrid. I'd write a book.

If I won the lottery, you wouldn't hear about it though. I'd collect it annonymously and continue wearing the same old clothes.

Today I checked my ticket and to my suprise, I won $4!! This was actually far more than I ever dreamed of winning. I kept my promise and split my winnings with coworker. With my share, I bought 2 more tickets. We'll see how it goes tonight.

In a moment of complete and utter lack of self consciousness, you'll tell your friend of years past about your phobia of the toilet.

"But your picture, with the 'poop in my butt' and your email of 'girlsfartoo' and your ability to be drawn into conversations about shit within the first 72 seconds of knowing someone!!"

And rightfully so, you as a friend, couldn't comprehend how a gal so fond of toilet talk could possibly be paranoid about public poo-ing. But she is.

I AM.

I can't shit in a stall. I hold it, to the best of my ability, until I get home. I wait until there is no one in the women's room.

I can't splatter poop into a toilet while others are around.

And there you have it. My secret shame.

If I don't die tonight, then it'll totally be worth the anxiety.

There have been many definitive moments where I realize I am, in fact, a grown up. Not only do I realize I'm a grown up, but I realize I'm also a little boring. You would think something reminicent of your youth would get you feeling young again. Young and adventurous.

This is how I was supposed to feel when I went to this hardcore show. I was supposed to feel like I'm still into all of that fun shit I enjoyed 8 to 10 years ago. But 8 to 10 years ago I didn't think about fire codes, stable foundation, or being arrested. These were all things to consider at this show.

I later learned the name of the venue was "Disgraceland" which I found incredibly catchy. But how I got there is, I had been invited to go see a friend of a friend's band play. When I asked where, I was told it was in a basement of a house. I was excited at the thought. I always loved illegal parties that revolved around music.

Upon entering the "venue" I was greeted with a nice guy asking for $6 to $8 dollars depending on what you thought was appropriate. We all gave $8. "For the cause." Later I only hoped the $8 was going towards reinforcing the floor of the house.

The last thing you want to see in a room packed with people is a guy with a circular saw modifying the legs of a table.......... This was actually the FIRST thing I saw (woah pun!) when I walked into this room packed full of people. The vision of something sharp and jagged flying through the air and landing into my skull was something I tried to escape as I made a dash for the back of the house. But I didn't have too far to go to get to the back.

The house was a regular South Philly house. No larger than my own living room. Actually, it was about the same size. So you can understand how claustrophobia could run amuck in a place like that right?

My anxiety was well under control until Jordan said these words of comfort, "This kind of reminds me of that video where there was a dance party and the floor collapsed."

You'll have to excuse that this review (of sorts) doesn't talk about the music. But after he said these words, all I could hear was my own voice screaming in my head, "Time to go! Find a way to get to the door! Just listen to the music from the hallway!! GET OUT!!!!"

Because once the music started- it was too late. And the crowd surfers and the pit and the music were good and stressful enough to take my mind off of the inevitable collapse of the floor. The set lasted 25 minutes and as soon as it was over, I made a run for it. In the end, I very much appreciated having a couple PBR's on hand and was super proud of myself for internalizing all of my panic. I was also glad not to ruin the time of those around me.

Setting aside the anxiety about collapsing floors, not being able to get out the door when a fire broke out, or being kicked in the head at an angle that would induce a stroke- all in all it was a great time and I found parts of my "younger days" that I've held onto. Such as, not being a vagina when 50 people are suddenly being pushed towards you... or still having the reflex to grab your friend's hat after a crowd surfer has knocked it off in an attempt to make it his own... or the instinct to try and make room for the guy in front of you who is trying to grab something off of the floor for some reason.... All of these things have me wide eyed and bushy tailed to go to a show of the same sort sometime soon.

But I need to make sure the next show I go to is at a secure location that has passed the stringent guidelines of L&I... or at least paid them off properly.

Don't let the grass grow under your feet kid.

Really, it makes sense that I haven't fully unpacked in 7 years. Realistically, you can't truely figure out what you want or where you should be without trial and error. Sometimes that can take years.

My first apartment was meant to be temporary. 45th and Chestut was not where I wanted to plant my roots in this city- but a 4 bedroom apartment for $800 a month was a pretty good start. The mouse and roach infestation was good inspiration to not only keep my stuff packed- but keep them in sealed containers. The crackhouse behind our building and the theft of my wheels were a perfect way to burst my suburban safety bubble.

What was meant to be even more temporary was the typical "move back home" that every 20 year old does at some point. When your parents are at first happy you're back, but soon enough they realize that you aren't paying rent. You've already proven you can function as an adult and financially contribute to the household, so its best to get out before your mom starts figuring out your share of the bills.

What was meant to be a big move for a long lasting stay in one place was when I moved in with a boyfriend in Manyunk. A good sized 2 bedroom apartment for $690 a month- how could you ever leave? Outside of realizing your boyfriend is addicted to alcohol and various other substances and noticing poor hygene habits and daily explosive bowell movements that leave shit caked along the toilet rim- the rent's really cheap enough to live there a few months longer than you'd normally prefer. This situation is why God made the "month to month" provisions you'll sometimes be lucky to find in your average lease.

Moving in with your best friend, for the 2nd time was a decision I knew I would later question. After 45th and Chestnut, we gave eachother some distance for a few months. But at this point, we were both 4 years older with good paying jobs and moving to a better neighborhood (Fairmount). I was in insurance sales. She was a stripper. Her income was far higher than mine and this gave me a feeling of security. The shoe was on the other foot for once... but only for the first half of our lease. Quitting her job as an exotic dancer was the most healthy decision she's ever made- and I was proud of her. But you gotta have a back up plan when you make these kinds of decisions. Before I knew it, I was paying $1200 in rent by myself not knowing when I'd get paid back.

Once again, after we parted ways, there was distance for months. More distance this time because she moved to the other side of the country. After getting over this "good riddence" phase of our friendship, I started to miss her and was thrilled when she came home for a week.

My mission that year was to keep the apartment forever. Two bedrooms with two bathrooms, a deck, 10 foot ceilings, in a prime location- I paid $1200 myself for 2 months waiting for my friend Jared's lease to run out so he could move in. When our mutual friend had 2 home invasions over the coarse of 2 months at 19th and Girard, the idea of the 3 of us living together came up. Recollecting conversations with her about how we could never live together made me squeemish that I was giving up my apartment to live a miserable existance.

This is how I ended up at 28th and Brown. Happy as a clam. Amanda and I got along just lovely. She was the mother to Jared and I. Thinking of Jared and I living alone, I realize that we would've had a messy place. Amanda was the balance for our cleanliness. I was the balance between two people that argue. And Jared took care of the boy stuff. I could've stayed there forever, but it was time to play house.

And that's how I ended up here on Corinthian Ave with the Eastern State Penatentiary outside of my front door. An architectual landmark with worlds of history and hauntedness flowing through its walls. I ended up here because that's the next step you take when you're in a blissful relationship. You see if you can ruin it by living together.

In the time I've spent living with boyfriend, I realize that if any relationship has a shot of lasting for a very long time, it's this one. We've survived 7 months of living in a small 1 bedroom apartment. And now it's time to see how we survive a larger apartment that will have enough space for us to escape eachother. We've been looking at places for exactly one week and I think we've found "the one." It's lacking a deck (or yard) and a washer and dryer in the unit- two things that were very important to us at some point. But it's on a great street. Location location location.

The idea is that we will move somewhere that we can stay and enjoy for a few years. This is a foreign and frightning concept to me. Knowing that I could simply move if I outgrow the apartment has always been a helpful thought in making these decisions. But now... now it's a commitment much larger than I've ever known. We'll see how it all goes.

Brobdingnagian Penis on Market Street.

My calender "big word of the day" is Brobdingnagian. It's an adjective meaning Of huge size; gigantic; enormous. Considering the difficulty one would have pronouncing this Brobdingnagian, it would only make sense to simply use the words within the definition of the word itself. Unless, of course, you're trying to confuse- which is always fun.

Last night two people were fatally shot 6 blocks away. Helicopters are a tell-tale sign that someone nearby didn't make it through the day. My parents can't understand why I can't see myself not living in Philadelphia. With the murder rate where it is and the complications of city living where they will always be, it just doesn't make sense to them.

Living in the burbs where you have to drive anywhere and everywhere you go just is what doesn't make sense to me.

On a somewhat unrelated note, I think more men should take off their pants outside of the Dunkin Donuts on Market street during rush hour. It really does help the long work day end with a chuckle. If anything, it gives us all a story to tell when we get home. By doing this at rush hour, you have the opportunity to amuse, bewilder, and horrify a larger number of people.

I can't help but wonder why this man took off his pants in front of the Dunkin Donuts window. But what's even more baffling is that the man that was sitting inside, continued with drinking his coffee and reading the paper.

The whole world could pass right by you with the assistance of an iPod and a good book. Sometimes it's safer to just ignore the insanity around you. Looking the wrong person in the eye could get you stabbed in the face. I don't know this for fact, nor have I seen it happen. But it's a possibility.

Testes

This is a test.

Please don't be disappointed.

Here is a picture of an elephant showing dominance.




Nevermind. The disappointment continues. There is no elephant. Not yet anyway. But soon enough, I will deliver.

This has been a test!