Not now but now

I

2007-08-13T22:51:00.001+01:00

Jessica Farris and Sean Bigley in our dream of dreams.

The big two five.

2007-07-05T19:52:00.001+01:00

I celebrated with friends; we ate fancy pizzas topped with boar, another with pancetta and scallops, a thai prawn and a fajita one thrown in and we drank and drank wine and spooned at free ice cream with gooseberries.

And that was enough; I was happy and laughing, but I got this too. I'm spoiled as 25-year-old milk.

My birthday lake.

One of many birthday G&T's.

My birthday yard.

My birthday slugs in my birthday yard.

My birthday love.

And finally, my birthday swan lake. I didn't know the camera recorded with sound. If you don't want your ears to melt off your head, I would turn your sound off.

You know what I am?

2007-06-24T21:46:00.000+01:00

I am on episode 21. Of season 1. Of the OC.

You know what I am not?

Proud. Efficient. Outside.

But seriously. I love Seth and Summer. I love Ryan's corner-eye glances and the way Sandy eat bagels all day. I love Tate Donovan's forehead wrinkles. I love Misha Barton's acting skills and the way she says, "whaaat's wrong?" like English is her 9th language. Why why why am I so late?

And P.S. Sean's on episode 15. My love thrives, affirmed and healthy! And I know he's only pretending to hate that I sing the theme song at the top of my lungs when? Not only at the beginning of the show, but also when we are cooking breakfast in the mornings, walking to the store, playing frisbee or when he's saying sweet things to me. I also know that Sean got jealous when I praised Seth's wit; he said, "Really though? I mean, sure, the writers give him funny things to say, but it's not like he's THAT hilarious or quick...I mean other people, like, if you wanted to use me as an example, for instance, are quick and witty without writers, right?" Oh it's just like the episode where Seth is jealous of Summer's new boyfriend and how she thinks he's so funny.

ah da na na na na da na na na na da na na na na na na California here we come right back we started from...
CALIFORNIAAAAAA, CALIFORNIAAAA, HERE WE COOOOOME.

The lost Bloomsday pictures

2007-06-24T21:34:00.000+01:00

Some more deferred pleasure. Only for me and like 3 other people, though.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, B!

2007-06-21T15:10:00.000+01:00

This funny, awesome lady was born 18 years ago today.

Unless you're a guy checking out her school picture on my bulletin board, in which case she is still a mature-looking 12.

Bloomsday

2007-06-21T02:13:00.001+01:00

Ulysses is all about deferred pleasure, so it makes sense that this post is 5 days late, right? Actually, the soundness of this rationalization rests on the assumption that pictures of nerds romping around in celebration of Ulysses will please you. It may not and you may give up and x out of the page as this is a long post. Unduly long. A journey, one might say. Of great mental strength. I'm just saying, there are comparisons...

Our Ithacan day:

Should we celebrate this man?

All the time. Every day. By making up new words and thinking revolutionarily, making people laugh and feeling sensitive towards underdogs.

If Jess and Gid were at the door of 7 Eccles street, what would they do?

Pose, show each other their underwear, drink, joke about poop and stick their fingers in the mail slot imagining letters.

What is Jessica's philosophy on picture taking?

That following every posed shot of faces smiling to a camera should come another blatantly posed shot of faces looking into the distance.

Are Sean and Alicia deep thinkers?

Obviously.

Does John envy me my main squeeze?

Who doesn't?
Nobody.

Did Senator David Norris hug me and call me wild and Irish?

You bet your fancy ass he did.

Did Alicia say that the Molly's from last year were better, or at least that they didn't look like they were actually around on June 16, 1904?

She did, that funny lady.

Does Alicia like Ulysses?

Sure looks like it.

Does Marilyn Monroe?

Of course. Sexy things belong together.

How could one describe this Bloom's body language?

Theatrical.

Perfect.

Amusing, enviable.

If Jess could give Joyce a gift to thank him for all he's done, one that would move him, one that would show him she's for real, in love, limitless, what would it be?

It's true.

Moriah.

2007-06-19T23:14:00.000+01:00

We walked the Wicklow Way and mused philosophical musings, for example, how much does your knee hurt? And also, my toenail is coming off as we speak. Then the things we saw and imagined behind the fog (Mo's suggestion) took our minds off the pain.

We drank beer and celebrated Irish writers until Mo passed out on the rug of the Writers' Museum.

Aaand we waited for buses,

visited castles,

got embarrassed,

took a moment from talking our quadrillion words for a picture.

And now I miss her again like I always do.

2007-06-12T01:27:00.002+01:00

Tonight, great things happened. I went out to eat with friends and we had the entire Georgian restaurant to ourselves.

Then we heard our friend Jeremy play the piano while a soprano sang along to songs from Joyce's work

Then this man hugged me and called me a wild Irish lass.

And now, I will wake up in about 4 hours to get one of my very favorite people from the airport.

This is my hundred and one.

2007-06-10T13:26:00.001+01:00

This blog is about 10 days away from being a year old and I just passed my 100 post mark. I'd like to commemorate with a favorites list.

Favorites list June 3-10, 2007
1. Sean and me playing each other our favorite songs circa age 6- his, "Born in the USA" and "Johnny 99" by Springsteen, mine, "The Nights the Lights Went out in Georgia" by Vicki Lawrence and "Roll on" by Alabama.
2. Leslie Mann's performance in Knocked Up. She is my living Madeleine Khan.
3. Mangetout and hummus.
4. James is gone. No more grunting/ yelling/ howling/ singing/ tin whistles.
5. Frisbee
6. 2 euro white sunglasses from an old hardware store
7. My paper. It's almost finished!
8. My paper-writing softest fleece. Ridiculous, yes, but also inspirational.
9. The Dettol that's kept me from getting Sean's sickness. Also, it says right on the back that it kills Rhinovirus...so in case I wake up from a coma (a la 28 weeks) and everyone has turned into a rhino, this shit is my savior.
10. The picture Sean took of the last 4 favorites from this list.

Back to work.

Wha?

2007-06-09T20:40:00.000+01:00

Have you guys thought recently about how weird kangaroos are? We all know they carry their joeys in a skin pouch, but I couldn't really remember anything else from the 4th grade lessons plans. Nothing like writing page 16 of a paper at 8:39 PM to send you off typing "kangaroo life cycle" into Google.

It all happened as I read through my last page and realized I'd written "joey" instead of "lost". The quote reads, "...as though he were the man lying warm in bed listening and the joey creature down below howling his woes against the elements." I've been looking at my keyboard trying to figure out how I did that and all I can think is that my center was moved a little to the left for that brief moment. So because I'm crazy I thought of kangaroos and because my brain is on a delving paper-writing overdrive and I love procrastinating I became wildly, insanely! curious to learn about joeys and this is what I found.

Kangaroos sometimes have three joeys at different stages of development--one developing inside their body, one chillaxin inside their pouch and one hopping around outside but still sticking its face in the mother's pouch for some milk from time to time like this dude.

In severe conditions, the mother may not have enough energy to feed the older young, so it's left to its own devices. If conditions deteriorate, the mother will remove the pouch young (AH!). This means that the embryo in the body develops and soon occupies the vacant pouch.

Kangaroos are marsupials, which doesn't just mean "carries a baby in a pouch," but that they give birth to undeveloped young. Wallabies, wallaroos, wombats, possums and koala bears are all marsupials.

Now, when the joey enters the pouch it's is a weird looking pink thing,

only 2 cm long and less that one gram. It actually knows (not nothing at all because it has no brain, as you would assume from the picture) that it will be warm and fed if it crawls up the mother's body to her pouch. AMAZING FACT!: Uniquely, the kangaroo embryo has the ability to stop and restart its development, almost entering a state of dormancy. Scientists are studying what "turns these signals in the embryo off and on from the point of view of manipulating embryos during in vitro fertilization and for contraception." (http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/3604045.stm)

Over the weeks, the joey starts looking more like a kangaroo

and eventually gets the hair and and the cute, as we can see here.

It becomes more active and gradually spends most of its time outside the pouch, still popping in if it's tired or scared.

The joey then leaves the pouch completely between 7 and 10 months of age. My guess is this guy's 10 months and a day.

As Sean would say, "Wouldn't you agree that kangaroos are both interesting and amazing?"

We would, Sean, we would.

That is totally an A paper. For a 9-year-old assigned to write on kangaroos instead of a 24-year-old supposed to be writing on gender in Irish writing. Back to work.

It's Sean, Ms. Bigley if you're nasty.

2007-06-08T17:10:00.001+01:00

Some days nothing makes me laugh harder than man bangs.

This is sometimes what it's like to talk to my mom on Skype.

2007-06-05T19:40:00.000+01:00

Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:32 PM
triple half caf nonfat
Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:32 PM
regular iced coffee in chicago has miclk and sugar and is disgusting
Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:33 PM
the mind wanders
Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:33 PM
anyway
Jessica Farris 6/5/07 7:33 PM
anyway
Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:34 PM
i saw a truck with this on it
Karen Farris 6/5/07 7:34 PM
1 800 888-POOP

So you know, we were talking about a friend who didn't invite us to his wedding presumably because his wife hates us. We were not talking about coffee or Chicago or poop.

Sunshine

2007-06-05T00:01:00.000+01:00

Yes, my dwindling time here paints Ireland in bright, happy hues. Now that I'm leaving soon I want to eat this island whole and lick up any crumbs. I already feel the missing of it sometimes when I wake up at 11:30 after reading in bed until 3; I think, I should have savored this Irish morning! gone to bed sooner and read outside at 8. I'm starting to touch my Ireland friends more, although I guess I've always touched them an above-average amount of times--that's a problem of mine. I'm space invasive and I love your perfume and probably your soft shirt too!

HOWEVER

Despite missing here already, there are times lately when, if I could, I would fly home immediately or better yet, take a time machine back a few weeks even because I'm missing so much there, namely, my sister, B. Entire proms and boyfriends are passing me by! I know that handsome kid's name down there, but I've never heard his voice or tested his seemliness for B in a series of timed physical fitness maneuvers or a bad joke to see if he'll laugh anyway.

Summer will pass without a sisters' weekend away.

College will come without me to help pack for it; I never thought it would be like that.

It all makes me feel so whiny.

But I do look at Lindsay's dress and feel a bit sunnier. You know? She's a ball of it. Sunshine I mean. Which I'm not there to see. And now I feel whiny again.

But that yellow! It's so happy!

But it's so far away.

But look how happy that other dude is! Yeah other dude! Yeah!

But who the f is that guy?

This is a vicious cycle.

Photo journal...with words included.

2007-06-02T19:21:00.000+01:00

LISTENING TO SEAN!: Once, in Girona, Sean said, "Let's walk over there" and we stumbled onto an ancient Roman wall where we danced around and posed and made another couple take a picture of us. So now when he says, "Let's walk over there" I listen...except when I really want to go somewhere else in which case he can eat it.

Today, we walked over there to Dublin Castle and we didn't dance around because we are older and more mature now, but we did sit, pose and take a cute picture of our feet. Here is photographic evidence.

SWAN BABIES AND KICKING HAPPY PEOPLE!: We rode the bus back to UCD and I took Sean to see the swan babies at the lake. On Thursday, I called Sean to ask if he wanted to lay on the grass with me and ogle the 6 ugly ducklings but he was too busy making money. Couples smooched all around the lake that day and, after calling Sean, I was annoyed to walk around them, wanting (a little) to kick them all like mushrooms or small dogs. However, if I was on the warm grass with Sean and someone sighed at me while I was smattering affection all over his face I would have told her to stop being a frigid wench...with my mind, because I don't like to ruin things with confrontation. Hypocritical frustration is as obvious a part of me as my freckles; I can admit it. I hate loud girls but when I'm laughing LOUDLY I think, "Oh, everyone on this street must love my joy!" Some days in NYC I would wear heels and stroll on the streets, gazing at skyscrapers, smiling at hotdog men, but when other women wore heels and strolled on days I wore flats, I blew past them, haughty and fast in my practical kicks, shaking my head at the idiots. What I take from this introspection: I'm less annoying at doing annoying things than others.

PRINCES AND PUNCHING!: Last stop-the never peopled flower garden. I love this place. It's surrounded by a secret gardeny stone wall and no one is ever there and it smells like someone glued rose petals under your nose because there are so many of these.

Sometimes when I come here I think of Drew Barrymore in Ever After and how much I loved the prince and then I punch Sean to get some fervor out of my system.

Seriously, going to a crappy place with Sean is more fun than going to an awesome place without him so imagine my luck that I get to go awesome places with him all the time.

P.S. Doesn't Sean's hair make him look like a Republican?

Finals.

2007-05-17T08:31:00.000+01:00

Finals are here. No...more pervasive. Finals are Eeeverywhere.

I'm chill though.

Despite a night in the hospital (not serious) things have been dandy. I'm breathing and doing tai-chi and drinking herbal tea...but sometimes I just want to achieve my chill through quick and artificial means. We all know, however, that this right here is not relaxing. Hilarious, but not relaxing.

As a sweet ass break, I'll get to see The Jen on a visit from Pareee. She, I would roll up and smoke. Man do I miss her. The cheese and fruit in my fridge are dying to be had and my throat's already itching with all the things I want to talk about.

This makes me laugh.

2007-05-13T23:51:00.000+01:00

Happy mother's day.

9:03 UCD

2007-05-02T21:14:00.000+01:00

Can you believe how light it still is?!

Attend the tale.

2007-05-01T21:50:00.000+01:00

Sean and I saw Sweeney Todd on Saturday and now I sing its songs at the top of my lungs when I go for my walks. Anyway. The fact that so many songs are marching through my brain like armies into battle makes it hard for me to be in the library for extended periods of time. Even breathing loudly in the UCD library is akin to screaming naked in a regular library, tearing pages from books and pouring Coca Cola on the study desks. I've been reprimanded more in the UCD library than I have over my entire quarter century of life. Today I hummed three bars between the 820.09 stacks and in thirty seconds three libro-cops had me handcuffed and made me read my rights to myself silently in my head, and those rights were, "You have none. We would rather you die than make noise. Get out of our library, American." So lately, I'm studying outside.

Besides those of Sweeney Todd, these are the other songs that made me a wanted woman in the UCD library:

Leslie first and foremost. I have such a crush on her.

The line, "Take this sinking boat and point it home, we still have time" is particularly sticky.

I think it's a coping mechanism, really. I'm thinking of finals, next year, the thesis, Sean, so many things and then SWOOP! here comes Leslie pushing everything out with her secret heart. These songs are so calming. If anyone but my mom reads this anymore, I'd love to know the songs you're obsessed with lately. Mom, that doesn't mean you can't tell me, too.

Ireland

2007-04-27T15:46:00.000+01:00

No one knows when our exams are, just that they will not be before May 14th or after June 2nd. No one knows where they will be. How do I hand in these essays if the office is closed? No one knows when the thesis is even due. Is it the end of July or the middle of August? Websites disagree with professors disagree with administration disagrees with basic logic.

I've had an epiphany, and I've written it out Rosie-style in honor of her departure from The View.

So i bought toaster waffles
because id been craving them 4 a while
and the picture on the box, it looked really good
i bring em home stick em in the toaster
make some homemade syrup from brown sugar and a little butter
take em out all golden brown
dip a bite in my syrup
and GAG
why?
because they r POTATO WAFFLES

And it strikes me this is an apt analogy for my time here in Ireland. The toaster waffle called life sucks when I create a vision of what should happen, but when I free my brain of expectation and my entitlement to, you know, ever know what's going on here, I get a giant waffle-shaped french fry. And it's pretty finger-lickin'.

A mother's wisdom

2007-04-26T23:42:00.001+01:00

On manboy:

Karen Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
i don't think he would murder anyone
4/26/07 11:39 PM
i think he might ask to see their boobs
Jessica Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
well
Karen Farris 4/26/07 11:39 PM
but not murder

Peace reads.

2007-04-26T11:39:00.001+01:00

I love

all four books

from these lovebirds

so much that I re-read them even when I have a million books in waiting on my required/desired list and it's 4 AM.

Room number 4, or The Black Curtain of Glenomena.

2007-04-25T15:57:00.000+01:00

Today is Glenomena check-up day, which means a man comes around to all the rooms in the building and checks that you haven't trashed yours Van Halen-style. Welllll, when the dude checked on funky manboy's room next door he asked that my flatmate David and I stand guard whilst he finish the check because he was quaking with fright. Why?

1. The stench.
2. The long, handmade, black curtain behind the door.
3. The bed with no duvet, sheets or pillow. Simple mattress. Deadly simple.
4. and most quake-worthy, Fun.Man. has a postcard menagerie of porn meticuously lining the entire room. His room is seriously an OCD shrine to all things smutty and stereotypically psychopathic.

I was okay when he lined up 6 pair of hamburger buns with one sheet of lettuce, and one squirt of ketchup for his 6 SIX! hamburgers. I was okay when he microvaved a bowl containing three cans of tuna and five baby potatoes. I almost threw up but I was was still okay. Now I am not okay, though, when I think of where all that caloric energy is going. Perhaps into the sheets that are NOT on his bed. I used to think he was maybe R rated crazy-- grunting, pounding on the wall, and then giggling and screaming profanities, but now these annoyances seem so much more. And "much more" = the X-rated results of what must be constant and rampant manboy onanism.

I want to tear my brain out and soak it in Clorox.

I also want to move.

I forgot I had a blog.

2007-04-24T16:26:00.000+01:00

So. It's been a while. Here are some things I've done while not updating.

I've prepared an Easter dinner. Do you see those two loaves of bread back there? I made them. Hells yeah. One is coconut and dried fruit and the other is jalepeno and cheddar cheese. Sean and I also made meatballs in wine sauce, green bean casserole, stuffing, sweet potato mash, etc. I made that tub of butter from the milk of an Irish cow, and also whipped up that Mac computer. Domesticity!

I've read my fancy ass off. I think there are only three books I haven't read and those are the ones just sent to the publisher this minute. Other than those three, I've read every book ever written and am now in the process of writing essays on/ being tested on/ writing a thesis on them. I love it, except that I hate it.

I've stared at the gay mallards that sleep right outside my building's door, Fergus and Ron McGimpsey.

I've beaten a path into the ground on my way to the market.

I've written a note to my 39-year-old manboy of a flatmate who grunts, pounds on the wall, screams "motherfu--er!" and then giggles like a Victorian lady. E v e r y s i n g l e n i g h t n o w. He never answers his door and doesn't respond to knocks on the wall because I guess he loves getting letters. I wrote this after a hanging picture fell on my face.

I've received bullshit answers to my letters.

I've gone to 80's parties where the only shot of Sean cuts out his kickin' lime green sweatband.

I've stepped out and explored. I have no idea, seriously none, why they say the weather here is bad. The trees are blooming, the palms are swaying, the breeze blows cool from the ocean and the sun is freckling everyone's noses.

Hard to believe it's almost over.

Hey sunshine.

2007-03-25T23:02:00.000+01:00

No "hey sunshine" when I wake up anymore.

My mom and I made a 6 city tour around Ireland, making stops at the Giant's Causeway, Sligo, Galway, Adare, Dingle and the Wicklow Mountains, and we rocked it like the rockstars we are. We drank wine every night. We were followed by crazy men. We smoked Camels and trashed castle rooms.

No but seriously.

My mom should hire herself out as a travel buddy because exploring with her is to exploring alone what Murphy's dark chocolate ice cream is to actual poop.

I've posted some pics here...

Rockstars I tell you.

I love spring coming.

2007-03-04T13:47:00.000Z

The bluest sky and an Irish songbird. How do I know the bird is Irish? Because when I took this picture it told me to "feck off."

Thankful book.

2007-03-03T00:23:00.001Z

I've been keeping a "what I'm thankful for" book bedside for about three months now. It is a moleskine bought for me by my sister at Christmas, which is the first thanks in the book, "That Linds bought me a spare moleskine for Christmas." Every night I try to think of two or three things I'm happy about since I normally have two or three HUNDRED reasons perpetually running through my head as to why I should punch myself in the face and stop talking forever.

I know I replay all my conversations and beat myself up too much about things that probably don't matter. I know. But seriously, I also know it's bad for my system to eat an entire bag of crumbly, oaty, British HobNobs and yet...

Type II diabetes here I come.

This "thankful" book has evolved into a "thankful/ awesome things I want to remember" book. Why? Because I'm encountering way too many awesome things I want to remember. For instance, I'm reading two books together and they are amazing, very similar and current all-time faves. One is by the best lecturer of all time, Hugo Hamilton and it's called "The Speckled People." The other is Thomas Bernhard's memoir. Very good. So so good.

In Hugo's, there is a scene with my favorite food. It goes as such: Hugo and his little brother take a bowl of mashed potatoes and cover a room with it for various reasons, mainly, I think, as a small rebellion against their abusive, controlling father. Soon, Hugo's mom and father walk in the room and Hugo writes, "My father looked at bits of mashed potato on the ceiling and said they would never come off. They would be there for ever. We were in real trouble. But my mother wouldn't let him hit us. Instead of getting angry, she said you couldn't punish a thing like that because it happened only once in a lifetime. My father was still frowning, but then she put her arm around him and said it didnt matter going without mashed potato for one day. She said they were lucky to have children with such imagination. She smiled and said you had to have an imagination to do something as mad as that." And that's an awesome thing I want to remember.

Similarly, in Thomas Bernhard's memoir, he recounts stealing a bicycle at 8 years old from his step-father and riding it (successfully riding it, the first time he tried!) to his aunt's house. He ends up getting slightly lost and hitches a ride back to his town in the middle of the night. His mom seethes and rages, but his grandfather says something like, "Holy crap!! You can ride a bike now. Just think, if you hadn't taken it, you would never know that. The only thing you did wrong was to not tell anyone where you were going."

So, I wrote the quotes in my book and then, "be like this for people."

I also want to remember to have an old fashioned pencil sharperner on a desk in my future house and the branches wall sticker from this site in one of my rooms. Also, to copy a page from a favorite book or a poem in a cool artsy way and frame it as a decoration. I want to remember how yesterday Sean quoted Hot Fuzz the whole bus ride home instead of talking about Justice Scalia or the gripes he has with Fair Trade coffee. Awesome. And how lovely the rain sounds on a Friday when I don't have to go anywhere.

I'm a happier person this month, I really am. It's getting easier to see good and it looks like another moleskine will be in order fairly, (awesomely!) soon.

THIS AMERICAN LIFE IS GOING TO BE A TV SHOW?

2007-02-26T18:13:00.000Z

At first I didn't know what to think about this because taking the radio out of This American Life seems like taking the red out of ketchup, but then I thought, "more TAL? Bring it!" And indeed, they shall.

Couldn't we all do with a little more of this fella?

Two of many conversations had at a party on Saturday that make eye contact for all involved difficult on Monday.

2007-02-26T15:04:00.000Z

1.
Devin: Hiya.
You know I met Sean like 7 minutes ago and there are few people I've liked more immediately.

Me: Yeah, a lot of people say that. Sometimes I catch him rehearsing for first impressions in the mirror. That's why.

Devin: Nooooo. I read his email you forwarded for the party and he's so funny and wordy. I like his wordiness, he uses big words and he's so FUNny! Like it almost makes me think, "is Jess really funny or is she just around Sean a lot?"

Me: Thanks, Devin.

Devin: And, well, he was telling me he's trying to get you to marry him. SO DO IT! Jess. Do it. I'm not kidding, Jess. Seriously. Marry Sean. ASAP! I just totally know you should do it.

Me: Yeah, I'm thinking about it. Just like I've been thinking about the same tatoo for the past 4 years. If I married him, he'd be around for a long time. Like a tatoo. Or Herpes. All chronic things, really. But he does make me laugh every day. Meg (his wife) was saying the same thing about you.

Devin: I know. Did you see Meg has a tatoo? I never thought I'd marry a girl with a tattoo. I don't know why. Anyway...

pause.

pause.

ok, pausing still because that was kind of a serious heart-to-heart.

Me: Ok, thanks Devin.

Devin: No prob. Later.

2.
Jeremy: Never have I ever (insert wildly raunchy act illegal in 12 states and possibly only documented in German porn...not that I've seen it, but I'm sure it's "wonderbar").

Me: (drinks absent mindedly while everyone hoots and points. I try to explain) No! I was just thirsty right then! I wasn't thinking! No!

Everyone else at the Kings card table: Suuuuuure.

How to keep things from getting old versus how to indisputably suck.

2007-02-17T21:50:00.001Z

How to keep things from getting old:

just enough mystery
sunscreen and/or wide brimmed hats
truthiness Colbert ice cream

How to indisputably suck:

kill Mr. Eko
get Kate out of her shirt for longer than usual
add lots of guns
and cages
bash skulls and bloody noses

What is happening to my world? Lost is serving it up piping suck with a side of boring. Thank God for Heroes.

Dooce and champagne!

2007-02-15T22:38:00.000Z

About three years ago, this friend of mine introduced me to this website. Since then, and mostly on company time, I've systematically worked my way through every post on Dooce.

Why? Because Heather's funny like Tina Fey is funny, she's in love with things, painfully self-questioning and very pretty. Some posts grab me and some posts maybe grab other people...who knows how these things work. This one grabbed me today and, as per usual, made me love Heather and her life in a way not too far from totes weird. I'm not used to knowing so much about a person who's not my friend, and sometimes I don't know what to do with the antsy impulses I get from reading her blog and feeling like her peer--the impulse to embrace her, react to her, try to find her phone number to tell her a few jokes and ask nagging questions about her awesome hair, the impulse to propose to Sean and buy property...as I said, totes weird. Maybe head over to the site if you're bored and see what you think. Is she as awesome as I think she is? Does she make you want a tire swing and a dog?

P.S. Sean and I got drunk on champagne at 3:30 in the P.M. to celebrate 4 years. 4 years? 4 years. And in apt Irish fashion we were then too lazy to do anything but lay around and snicker and giggle, which we did for a few perfect hours before he left me for his own single bed. 4 years!

Valentimes part II.

2007-02-14T21:19:00.000Z

If you go here you can download awesome love songs for free. I found out via newsletter from the weepies who made a new cute video you can find on myspace or here.

Happy ValentiMes!

2007-02-14T15:50:00.000Z

I love this show.

And this guy.

.

Hello, my name's Jess and I'm a...well...I'm a...I'm a hypochondriac, okay?

2007-02-13T22:54:00.000Z

Once I was driving on a dark night. I felt the pain pitchforks (also commonly known as headlights) of oncoming traffic in my temples even though I'd taken Advil. I was trying to sooth my temples with public radio and it almost worked, but then, right as a pretty song of love requited finished, BAM came Belle and Sebastian singing, "He had a stroke at the age of 24." Please find and judge a snippet of my internal dialogue below.

How old am I?
Check.
Headache?
Check.
Despite the Advil?
Check.
Does Advil enlarge the veins or thin the blood?
Blast! I'm done for.

I don't know why this happens so often. When it does, I ask Sean what I think are a line of logical questions, I check Web MD and then I become convinced- I never feel like I'm convincing myself- that several serious illnesses find me too attractive not to share and eat my organs.

Beyond how exhausting it is to use Purell after touching anything that's not Purell, and beyond how much it must suck to be my boyfriend sometimes, beyond all that, I am realizing that the worst part of this constant worrying is the preoccupation with myself that it demands. I read a Real Simple article a while ago that sort of brought this up. The author listed a bunch of "ridiculous" things she does that I do too (of course I stop breathing when I pass someone who just coughed...sorry I'm intelligent). Then she said she was tired of looking inwards instead of outwards. I thought, well, I'm on board. 100%. I don't want to be self-involved! I don't like that idea, even though I have a blog, at all. No way. No how.

But then I see this and my fear of brain tumors/aneurysms lands in the brain like a tumor or aneurysm. This is one of the reasons I will always fear brain tumors/aneurysms. Because this is what happens...when you're LUCKY.

Stacie and miscelena

2007-02-09T22:12:00.000Z

I've had a hard time describing my time with Stacie to wondering classmates. I want to say, "you know when I make a hilarious joke in front of 30 Irish people and one of them maybe, sometimes, cracks a slanting smile? Well Stacie was opposite; she was opposite of that crap." *

I think my favorite part of our time together was talking loudly before bed and then exhaustedly exhaling and turning out the light. Oh and the time the cracked-tooth Brit hit on her so hard we had to run away while he was in the bathroom blowing his runny nose.

Really, I've had a hard time describing lots of things lately, which might explain the sparse updates. It's weird what disappears from my personality when I get so busy, namely, my ability to really judge how I'm feeling about things instead of just putting my head down and "powering through" as an old cube-mate used to say. My head is so down right now.

I try to bring it back up with these things every so sometimes...
Things I'm eating/looking at/ listening to/doing against my better judgment:

olives and hazelnuts
snow on the Wicklow mountains
Whitman reading "America"
jenny owen youngs
my neighbor killing birds?
Bulmers with classmates.
Yes, I said Bulmers.
I know I said it smelled like pee.
Um-hmm. It still does. Yes.
Well, I look past it in the light of camaraderie.
So what if I do only have one yellow tooth now?

*Pictures of her being opposite are up at flickr. If you go there, please note the offense of the third child in the eighth photo. This page came from a book aiming to highlight the atrocity of placing a child in jail for minor misdemeanors.

I miss this lady.

2007-01-25T22:56:00.000Z

Jessica Farris 1/25/07 2:52 PM
i just heated up the cat
Karen Farris 1/25/07 2:52 PM
that sounds so awful

If I ever got a nose job, I would not ask for Nicole Kidman's.

2007-01-18T23:29:00.000Z

I'd ask for the perky little ray of carmel polkadotted sunshine on Sean's face.

The best part of my day...

2007-01-18T23:14:00.000Z

Sometimes you read things that crack bad days apart and blow away the pieces. I did today.

From Housekeeping, by Marilynne Robinson

Imagine a Carthage sown with salt, and all the sowers gone, and the seeds lain however long in the earth, till there rose finally in vegetable profusion leaves and trees and rime and brine. What flowering would there be in such a garden? Light would force each salt calyx to open in prism, and to fruit heavily with bright globes of water-- peaches and grapes are little more than that, and where the world was salt there would be greater need of slaking. For need can blossom into all the compensation it requires. To crave and to have are as like as a thing and its shadow. For when does a berry break upon the tongue as sweetly as when one longs to taste it, and when is the taste refracted into so many hues and savors of ripeness and earth, and when do our senses know anything so utterly as when we lack it? And here again is a foreshadowing-- the world will be made whole. For to wish for a hand on one's hair is to all but feel it. So whatever we may lose, very craving gives it back to us again. Though we dream and hardly know it, longing, like an angel, fosters us, smooths our hair, and brings us wild strawberries

I know, I could do without all the "for"s too, but seriously, doesn't that make you want to call someone you love and read it out loud?

La la la la la la laaaaaa (to be sung like a corpse) or Sure, parts were pretty, but maybe I should have read a synopsis first.

2007-01-16T22:36:00.000Z

Hey do you want to see a guy's face get smashed to pieces with a wine bottle while he's standing next to his poor dad? What about a smattering of people getting shot about the head and neck? Are you aching for a creepy-ass lullaby to stay in your head for hours? Good news! El Laberinto del Fauno is out now. Run to the theaters, everyone. Now you know what to expect.

I will love and have pity, he says.

2007-01-12T13:19:00.000Z

I found a book of Michael Hatnett's poems, finally, on sale in the basement of a Dublin bookstore. I brought it to Cornucopia where I ate a plate of fantasticicity as usual and read the first 20 pages. He reminds me of Neruda in that he aches to be accounted for romantically, but then he reminds me of nothing but what I want more than anything to be reading right there, in Cornucopia on a Thursday, when nothing else would suit the happenings of the day, my mood, the food or the weather so perfectly. I was in there for too long, I thought, and rushed out to catch a bus when I realized I had nothing to do. This delicious gift-received feeling came into me, like when you think it's 4 PM then find out it's only 2:30. I bought a french pear tartlet and watched people walk by at a cafe in between more pages of poems.

I turned in Yeats today. Sean will turn in his paper too and we will both be free at last, free at last, hallelujah, free at last for the 10 days before classes start.

Going through the travel journal...

2007-01-10T21:02:00.000Z

We consume Utrecht and Amsterdam. Our noses feast on the lilies in the flower market. Our mouths chomp Oliebollen. Our eyes cover and devour the canals. The Netherlands is in our bellies and shooting from our pores. We're still filled with it, alive with it, living off the memories it provided. We're in a deep love affair. Deep. Poor Ireland will never be enough.

In Girona everything is quirky, from the train car in which we eat our crepes to the long stairs up and up and up to nowhere. People drop things 50 feet from their windows to waiting hands below. A man sells me the most beautiful necklace for 8 euros. The Romans built a wall around this city to protect it but Sean and I jumped on and above and through the wall and ransacked Girona of her goods and memories.

On the road to Barcelona we buy prosciutto, crusty bread, cheese, crackers, spicy sausage for Sean's ill throat and airy cookies with coconut, walnuts and tiny bits of chocolate. Sean communicates his head cold in charming Spanish to a woman at the Farmacia and receives a box of orange effervescence for his efforts and money. Once in the car, I rip the chorizo with my teeth into pieces and set them on cheese and crackers for the sick driver. We arrive and drink sangria and drink sangria and drink sangria and arrive.

Valencia clementines. My favorite food? Yes. A man my dad works with left a box in our hotel room. We simply happen upon everything here- the street our hotel is on, the Mercado Central, the silk market, the most delicious candied popcorn. A serendipitous city for Sean and me, though it fails to take his sickness away. He has no color in his cheeks for two days.

No color still in Pisa, but we eat ravioli and rabbit, sleep well and in the morning Sean tells me he wants to climb the Tower. We do. And from the air and view he gets his color back. I take pictures of it. The camera loves you, Sean.

All the pics are at the flickr site, so go on and click that link to the right. Go on.

I've been away.

2006-12-29T20:35:00.000Z

I'll be away some more...until Jan. 12th or so. Cool things are happening.

Because I'm excited about it, look at this present from Sean. That's a Eucalyptus leaf bracelet yes it is.

So, until the 12th, my friends, when I'll come at you with pics of Amsterdam, Barcelona, Padua and places in between.

10 tid bits on my mind

2006-11-20T18:36:00.000Z

1. My mom calls my life in Ireland cerebral slapstick. How'd she get so quick and alliterative?

2. Today I laughed out loud in public for the first time in about a month. It was a tee-shirt that did it.

Haikus are easy
But sometimes they don't make sense
Refrigerator!

3. I was paid money for a published piece. I have just tasted virgin blood and my wig is askew. I won't go back to eating rats, Louis!

4. I watched part of Interview with the Vampire today while I made lunch.

5. I made a pita pizza with mozzarella, basil and tomatoes, but then I wanted to puke when I saw the cooked tomatoes.

6. All I eat are pita pizzas and clementines, or "mandarins," as in, "12 mandarins for 1 Euro, love. I see you looking; come buy me mandarins, love. One Euro. Thank you, love. Good day, love. Come back."

7. Playing fast on the mandolin is very hard.

8. Part of me feels claustrophobic, conflicted and awful when reading Beckett. Why? Because he builds a house with sentences like, "he had expressed the wish to get up and go out into the fresh air, but timidly, as when one asks for the moon,"-- beautiful bricks-- and right next to them he places, "our concern here is not with Moll, who after all is only a female." It's because he hates women worse than death. He says so over and over and then over again.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIIIIIIReally.Hedoesreallysaythat.IIIIIIIIIIIII
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

9. My sleeping, drunk professor across the way didn't open his blinds last week. Where is he? Where is he!

10. West coast or east coast?

Mom giving me updates from home on Skype

2006-11-08T15:47:00.000Z

Karen Farris 08/11/2006 07:37
scofie ate a spider yesterday and I thought Lindsay was going to throw up

8 string proof

2006-11-04T12:04:00.000Z

that money is awesome.

I can't get enough of

2006-11-03T21:59:00.000Z

Regina Spektor's new video.

Three things outside of my window that I particularly love.

2006-11-03T13:41:00.000Z

1. This. The clouds. They're low and quick moving and the sky makes me want to drink cold water.

2. Rainbows. I haven't taken a picture yet that does one justice; I have to practice. Ireland often mixes its mist with sunlight, which results in rainbows so bright and low you can taste them. They're loud like Cyndi Lauper. They're almost offensive. When was the last time I saw so many bitchin' rainbows? Probably 1989 in my backyard sprinkler.

3. This guy. Every day he falls asleep in his office. When he's not sleeping he's frenetically talking to students with hands waving and head back in laughter. He drinks from a mug constantly. I like to think he's this bacchanal genius and no one cares that he's drunk because he's so fun.

Other things I see out my window while reading (who now?) Yeats:

Loose dogs
walkers/runners
drunks
birds
planes
drunks

Recent news.

2006-11-01T11:32:00.000Z

There exists a street in Dublin where one can buy 12 mandarins for 1 Euro. Also 1 Euro: 10 bananas, 2 avocados, 8 apples, 8 pears. I don't know about vegetable prices because I can't remember the last time I bought and ate a vegetable.

I play Texas Holdem very well, but not quite well enough.

Sean and I went to see M. Ward last night. We hope the M stands for menage because both of us want to marry him. He was playing in a tiny cave. Here is the best shot we got because we didn't want to scare his gentle spirit with a flash.

We went dressed as an old, rich married couple. We planned to drink only gimlets and slow gin fizzes and manhattans (that's what I've got there) but then I changed out of my dress and unclipped my clip-on earrings and Sean took off his button down and tie and we bought a Guinness because my body wanted to put the Manhattan back into its glass after I'd had a sip.

So then we were just a guy who can sip a Manhattan without vomiting and a girl who can't.

On one bridge looking to another

2006-11-01T11:22:00.000Z

At night parts of the Liffey glow because there are lights under the bridges.

Sean's Halloween Costume.

2006-11-01T11:20:00.000Z

They do not have pumpkins here.

2006-10-27T12:47:00.000+01:00

Also, no Goldfish snack crackers.

Or good avocados.

What they do have:

Jarred herring displayed prominently in food stores (thumbs down).

Prawn coctail potato chips (thumbs down so far they're in the iron inner core of earth).

Hobnobs oaty biscuits (thumbs up).

This place (thumbs touching Jesus).

.

UCD on a Sunday

2006-10-22T17:04:00.000+01:00

One tiny car in the parking lot.

One cheapo wine bottle in the woods.

One beauty bird chilling on the green.

EAIP Post. (Excusable and Inexcusable Post Post).

2006-10-20T23:42:00.000+01:00

I've been thinking a lot about what I find excusable and inexcusable in myself, the people around me and just the world in general.

Last night my class went out to a bar called Zanzibar and it bothered me that the sign said Zanzibar bar. That reminds me of how I almost chose Trinity College over UCD because UCD's placard says UCD Dublin, which is University College Dublin Dublin. Repeated words in signs are inexcusable.

So we sat in Zanzibar bar and the Americans drank Guinness. We all warmed up with the elation of sitting two inches away from people we knew only by comments in class and we had each others' breath on our ears because the music was too loud. I told and heard of secret insecurities, jokes and worries for the future. My favorite part was being asked so many questions and asking so many back. I can't remember the last time I was around so many questions; I especially can't remember the last time someone asked me to dance. I learned about a classmate's cocaine bout, another's time in Shanghai and the way another only dances with his shoulders. I split a cab home with Anne from Wicklow and Kara from Oklahoma and then went to bed purposefully and without taking my panic medication. I did wake up three hours later with fierce chills and a tight, fast chest so I took my pill then went back to an uneasy sleep hoping I wouldn't feel like a failure in the morning. I didn't. I think relying on something has finally become excusable to me.

Today I made a list of things to do because I was afraid that I would become lonesome on a listless day and therefore eat and spend money. I finished all on my list around 5PM and what did I do? I ate a week's calories then bought songs and shows on iTunes. Here I offer two little slices of advice free of charge:

1. Don't eat when you're bored because someday you'll be really bored and you'll eat a whole pizza with a half bottle of wine and some frosted flakes and then you'll pass out with your spiked bloodsugar and wake up 6 hours later bright and ready for the day, which is good, except that it's 12 AM.

2. Buy a song by The Weepies- maybe "Keep it There." I don't think you'll regret it. You wouldn't regret a song by M. Ward either. How about Chinese Translation? And if you're bored and have a buck to spare and if you like CSN&Y, buy "Tree Top Flyer" by Big Daddy O. Then decide you're sad that Nick Drake is dead and buy some Alexi Murdoch songs. Then listen to "Lord, Blow the Moon out Please" by Hem because I said so. Because spending money and time on music when you're a poor and busy student is a rebellious act against loneliness so excusable it's almost law.

Romance Sean style.

2006-10-17T18:22:00.000+01:00

Sean: I love your eyes.
Me: Thanks.
Sean: You know the most beautiful part about them?
Me: What?
Sean: Sometimes when I look into them I can see my own reflection.

Everybody hurts sometimes.

2006-10-14T18:31:00.000+01:00

I walked into a door; he poured scalding coffee on his hand. When we press on that top blister liquid comes out from some secret opening arond his wrist...very cool. I, however, can do nothing cool with a bruise on my nose.

SEVEN!

2006-10-13T10:26:00.000+01:00

We talk about important things- socialism, vegetarianism, Pynchon, Marvin Gaye. We drink a beer brewed on the premises called Brain Blasta. 7% alcohol by volume. I typed that correctly. It's a pun on braon blasta, an Irish phrase meaning tasty drop, which is what we call it for short; it's Christian name is tasty drop-kick to your sobriety.
After 2 of those babies, Cody dances. He makes white cool and then does the best moonwalk so Sean and I make him teach us and now I practice it every morning. Sean says, "I love all your clothes, man. You've got style." Cody says, "Well, I've been wanting to say that you, my friend, can grow a beard." I'm tired from beer and nights thinking instead of sleeping and Cody taps my elbow, "You hanging in there?"

It's 1:30. We write email addresses on the backs of free magazines and put them in our bags. Hugs are given, taken, returned to their owners tighter. Sean and Cody hug and I realize how tall Cody is and how neither of them begin patting. It would have been an awesome year getting to know Cody. I do know that.

Today Cody's getting on a plane back to the states and I'm going to read Lady Gregory, write a report, watch last week's Lost, go for a jog and call another of the numbers I got from class.

This will be the last post in which I mention Yeats.

2006-10-08T16:16:00.000+01:00

I miss just about everyone I know- all very indivdual misses with distinct tugs as fast as a glance and unaffected by the new relationships I'm making.

I miss my mom especially today, though, because I thought several thoughts this morning that I would have shared with her immediately if not for the freakin 8 hour time difference. I'm bad at math and I hate this whole counting back 8 hours crap. Stupid round earth.

Anyway, people often note our similarities (including Papa Don, who made this side-by-side for me a billion years ago). We have freckles and auburn hair and I don't know whether I imitated her or called up the noises from my genes, but we both have the same laugh, too. We laugh at the same things in the same way and usually cry at the same books and I think she's super smart, (use your deduction) so when we talk a lot I feel reinforced. Plus she's fun.

You know what else is fun? Yeats. I'm serious. I have an oral presentation coming up this week and I'm excited because the class is so divided and electric in their opinions of him. My professor constantly talks about how Yeats wanted his work to be ratified (ratify: to approve and sanction formally) by the Irish people, which it wasn't because he was a Protestant and at times rather pretentious. He might not have been ratified as he wished, but he's about to be radifed (radify: to make rad) during my presentation.

Yeats...and Tiff, Dickie, PJ and Tammy

2006-10-08T01:53:00.000+01:00

Sometimes after I read about silver apples of the moon and golden apples of the sun I run to YouTube and zonk and feel great about life in a different way.

And hell yes, I will wake you up at 2AM to watch this.

Knock, knock.

2006-10-05T22:31:00.000+01:00

Who's there?

THE AGING PROCESS!

About two months ago, the first gray appeared. Soon it had a friend. The friends invited others up and now there's a rockin' party on the back left of Sean's head. I told him about it and he made me pull one out to prove it; then he stared at it like it had grown a pair of lips and announced, "I hear oak is nice. FOR CASKETS."

Sean refused to believe there were more so I pulled out another, and then another. I should have said, "That's all!" but because I'm horrible I took a picture instead.

It adds character.

Malkovich, Malkovich, Malkovich.

2006-10-02T22:33:00.000+01:00

Sometimes this MA in Anglo-Irish Lit. feels a bit like the scene from "Being John Malkovich" where everyone is Malkovich and the only words in the language are Malkovich, Malkovich and Malkovich spoken in different pitches like Madarin Chinese. Here at UCD, Yeats is Malkovich. But sexier. Every time my professor, Dr. Clutterbuck, talks about him, she moans a bit and sucks her index finger. She has a mean stutter with the words "and" and "of" and gets stuck on them sometimes for 15 repetitions (I counted). The last stuttered "of" or "and" comes loose in a loud and elongated way as if to recover ground for all the previously clipped and quiet ones. Because she works up into these tiny fits of ecstasy, it's easy when she gets to her fourth frustrated "of" to imagine it as "oh" and to imagine her "and" as "ah." So, in my head, her sentences sound like this, "Let's think about symbols and and and and ah ah ah ah ahhhhhh! bondage in the poetry of of of of oh oh oh oh oh ohhh! Yeats."

Roar.

Soon I'll be swimming on through the years of Anglo-Irish writing with my knowledge of Yeats like some orange floaties around my arms. Right now I'm tired from breathing my life into them.

I'm holding on to a lot of soons right now. Soon I will have a student number, soon I will figure out how to keep more water within the shower curtains than without, soon I will talk in class, soon I won't want to karate-chop the faces of most people holding positions of any authority Ireland, be it the woman who makes me pay 20 cents to go to the bathroom or the man who threatens to confiscate my library card, soon I won't feel homesick, soon I will manage my time like a navy seal on a mission instead of a baboon blissfully munching on his friends' lice.

Speaking of friends with lice, Kate and Tad, Sean's sister and Bro-in-law, were here this weekend. We went to St. Patrick's Cathedral where I condemned myself to an eternity of rubbing Satan's soldiers by underlining select words in the service booklet to make hilarious sentences. I know now that the more intense and serious the service, the more irreverent I become. The pastor was monotone and the choir was all boys. I couldn't help myself. Soon I will find religion.

We also went to the Kilmainham Gaol, a spooky place where pretty much every important Irish politician until the 1920s had a room; so did Maude Gonne, none other than Yeats' forever un-him-loving love. Yeats, Yeats, Yeats, Yeats.

The Guinness Factory called for us next, where Sean and Tad were talking about cigarettes. Sean being Sean nodded to the others already in the elevator, ignoring their language and said, "You know, Lucky Strikes killed more Americans than the Germans." Turns out everyone in the elevator was German.

I've added a few pics HERE! of this weekend with Kate and Tad. They're coming back to Dublin on Monday, after which Sean and I will have to see a new favorite movie and talk of home over thick Irish Stew.

TWO LITTLE BIRDIES!

2006-09-26T16:44:00.000+01:00

Sean's parents flew to Ireland last Thursday night and stayed to Sunday. On Thursday Sean and I canoodled while waiting for the bus that would take us to his parents. By canoodling I mean I stood on Sean's steel-toed boot and asked, "That doesn't hurt?" and he didn't push me off. As I stood on his boot a sweet troll of a girl walked over, stared at us and shrieked, "TWO LITTLE BIRDIES!" Sean and I were like, "Wha?" She walked away and we wondered why she was alone at a bus stop at 9:30 PM and how it was possible, at 10 and as a girl, to sound so much like Steven Tyler. We let it go and started talking about how excited we were to see his parents when she came back over and screamed a raspy, "KISSIN AND HUGGIN!!"

Lately whenever anything strikes me as totally Irish and odd, I look at Sean and scream, "TWO LITTLE BIRDIES!" with a brogue.

On Friday, we went to the National Museum of Old Stuff and saw bodies preserved in bogs from the year 100 or so that still had curly hair and beards. We saw brooches and earings from 230 B.C. That's right. B. freakin C. There were swords and bowls with intricate decorations that kidnapped my brain so that all I thought about that day were hands from 2000 years ago holding swords and bowls.

We went on a rail and bus tour up to the Cliffs of Moher and Burren on Saturday. I've posted some pics of it HERE!. Beware- these are so Irish.

Sunday morning we all went to mass then ate an Irish breakfast with black and white pudding (TWO LITTLE BIRDIES!). After the Doc and Mrs. left Sean and I went to see "Little Miss Sunshine"; it's my new favorite movie. I know I lack the distance needed to correctly compare it with previously seen awesome movies. Also, I recognize that every book I last read is my new favorite book, as is the case right now. But they feel so favorite still. Anyway, after seeing my new favorite movie, Sean and I stood outside of the Savoy and Sean looked at me and said, "I'm homesick" and I said, "There's an anvil in my stomach" and he said, "I'm going to cry." And we totally did.

We're feeling better now. I started classes yesterday and want to adopt all of my professors. They will be my entertaining children. Teach me something new, Declan. Make Mama some waffles while you talk about Yeats, Dr. Clutterbuck (her real name).

Above are photos of my new favorite movie and new favorite book. Note the book is not Gulliver's Travels or Castle Rackrent, the other two books I'm reading, which indicates a lack of interest in the subject matter of my classes.

He said, you're my favorite person. I said thank you! He said, I know I'd be yours too if my name were Karen Farris.

2006-09-21T16:53:00.000+01:00

A Swede, a Norwegian and a German come over.

This is how our conversation ensues:

I say, "I have family in Norway!" She says, "Where?" I say, "I don't know, but I have family in Germany too." He says, "Where?" I say, "Ack. I don't know that either."

Some silence.

I say, "You know what I do know? The Norwegian name for grandmother is Mar-Mar. Whenever I would call my great-grandmother Grandma Mar-Mar, she would say, "You know Mar-Mar is Norwegian for grandmother, why are you calling me grandma grandmother? Haha. Haha."

She says, "No, Gammelor is Norwegian for grandmother."

The Swede offers, "Mor-Mor is Grandmother in Sweden, though."

"Oh." I say.

So I wrote my mom the following email and included her response. Amen, lady. Amen.

Re: Did you know?

jessica farris wrote:
Gammlemor - Norwegian for Grandmother
Mor-Mor- Swedish for Grandmother

Karen Farris wrote:

I did not know. I feel misinformed and bereft of country identity.

More embarrassment-- Sean and I have been calling my Argentinian flat-mate Dada. Her name is apparently Theresa, as we found out from one of her friends. I can't count the amount of times Theresa would pass me something, or say something nice, or offer me some tea when I would say, "Thank you, Dada." Awesome.

In other news, today one of Sean's classmates stopped to talk to us outside of the Arts Building. She told us a story, while she ate her salmon on white bread, about how she was evacuated out of Lebanon on a US Navy ship. She smiled the whole story through and Sean and I couldn't close our suprised mouths. I love this place.

I submit that it cannot!!

2006-09-19T22:07:00.000+01:00

Today I found the school store, (which I thought was imaginary), set up a loan and got a library card. I felt drunkenly independent as I walked back to my flat with a florid face and the plan to grab some dinner then traverse outside the Dublin area alone. I went into the kitchen to grab a pita and slice an avocado. There, I flit into conversation with Dada (or Tada? who knows), a woman in my flat from Argentina. Then Stephen came in, then David, a second and third flat-mate. I've met them all before but it was way back last Tuesday when I hated life. I realized this was my time to start exuding awesomeness immediately or risk sticking in their minds as the Plath-like American who looked like someone ate her puppy. And so it went, with poor Whitney as my internal soundtrack, that I stayed in the common area and made a new impression that didn't conjure thoughts of an oven.

As I ate my pita
I BROKE MY HEART
I realized I was in a ring.
FOUGHT EVERY GAIN
I'd thrown some bad punches. Some desperate, sad, last Tuesday punches.
TO TASTE THE SWEET
And now, after dancing around and pumping myself up
I FACE THE PAIN
I was ready to get some good ones in.
I RISE AND FALL
And I could see the others dancing, too.
YET THROUGH IT ALL
So I tossed a few out out. A good line, an articulate compliment.
THIS MUCH REMAINS
And they hit back with the same.
GIVE ME ONE MOMENT IN TIME
I made fun of Sean and they laughed.
WHEN I'M RACING WITH DESTINYYYYY.
We talked and laughed more, getting easy with each other, making plans.
THEN, IN THAT ONE MOMENT OF TIME...I WILL FEEL...I WILL FEEL...ETERNITY!!!!
Ooo. What's that feeling? That tingly goodness ah. It must be eternity or something.

That's how it happened. Thank you, Whit.

An hour later, fed by the pita and avocado and by finally making laughter with some flat-mates, I went back into the weather and roamed. When I recognized places on my roam, I paused and felt I'd finally arrived here and then I pushed beyond. Later I will recognize and arrive in farther out places and soon I'll cover Ireland with my recognition like a tipped molasses covers a table.

Today = the tomorrow I kept telling myself was coming.

Megamylove and puffy-paint, up close and personal.

2006-09-19T19:35:00.000+01:00

Here's a bit more of the dog I WILL steal from the haters to bring to Amevilca and raise as my own. And here, as promised, is some puffy-paint in your face. Sadly, the tackiness doesn't transfer as well as I'd hoped, but you get the idea.

A dog I love.

2006-09-18T21:53:00.000+01:00

Electric word life, it means forever and that's a mighty long time, but I'm here to tell you there's something else. Searsons.

2006-09-17T22:41:00.000+01:00

We found a pub with leather couches. The one Sean and I claim sits in front of a real fireplace. When the fire dies down people come to stoke it and I repress an urge to hug them, to smile in their faces, to ask their names and offer to carry their empty trays back to the bar.

These same people serve us chicken and leek pie. They serve us spring rolls with mango chutney. They serve us bangers and mash. Kopparberg's pear cider? They serve us that with ice. With a feast pulling at our forks, we eat, drink and watch soccer (fine, football). On a flat screen. This place feeds more than stomachs.

I think Sean and I lead responsible, kind lives and I also think that if we both happened to die on that couch, with the food, fire and flat screen before us, we might wake in the afterlife to the exact same surroundings. The bar's called Searsons, but I call it the big H, ma friends.

Wisconsin

2006-09-15T20:18:00.000+01:00

So, as some may know, I am in Belfield, Ireland. Truth is, but for a few blatantly Irish moments, it could be Wisconsin. To stitch up our disappointment, Sean and I wrap hands around Guinness and Carlsberg at the student pub. We buy bus passes into City Center to read the signposts and memorize the statues in the park. We appreciate the sun and the building out my window.

I've included some photos down below. I can't include them in the text anymore because I just can't figure out how to do it on the mac. So down there you can find Sean and me on the day after I finally slept. That's me on my bed without anything on the walls or a cup to drink from- a stark image of me having my priorities straight. My room is there. And that building is what I see out of my room's window. On a campus of tired 60's concrete and cement, my room overlooks the only building on campus I imagine some beautiful Irish woman designed. I took pictures of my window sill where my friends and family stay. Those stores are part of the town Donnybrook. Sean and I sometimes stop there on our way to City Center to get a bottle of water or a new candy bar. I was going to post some residual Yosemites. Distance hasn't rubbed that place from my heart yet. Ah, Yosemite. But I'm sure you've had enough of that. And finally, that's a beautiful male model sleeping. I won't be seeing that anymore because...

Sean finally found a room in a house!

It's close to campus and somehow the greenery on the walk there smells better than any natural scent ever to enter our noses. The dog living in the house, Mega, is my new love. When I come in, I stand with my feet apart and she puts her body lengthwise against my knees, with one front paw on one foot and one back paw on my other foot and then she tilts her head back to make pleased eye contact with me as I all but lick her back, pick her up and carry her out of the house to be my own. I'm this close to being a dognapper.

I dislike John, the man who owns the house. Dislike in the same way I would dislike it if someone stabbed a needle in my eye. He's a proud, bitter, crappy, failed artist and he's demeaning. Sean laughs politely but a defiant anger colors my face when John lumps us with freedom fries or mentions how much we must like TV and Walmart. Yesterday John berated me for thinking TK MAXX would be like the States' TJ MAXX. "This isn't America." You know what John? Are you listening to me? Are you? Stop filling your house with tie-dye and puffy paint a minute. TK MAXX has the exact same label off by one letter in the exact same colors. Lay off me, PicassNO. Heh.

I'll take pictures of Mega and the art. It really is tie-dye and puffy paint.

.

A thousand apologies for how long this has taken. And then a few more.

2006-09-15T19:25:00.000+01:00

Sean's and my family- you've heard this already, but we have learned new things if you want to check them out below.

It's taken a long time to update the blog because when I first got to good ol' Belfield, Ireland I went into a panicked, anti-sleeping, questioning all decisions I've ever made in my life state that I (of course) thought I would never leave. I was ready for the straight jacket, but I've gotten a load of sleep and feel much better now. As Sean said a few days ago, "Jess has finally arrived in Ireland."

We've been walking a lot and stumbling into a few welcome stereotypically Irish moments. The other day we saw a cemetary on a hillside with high, vivid grasses reaching up to the Celtic crosses on the gravestones. We heard an old man in a jeff cap ask another old man, "Who's your mummy?!" We read on the website "overheardindublin.com" a mom on a bus say, "But you HAVE to go to school!" to which her 5-year-old son replied, "I don't want to. I know a-fu*kin-nough.

things we've learned so far---

We miss everyone we know.
Convenience store french bread. Buy it. Eat it. Dream of it.
When the butthole whose house Sean lives in assumes he intricately knows my whole sordid and consumerist value system, the only thing that cheers me up is to assume his opinion of me and sing, "And I'm proud to be an American, where at least I know I'm free. And I won't forget the men who died and gave their lives for me. And I'm going to stand up! next to her and defend her still today. 'Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land. God bless the USAaaaaa"
Everyone says "You're okay?" instead of "May I help you." The first time this happened, I replied, "Oh, I'm great, thanks. How are you?" and after the woman said, "I'm fine." She stood there and I stood there and I waited for her to ask if she could help me. She said again, You're okay?" and I just stood there some more and looked at her.
Everyone dresses like Posh Spice. Everyone means guys too.
A pitch is a field.
The hash sign is the pound key on a telephone.
Tooken means taken (they do weird things with the past
tense a lot).
Dublin loves corn on its pizza.
Somehow, I don't know how, it's ridiculous I know, but Sean and I agree that almost every girl here looks
like they weave silk and gold into their locks and have professional make-up artists and almost every guy dyes his tips.
A can is a beer.
A biscuit is a cookie.
Take away means take out food.
They don't seem to laugh as much as Americans.
Look left when you're crossing the road or you will die.
It's super cool to smoke.
EVERYONE wears jeans, whoever said it was a tourist thing was a jackass.
All condiments in even nice restaurants come in packets and they are stingy with ketchup (or don't think we want as much as we actually want....like they give one packet at a time).
Black coffee means cafe americano which means espresso with water.
The Dominos guy informed us that the word dorm doesn't exist. It's residences.
Bulmer's cider smells like pee.

Even though I've been horrible at keeping in touch with every person I know and I don't deserve any letters or phone calls, here are my address and phone number. I fell behind in life but I pinky promise to be better.

Jessica Farris
Room No. G-10-10-05
Glenomena Residences
UCD
Belfield
Dublin 4, IRELAND

011 353 85 778 8985

I can't help myself.

2006-08-25T05:29:00.000+01:00

Look at these too.

Ah.

G-strings in the woods.

2006-08-25T05:23:00.000+01:00

Ah, Yosemite.

Ah.

Ahhhhhhh.

More than being cradled by mountains on all sides, more than the rivers, the bear, the deer, the stars that took your loneliness from you, the cedars, more than the crickets, do you want to know what part of Yosemite my mom and I most enjoyed?

The ten thousand-year-old, wrinkled, chestnut-colored white man in a G-string. In only a G-string.

"Oh, Jess meant to type Speedo. Those are pretty funny."

No I didn't. I mean he was wearing a G-string.

"Maybe she means small shorts. That girl sure exaggerates a lot."

I do not mean small shorts. I mean a tiny, black, beautiful, satin G-string semi thong. I do not exaggerate.

My mom and I saw him on our second day in Yosemite as we were pumping away on the bike trail. I thought he was a mirage, there to lift me from my pine tree and mountain reality. Our legs pedalled slower and then not at all and we turned to watch him walk over a hill. I thought, I guess he likes the sunshine and his own groin area a lot. But then as I climbed Yosemite's mountains and explored waterfalls and fell into a tumbling love with every piece of dirt in that park I thought, you know, this guy knows what's going on. He makes sense-just being with nature, no clothes in the way, letting the sun love you; Mom, let's strip!

We didn't, but we totally almost did. Yosemite makes you want to roll around in it naked and never leave. In fact, I don't even want to be a professor anymore. I want to be a mountain.

Please feast on these delicious views.

.

The new house.

2006-08-25T04:21:00.000+01:00

This is the house.

This house has a billion shelves. These are my favorite.

This is the view from the patio.

.

What God has joined together...

2006-08-14T00:14:00.001+01:00

Early November '88- A handsome man knocks at the door to ask my mom and me out on a date. We go the movies and see Crocodile Dundee II. Also, we eat candy. After the movie, the man gives me a stuffed lion and brainstorms names with me. Maybe Fred, he says, but I say that's ridiculous. It's a stuffed lion. My black cat is Black Kitty, my stuffed animals are Brown Bear, Medium Brown Bear, Purplish Monkey, Pink Baby and so on. Fred? No. I suggest Bigger Lion as I have a smaller one already.

August 13, '88- My mom marries Mitch Farris, the man who brought me Bigger Lion.

Happy anniversary, you two.

hey CA

2006-08-14T00:14:00.000+01:00

In the Philadelphia Airport, a security guard said, "Didn't I just tell you to take your cat out; you don't want to put a cat through the X-Ray machine. And again, you need to take off the sweater around your waist." She said it like I needed a babysitter. Or a helmet. "You're right, I don't want to X-Ray her. I was taking her out slowly because she's really scared," I said. I wanted to say, "I'm not stupid, I'm great, and you're bad at life." My eyes teared up because I hate when people talk like that. When I was putting Ebony back in her case a little girl- nine maybe- in a hot pink shirt said, "Love your cat." "Sorry?" I said. "I said, I love your cat. She's fabulous." And my eyes teared up again because she'd erased the security guard.

I saw the fam as I was coming down the escalator. They jumped and grinned. I'm finding, I think, that we are all sensitive from too many recent changes, like cold hands that burn when held under water that's only tepid. Things in the world- like a sigh- feel extreme, even though they probably aren't. Mom, why are you breathing that way? I don't ask that, but I do almost say, Tell me anything right now to all members of my family all the time. I want to know how they are.

The house looks like my family's house. It's wooden interiors and bright spaces look like my mom. The small moments of beauty- an old picture in the back of a shelf that you have to peer at from up close- look like my dad. Lindsay is everywhere in classy black frames and pottery arrangements. The dogs pant and shed. The views shake your heart up.

Pictures are coming.

Yosemite is coming.

My Mac is coming.

No more posts are coming for at least another week, though.

What's the story, morning glory?

2006-08-10T14:02:00.000+01:00

In my apartment building this morning, while waiting for the elevator to arrive at my floor, I looked out the window and saw a beeeeeautiful woman sleeping on the roof two buildings away. She wasn't on a roof deck, or even a flat roof; about 3 feet from where she lay, there began a decline. Dangerous! She slept curled on a huge, blue blanket and with nothing over her. A small duffel bag supported her head. She wore blue jeans and a red tee-shirt with a bandana around her neck. Her long nut-colored hair lifted in the wind. I ran back to my apartment to get my camera, but I forgot about the whole lost keys situation, so I went back to the window to stare at her some more.

Who is she?! What was she doing?! Where'd she get the bravery to sleep on a slanted rooftop?! Is her story a happy or a sad one?! Why is she so pretty!? Where are my keys?!

I'm making up a million stories about her.

"Teacher, there's an eyeball on Basil's pencil."

2006-08-08T19:50:00.000+01:00

Sean and I fight about pens. Why do I steal his deliciously thick G3 pens? How do those fat, luscious writing utensils end up in my bag after he bought them? Because I believe in taking responsibility for my actions, I’ll explain it to you- by blaming it on my 1st grade teacher.

I trace it back to September of '88....

My family moves to Bensalem, Pennsylvania and I enter a new school. I’m scared every day to go to class because my teacher, Mrs. Dameron, has one good eye and one eye that looks like a cracked marble dipped in mucus. Long ago, when Mrs. Dameron attended fourth grade in London, a school chum bit off the eraser from his pencil and accidentally gouged her eye with the metal end. We only use crayons in class.

Naturally, because my fine motor skills developed with the use of chunky crayons, I gravitate towards chunky pens. I’m helplessly attracted to them and should be lauded for my self-knowledge and strong instincts rather than scolded for thievery.

P.S. Eventually, Mrs. Dameron became one of my favorite people. I learned to look past hideous disfigurement to appreciate the person inside; thus my relationship with Sean can exist.

P.P.S. I’m just kidding about Sean being disfigured. He has impeccable bone structure.

Oh yeah? Well, my Dad is 12 feet tall.

2006-08-08T18:13:00.000+01:00

I used to work with a lady at Cambridge U.P. named Ana-Claudia. She told great stories- the one about her and her mother’s secret language was my favorite. On the subway one day, at age 7 or so, A-C asked, “Hey Mom, what’s a vagina?” She posed it loudly, freely, feeling secure in their blanket of secret syntax and vocabulary. Some people in the car burst out laughing and A-C’s mother told her to hush. “But why?” asked A-C, not understanding despite the “hush” and the laughter, “this is only ours. No one knows what we’re saying, silly.” Turns out the “secret language” was Spanish.

My Dad and I have a secret language- as complex as Spanish- constructed over time by fights, contentment and trying to know each other instead of just be related to each other. It’s mostly a language of cadence and tones. We communicate in the downbeats between “okay” and “well.” When I’m sad especially, he locates my rhythms and beats back his own in a “so” and a pause, then a question. He’s like a heart monitor or a vibrating locust.

Sunday night, I washed my face in tears. They were stress tears and left red streaks down my cheeks like a too-strong astringent. So what’s the big deal? I cry all the time- happy tears like spritzer, angry tears like pop rocks or lightning, nostalgic tears like happy tears but milky, sad tears, frustrated tears, oh man it’s only Tuesday tears- seriously, all the time. The big deal this time was that the tears accomplished nothing. Usually, crying allows me to acknowledge things and leave them; the tears tip their hats to the emotion or cause of emotion and walk on with a, “Good day.” Two days ago, though, I sat in tears, in a cluttered apartment, in the midst of moving and throwing things I loved away and so when my Dad called, I paused, sniffed, waited and lilted while saying I was fine, really fine, no problem here, just fine. I sounded competent and sturdy like an oak bookcase- an oak bookcase anchored to a wall!- when really I was a nylon with a run. I very much like being self-sufficient.

My dad called yesterday and confirmed his daughter comprehension skills. He’d made a few calls, and a man who works with him, transporting apples in his truck from east to west, planned to pick up all the things I cried over and bring them to California where they will sit in the garage of my parent’s new house- my dresser, with a thin, flat surface that pulls out so I can write letters on it, my butcher block table that can take a knife chop or the hot metal of a cookie sheet and still look beautiful, my clothes (my personality), my bike, my pictures, my books (my companions)- everything! Sean and I wrapped, boxed, taped, drank, sweated and lugged and soon enough Dave pulled up in his slightly-smaller-than-an-18-wheeler truck and helped us lift my life into the sweet smelling trailer. When we were finished, I asked, “Will you take this?” and handed him a 20. He smiled with his one front tooth and from behind his thick glasses his eyes looked huge and swimming and imploring, which is probably why we talked for a half hour about his daughters, his dinner and his boss.

After Dave left, I climbed the stairs to a different apartment. The empty places weren’t sad, they just were. With bigger motions than I could use an hour before, I danced a bit. Dust bunnies spun around from the air I pushed while I stomped some happiness into the floor. I called my Dad, “Was that a dream?” I yelled into the phone. “Everyone at the restaurant under us was looking and laughing and Dave was cool and acted like this was so normal! Jesus. Thanks Dad. That was ridiculous and awesome.” And I beat out rhythms of joy and ease then went back to packing for Ireland.

Helen?

2006-08-03T20:49:00.000+01:00

Phone rings.

HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME: Hi. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I think we've talked before. I just have a quick question.
H: Sure (but it sounds like shooer). How can I help you?
M: Oh, well, you know how I’ve been accepted? Ha, of course you do. I just said it. Heh. Well, I’m still not sure when classes start or when I can move in or when any fees are due.
H: We’ll send the information out in a week and a half.
M: Oh, great. Okay, great. Thanks.
H: You’re welcome. Goodbye.
M: Bye.

Two and a half weeks later.

HELEN: English and Drama Graduate Studies office.
ME, CHECKING UP: Hi. I've called before. My name is Jessica Farris and I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Right (but it sounds like reight); hello. How can I help you?
M,CU: Well, my parents just moved across the country and I used their address as the permanet mailing one. Should they be on the lookout for that packet of information yet? They say it hasn't arrived.
H: We haven't sent it. It will go out shortly.
M,CU: Oh, gotcha. Sorry to call again; I'm just so excited to know what's going on! I'll let my parents know.
H: Okay. Goodbye.
M, CU: Bye.

Hey, look at that. Two more weeks went by.

H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, SLIGHTLY WORRIED: Hi. My name’s Jessica Farris. Sorry I'm calling so much. I’ve been accepted to the Masters program in Anglo-Irish literature. I just have a quick question.
H: Great (but it sounds like greeeet) yes; I remember you. What’s the question?
M,SL: Oh, it’s the same one I guess. I feel like I’ve called you for like the seventh time. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying. Sorry, but I still haven't gotten the packet. I think the term starts on the 11th, but I wasn’t sure whether there was an orientation before the class starts or not and I'm trying to plan when to quit my job and visit my parents and...
H: We’ll send the information packet out in a couple of days. Orientation starts September 28th.
M,SL: The 28th? But? If the term starts...oh it’s okay. Hey, thanks. You’re always so helpful. I’ll wait for the packet.

And then guess what…

H: English and Drama Graduate Studies Office.
ME, THE AMERICAN DRIVEN TO INSANITY, WITH BAGS UNDER MY EYES AND A JAR OF FINGERNAIL CLIPPINGS WHICH I CALL "BUDDY" AND CARRY EVERYWHERE UNDER MY ARM: Hi. My name’s Jessica...
H: Farris, (but it sounds like, Police? I need to take out a restraining order); I know. Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Oh, well, oh man, I need to take you out for dinner or something, huh? We’re in a pretty committed phone relationship. Haha. Hahahaha. This is probably annoying again. Sorry. I’m sorry. Sooo, when do you think the info will be sent out? Did you do it already? I only ask because I want to book my ticket and stuff. You know, there's so much up in the air right now.
H: We’ll send it out in another few days. You can move in the week of September 4th, if you want.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: But I don't even know if I have housing yet.
H: Right, but if you do, you can move in the week of September 4th.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Wonderful. Awesome. The week of the 4th. But remember when you said orientation was the 28th?
H: Yes, I do.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Well. Hey, I’ll keep an eye on the mailbox. Haha. Okay, but Helen?
H: Yes?
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Do you know when this is going to arrive?
H: Yes, I do. In some time soon it will arrive.
MTADTO,WBUMEAAJOFCWIC"B"ACEUMA: Sure; of course. What did you say, Buddy? You can't wait to slap Helen's face when you see her? You're the only one who understands me. Wanna make toast?

Click.

Oh my God, this is delicious. I should have another.

2006-08-02T21:05:00.000+01:00

The memo I wrote in my head today while standing in line at Rite Aid:

_________

MEMO

_______________

August 2, 2006

To: Brunette Rite Aid cashier
From: This girl watching you eat it right now

STOP! eating your boogers in public. Or all together if you'd ever like to not be a gross weirdo. We do see you. Being behind the counter does not and has not ever made you invisible. You are handling our purchases and our change and you're making us gag. Don't you care? On a nice note, your eye make-up is lovely.

LOVE!

2006-08-01T21:13:00.000+01:00

Longtime neighbors invited my mom, dad, sister and me to their home on my last night as a person whose family lived in Mahopac, NY. They kept Lindsay’s glass and mine filled with homemade chocolate milkshake while they popped beers for my Dad and replenished the Merlot in my mom’s wineglass. The neighbors asked and asked and asked us all questions then they listened to our answers. Three children tried to sit on me at once and a smile washed my eyes in tears . While sticking a finger in Wendy’s (one of the three) armpit, I tried to secure the warmth of the Wallis’ home in my memory so I could give it to others later and because I would miss them all ferociously.

Yesterday, my great aunt Cosi wrote a note the length and width of the paper towel she’d used as paper. It began, “Hello Yung'uns!” and ended with a drawn heart. Zippered into a vibrant cloth bag next to the note, a scarf waited for me to find it. It was a thank you scarf in a thank you bag. Strong threads of green, blue and indigo will soon decorate my shoulders or dash color around my hips when I wear a black dress. I’ve already planned the scarf's participation in many future outfits.

Cosi knocked on the door after her first day of Philadelphia travel and entered with sunflowers. I was modeling the scarf and saying thank you and she stood under her bag straps with full hands while I held nothing but my present. I didn’t take the flowers, thinking they couldn’t be another gift for us; but of course they were and of course they needed water. Cosi set down her bags and, with her fingers, wrestled the rubber bands binding the flowers and the tape closing the paper and the paper covering the flowers and I watched without helping which makes me disappointed in myself when I think of it.

Last night, we all ate different shrimp dishes at Vietnam. Cosi reflected on the primal comfort of being sheltered in someone’s home. She thanked Sean and me for what she compared to stopping on a journey and having one’s feet washed and swathed in ointments. We feel thankful for free dinners and the songs in her voice.

To be worthy of these presents, flowers, dinners, and her! I'll continue to offer berries and bread thick with nuts and seeds in the morning. I'll ask questions about her Philadelphia days upon returning home from work, listen to her answers, give her an extra blanket at night when the air conditioner blows a chill draft in her direction, make Sean wear shorts to bed instead the usual boxer-briefs so she doesn’t catch any cracks or morsels through the open door and I'll try to create a warmth strong enough to secure a memory.

How I learned I hated freedom.

2006-08-01T17:36:00.000+01:00

A funny email from the boss-man--

This is truly a sad day for the AACR.

Just in case you misunderstood—August 2 is the last day to sign up for events at the AACR Picnic. There’s no law that says you can’t sign up before then.

Signing up early allows the Picnic Activities Committee to more effectively schedule the events. Here we are, 5 days after the signup sheets were posted, and let’s just say the response has not been overwhelming. Heck, it hasn’t even been whelming.

Did you realize that twice as many people have signed up for badminton (8) than softball (4)? Are you kidding me? I’m sure badminton is very popular among the hoity-toity upper crust, but softball is the people’s game. You don’t need skill, you can drink beer while you play, and trash talk is not only permitted, it’s encouraged! What could be more American than that? So do your patriotic duty and sign up to serve on the softball roster. The choice is simple: either you like softball, or you hate freedom.

And another thing about Sean...

2006-07-28T17:40:00.000+01:00

Once, Sean tried to tell me that he liked M. Night Shyamalan despite the many faults of his movies. He said, “Anyway, I like M. Night Shmyamlan…Shymalama…crap. I like M. Night ShyamaLAMA-DING-DONG.” Well, now we both LOVE Shyamalamadingdong. Sean compared seeing "Lady in the Water" last night to watching "The Neverending Story" when we were 6. He was right. Go see it if you like things that are awesome.

EQUALS

EQUALS AWESOME.

Q.E.D.

He takes my heavy things from me.

2006-07-28T17:20:00.000+01:00

Sean kissed my forehead and took my heavy clothes from me last night.

He did this after we stripped, giggling in the hallway leading to our apartment.

We stripped after we walked, with patient steps past questioning faces, without any free records, doused by a thunderstorm for blocks and blocks.

We walked after we helped a music store owner rescue his sidewalk records from a light rain.

We rescued after we decided we loved (too much to take cover!) the few, chilled raindrops that landed on us like tiny birds and then flew away by evaporating on our hot skin.

We loved the few, chilled raindrops after we sweltered on the sidewalks of South Philly, walking home from a movie theater.

We sweltered and walked home after we saw "Lady in the Water".

We saw "Lady in the Water" after we meandered to the movie theater.

We meandered to the movie theater after Sean met me on the street, kissed my forehead and took my heavy bag from me.

A list of 5 things of which I currently cannot get enough (2)

2006-07-27T19:27:00.000+01:00

Spinach salad with mango spears

www.gofugyourself.com

The stories in "How We Are Hungry"

Old postcards

Old people

Asking to Pee or How to Pour a Cool Death on My Usually Burning Love.

2006-07-25T21:00:00.000+01:00

The fight began before it began. We were at 30th Street Station waiting for a train to Atlantic City. At Au Bon Pain, Sean failed to estimate how much his sandwich would cost and so he failed to take the appropriate amount of money from his wallet. He waited for the cashier to display the amount then rifled through his wallet and pockets, like a normal person . I don’t want to date a normal person. I want to date Efficient. We sat to eat. Clocks ticked and our train’s number worked its way to the top of the Arrivals/ Destinations board. Sean failed to wrap up his sandwich and screw the cap on his sparkling soda before the board displayed our track number. The board displayed our track number. People rushed to track 4 and we both saw it. I got up, speaking with my actions. He stayed seated, wrapping up his trash. Finally, he stood and stepped towards me, but instead of walking towards track 4, he shot all of my remaining love dead by asking, “Mind if I go to the bathroom real quick?”

We got the last two seats together on the car. It took me 20 minutes to open my mouth about it. If I'd said anything sooner, it would have started with, “It’s over” and ended with, “because!! I!! hate!! how!! you!! do! everything!" I would have easily exceeded a rational person's exclamation point quota. The fight filled the car with fierce whispers and bursts of noise. Finally, Sean spackled my mouth shut and dropped my heart when he said, “You’re such a stress-case, Jess; you stress about things after they haven’t even happened. We’re sitting together, right? We got seats, right? You complain and you stress and you worry about EVERYTHING.”

So this is the background for the questions I lately mull over.

1. Where exactly is the line between efficient and stress-case?

2. Why is Sean so freaking relaxed (read: slow)?

3. How much is a crack-pipe?

California, the time is right.

2006-07-25T00:49:00.000+01:00

Today my mom called from the road to tell me she was safe. She called yesterday to say she was safe in Missouri and the day before, she was safe in Indiana and the day before, Ohio, and the day before, PA, and the day before that, she and my father and my sister and my cat and 2 dogs spent the last night at our once-home in Mahopac, New York 10541.

Dad told me he narrowly avoided two car accidents in New Jersey on their first day of driving. Rather than lauding his excellent driving skills, I convinced myself that all statistics stand in favor of my family's certain death or loss of limbs. As I see it, they are tempting fate. They might as well climb a mountain with golf clubs raised in a lighting storm or cover themselves in honey and salmon for a hike in bear country. A pit stop at my grandparent's Arkansas home keeps them safe right now, leaving my worries hushed and my sleep restful. The only threat I can think of Arkansas bringing is a very real one- that a spankin' new Walmart might fall from the sky, crushing my family flat as that posessed smiley face that knocks the prices (as well as my mistaken belief that rampant sexism and monopolies were illegal) down to the ground.

"So, I'm half way, now. Half way between my old life and my new life. I feel weepy," my mom said on the phone.

Soon, the fam will settle into a small house overlooking the Pacific ocean in Rancho Palos Verdes, California. There, banana leaves shade people and Birds of Paradise adorn front lawns. My mom worried about and mourned the move for months. Of course she did. Time and energy drove her roots deep through Mahopac. Circumstances pulled and tugged until my family separated from New York soil and they're all sore and dying a little bit right now. Soon, though, soon soon Thursday soon, they'll be sinking into Califonia soil and their frayed ends will heal while seeking drink and food. They'll settle themselves in the ground again. Friends wait to be made. Boys wait to pass out from Lindsay's hotness. Yoga classes wait to be taken. Legs wait to be slimmed on beachy walks and skin waits to be dipped in the ocean.

What I read when the thought of leaving chills my skin.

2006-07-24T21:16:00.000+01:00

From A Year in the World, by Frances Mayes:

Travel pushes my boundaries. When you travel, you become invisible, if you want. I do want. I like to be the observer. What makes people who they are? Could I feel at home here? No one expects you to have the stack of papers back by Tuesday, or to check messages, or to fertilize the geraniums. When traveling, you have the delectable possibility of not understanding a word of what is said to you. Language becomes simply a musical background for watching bicycles zoom alongside a canal, calling for nothing from you. Travel releases spontaneity. You become a godlike creature full of choice, free to visit the stately pleasure domes, make love in the morning, sketch a bell tower. You open, as in childhood, and-for a time- receive this world. There’s the visceral aspect, too- the huntress who is free. Free to go, free to return home bringing memories to lay on the hearth.

A girl can dream...

2006-07-21T17:12:00.000+01:00

I received an email at work this morning. This is my dream response to it:

Dear Dr. Dalton,

Please find my responses in bold below.

Hello, hi, butthead,

I declined to review this manuscript after recieving IT’S I BEFORE E EXCEPT AFTER C, IDIOT an email voicing the opinion of being "very disappointed" in my inability to review this paper in a timely manner, and that I am "ignoring" professional reminders. BUT YOU WERE UNABLE AND YOU WERE IGNORING- YOU'VE HAD THE PAPER FOR A MONTH! DO YOU READ ONE WORD PER HOUR? Rather than prolong the editor's agony AGONY? UGH. I HATE HYPERBOLE MORE THAN DEATH and to continue to promote extreme EXTREME? AGAIN, I HATE IT WITH THE STRENGTH OF A THOUSAND BURNING SUNS disappointment, I felt it best to decline to review this manuscript.WHERE'S YOUR SENSE OF COMMITMENT, WIMP? I HATE YOUR GUTS.

William S. Dalton, Ph.D., M.D., LOSER

Worst regards possible,
Jessica

SEAN'S COMING TO IRELAND.

2006-07-21T17:11:00.000+01:00

I opened the letter.
I read it over the phone.
He called his family.
He came home.
I did a jig in the bathtub.
He threw his head back, grinning face to the ceiling.
We danced to Fergie's.
We drank beer.
We planned adventures on bar napkins.
We gobbled food and laughed.
We’re going to Ireland together.

Passing on the crazy

2006-07-20T20:29:00.000+01:00

When I walk home from work, I pass a crazy (maybe?) man who looks perpetually suprised, bemused and harmless, kind of like Crabman from "My Name is Earl."

I can't stop my face from imitating his because I want to see how it feels on and when I do, I become the crazy (maybe?) person for other people. I wonder if those people imitate me and then other people think they're crazy and so on and so on until a bunch of quickly-Crabmans roam the city inspiring others to be quickly Crabman around 4:45 PM Monday-Friday.

Letters to be written:

2006-07-19T23:24:00.000+01:00

Ray Lamontagne-thank you; are you okay?

Guster- thank you; Brian, why do you play the drums without sticks?

Jonathan Safran Foer- belated congrats on baby; what is your wife like?; thank you; do you need a protégé ?

Tzipi Livni- have strength and heart; I think often of what's going on; have more strength and more heart.

Rite Aid- you've been horrible. Absolutely horrible! Please hold a customer service training seminar ASAP.

James Joyce- I know you're dead but I have so many things to ask you and yes I said yes I will yes.

John Krasinski- good job; do you have to be funny and charming to play funny and charming?; I adore Jim/(you?).

Andrea Lafferty and Rev. Louis P. Sheldon-- you are terrifying; stop now; you're hurting people; how can you?; please call so we can really talk this out for hours.

Fergie's pub- Pete's wings are delicious; Mo is an excellent waitress; thank you for: always pouring our beer in glasses with the name of our beer on them/ bringing bluegrass to me so often.

Philadelphia Trolly Tours- good job.

Ray and Guster

2006-07-19T21:28:00.000+01:00

For Lindsay's birthday, I bought her a ticket to a Ray Lamontagne/Guster concert at Festival Pier. It was last Thursday. We laughed a lot. Lindsay dipped her pretzel in the left-over cheese from Pete's cheesesteak and they joked. My friend Stacie talked about some casual sex in front of her and I let her sip my beer when it got dark. I was proud that she was my sister, so I told her.

RAY

When Ray came on, my heart burst into a million pieces and then those pieces burst again like they were all little hearts themselves and it kept happening until he walked off stage. Until he walked off stage. He walked off stage. He walked. Off stage. I kept repeating it to people after he did so, because he really did just walk off stage. This is how it happened- he said he would play a couple more songs. Someone up front shouted sounds and he said, "Sure I could play that one, too" and I wished I knew what Someone said so I could expect it with him. Then Ray played "All the Wild Horses" with his eyes closed. When he finished, he tossed his guitar down. He walked off stage. I don't know why he was upset, but I'm going to write him a letter to ask him. I'll send along the postcard of a picture of a boy reading a book to an elephant, which I love, which I first saw on a billboard on my way home from work in NYC while Ray was on my IPod, which I listened to while on my way to Pier 54 to see Gregory Colbert's "Ashes and Snow" exhibit, which I saw again at Santa Monica Pier while visiting family and telling them about Ray. I feel like the elephant talks to the boy, telling him which parts of the story he likes or when the story is boring, and when he does, it sounds like a Ray Lamontagne song, and sometimes, the boy is the elephant's guitar for him. Here it is:

I'll let you know if I hear anything back.

GUSTER

As for Guster, they strummed joy out of their guitars and rose a huge, orange moon with their voices. Lindsay and I faced each other to sing the songs we knew into grinning faces. I will write them a letter, too, because I shouldn't just write letters to see if people are okay or to complain. Guster is different from Ray because when they said they'd play a few more songs and people booed a bit, they smiled into the crowd and commented on a man sitting atop his friend's shoulders while waving his shirt in the air. They said that if they could see at least 5 more sets of man-boobs, then they would play at least 5 more songs. So the crowd filled with man-boobs, shirts spiraling from hands and laughter. Guster laughed and the crowd laughed and we clapped so they would know we didn't want them to leave, but that was the end of their set so they had to say thank you and leave. We kept clapping and they came out again, shirtless, showing their own man-boobs and making life-long fans while we all screamed the classics to each other-band and audience-surrounded by man-boobs.

I need some cool stationery.

saving last year's sent emails from a closing account

2006-07-18T23:52:00.000+01:00

Three important emails from 2005

I'm dying of:

mean people on the street. This morning a hobo looked up at me and said, "You're not that pretty. You need to lose weight." I wanted to say, "You're a hobo," but I couldn't bear to.

your emotionlessness. It's infuriating me. I need some passion or sadness or regret!! I feel utterly insane about you-worked up and tied in knots-coming out of my apathy like from the closet. I'm vigorous and hungry and feeling knawed at. You get off the phone so fast. You don't say, "I wish" anymore. Has your heart grown cold, dead, black and stone?? I'm going to beat you move far away if you don't start loving me like you're supposed to.

Sean.

this job. I have approx. one hour and 20 minutes of work to do in 8 hours. I forgot my wallet today, which means I have to be buzzed in, embarassingly, because I don't have my simplex card.

I can't remember the last time I wasn't tired.

my weight. As the woman said, I need to lose weight. I'm not that pretty.

As I see it, I can do something about the latter two. What sucks is I can't do anything about the job until I hear something from Penn Press. I really want to take classes there for free and my chance of getting a job there would be severly limited if I quit this job now for a million reasons. I feel so stuck, stuck, stuck stuckstuckstuckstuckstuckperiod.

STUCK is SUCK with a t.

you make me a drama queen, stoneheart.
______________________________
Lowtalker,

I really hope your throat is feeling better.

Guess what!??!!>!??!?!?!:MOIN@!!"?!?!?!
Guess.
Okay fine, I'll tell you.

IT'S ONLY 9 DAYS UNTIL WE ARE DRIVING DOWN TO WVA. That's it. 9. Nine. Neuf. Nueva. Oh baby, baby, baby.

So today is Alison's last day and I am sad. I also have a lot of work to do which makes me pretty sad. Plus, Sco threw up on the train this morning and I left my wallet at home in Mahopac, so I have to meet my dad in Yonkers again tomorrow. And I need to show picture ID to get into my interview today at 2:30. Hahaha.

You know what I say to all of that? Nine. I say nine days until cabins, love, hiking, good food and long showers and ipods filled with thought and taste and a nice readjustment and laughing hard and eating hard and sunrises and fires.

I'm going to get back to work. I hope your final went/ goes well. I'm sure it will. I'll let you know how the interview went.

Much love,
J

_________________________________
Of course I remember. I was laying stomach down on my bed in Taylor Hall and I was thinking I knew what was going to happen. I was trying to decide if it's what I wanted and then you said it and I went blank.

I remember how Ron IM'd me and how it was so easy to sit next to you and how I searched the whole night for your shoes on the stairs and followed you everywhere on the sly, and how we talked about reading and fishing and you made it seem so normal that Tony was making out next to us. I remember how I wrote out what I was going to say when I called you the first time and how I didn't think you were going to call me back, and how you called me back when I was at a makeup counter with my mom and Linds in the Allentown Mall and I hopped from side to side afterwards to make them laugh and to release the nervous energy in my belly.

I remember even more about sitting on the bridge in the park and telling you I liked you all the way to 17th street and you said you liked me out of allentown all together. I remember junior year and feeling very sad that you might think about failure when you saw me at Muhlenberg, and very afraid I would associate your breath with my panic. Doesn't that seem so ass silly now? And I remember at the end of senior year, feeling like the only thing tugging me together when I was falling apart on grad day (a.k.a. wake up call of my life day) was knowing I wasn't losing you, and that, if anything, we were going to get better and better. Let's try this again.

Love.

The nerve to give notice

2006-07-18T23:37:00.000+01:00

It only took me an hour to walk into her office, but once I did, I laughed at myself for worrying.

Kelly Hadsell/AACR
07/18/2006 10:34 AM
To David Buff/AACR@aacr, Crystal Cheepudom/AACR@aacr, Kristin Murray/AACR@aacr, Naima Stone/AACR@aacr, Michael Williams/AACR
cc Jessica R. Farris/AACR@aacr
Subject No, no, no, no, no!!!!!!!!

Hello, all. I am sorry to report that Jess has tendered her resignation with the AACR. Her last day of work will be August 11. She has been afforded a once-in- a-lifetime opportunity to study in Dublin, Ireland for a year. I'm sure that you all join me in wishing her well and we need to get started planning a big send-off for her!

__________________________________
I'm leaving a good place.

"What's that on your bag?"

2006-07-17T20:09:00.000+01:00

"Is that a leopard-print thong?"

That's all anyone I passed had to ask.
***

Today's lunch hour started in Joyce Leslie- a very cheap, very ho-bag store. I was looking for a simple, black, jersey dress. What I found was a little leopard-print humiliation.

I wandered through Joyce Leslie for about 10 minutes before I realized a Tijuana whore would shake her head at humanity’s decline and think the clothes were too slutty. By then, I was in the deep and complicated net of a poorly planned store layout. I zigzagged my way back to the wide walking space in the middle, dodging pointy jewelry racks and with the poles that hold the clothes hangers skimming both my sides.

I left JL and meandered to Hallmark to buy a "welcome to your new house!" card that will wait in a CA mailbox until my parents get there. I browsed through the cooking and literature sections at the Borders Express. I left The Gallery to buy a hotdog on the street and I walked around the block a couple times while I ate it. I went to the post office to buy a stamp for the Hallmark card. Finally, I walked through the doors to my workplace, in front of a couple of women, flashed the guards my ID badge, was followed into the elevator by Dave, a cool guy who works in production and ascended in obliviousness.

I used my magnetic card to open the door on our floor while Dave stood behind me. I walked the 50 feet to my desk and put my bag down and then saw it.

Joyce

Leslie
Leopard-print

thong

hanger

dangling

from

the

side

pocket

bag.

Oh my God.

No, no, no.

So I have this to say- You are week and unfeeling, clientele of Hallmark and Borders Express. You suck, fellow hot dog-eaters and I hate your guts, you callous, feeble-conscioused demons who giggled a little the second time I walked around the block. Grow some balls, fellow postage-buyers. Hello, aren't you my sisters?!, women who walked into work behind me? And nice job protecting me, guards, (though I will concede that you may not have noticed since it was on the side/back of my bag). Dave, you are totally forgiven because hearing from you that a thong waved from my bag and then my face morphing into a glowing, red orb would have been worse than a thong on my bag.

Photos courtesy of Naima.

Reasons why I may someday weigh 900 pounds

2006-07-13T20:32:00.000+01:00

Monday-Friday at 11:30 or 3:00 and sometimes at 11:30 and 3:00, I slip 75 cents in the vending machine and hit E8- the sweet combo of buttons that makes the Snickers fall. Then I whisper, “Hey beautiful,” while I undress it.

Because you don’t scare me, large bucket of hot wings. You make my vegetarian friends, who eat you when drunk, poop hot butt lava. Others, who may not know you so well, have picked their noses with your sauce still on their fingers. They are idiots. For some, your mere size intimidates. What will they do with the left-overs? THERE SHOULD BE NO LEFTOVERS, I say, mouth full, from atop my mountain of wings. It has been written and shall be so that he who so ordereth the wings of hotness shall eat them with swiftness and totality forever and ever until they are gone.

Not so long ago, my mother taught me how to make a delicious and healthy apple/berry crisp with a little bit of butter, brown sugar and rolled oats. What I took from the tutorial: one stick of butter, half a bag of brown sugar and a little bit of oats mixed together in a pan makes a fantastic dinner.

Sweet potato fries with Ketchup.

SWEET AS PAH (pie).

2006-07-12T17:19:00.000+01:00

My friend Naima just returned from a week and a half in Alabama. When I asked her how things went, she said, "I got off the plane and it was so hot- so hot I just melted and thought, I'm home." Then she used words like Daddy, dandelion wine, magnolia and honeysuckle. She sounds like she’s singing a little when she talks, and when she’s at work with me, her music lolls me happily to quitting time.

More Naima praise:

She has a full soul that pours out and bathes me when she tells stories. And they are good stories. For instance, today I found out that Naima was a phone sex operator in college. When she wanted to quit, the same adult entertainment company trained her as a psychic. A couple of times she got nervous because she was off base with people, so she just hung up the phone- like the time a woman called and Naima said, "I don't see things going well or evolving with your boyfriend," and the woman said, "But...he just proposed to me."

Also, every time we talk, she makes me laugh.

She asks questions like she's inhaling the world and then breathing herself and her inquiries back into it- as such a breather, she looks in place and involved with wherever she is.

She compares paper cuts with me. When one of mine is bad, she makes me feel like I hiked up my pant leg to show her the shattered knee I got in 'Nam. It's so fulfilling to be validated like that.

She notices a billion things.
************************

I'm glad she's back.

2006-07-11T15:34:00.000+01:00

Delicious Glaceau Fruit Water... Sean put it perfectly when he said, "It's like you thought rain would taste when you were a kid."

Not girl ones. REAL ones.

2006-07-10T21:30:00.000+01:00

Tonight was my favorite "Rough 'N Tough" aerobics class. The instructor, Arik, likes to make the class grunt and we like to grunt. We all follow him up the aggression face of Work Out Mountain- punching, kicking, grunting, sweating to so much techno and then he turns on the slow version of "When Doves Cry" and we glide down the other face, Tibetan monk face. I feel like a lotus flower when we end. Sean likes my aerobics class too, because I physically abuse him mostly sometimes now instead of totally always.

This class is a part of my plan to be a better Jess. For the last year or so, I’ve been trying to look at my body and think kind things instead of berating myself for not sculpting thinner legs or growing better hair. In the beginning of this whole talking to myself thing, I had to scream a flat, stiff blanket of semi-genuine niceties over the rambling breaks in my self-confidence. Now, I really mean it.

Sometimes in bed, I'll lift my legs up so they're perpendicular to the bed and say, “Holy crap, you guys keep me going on the city sidewalks, weaving me between fast bicycles and slow girls in heels. You take me out of bed in the morning and sink me into baths at night. You run me places when I’m excited and absorb my springing joy at concerts. Awesome.”

To my arms, I say, “Yo arms, thanks for reaching books on tall shelves and wrapping yourselves around the people I like a lot.

To my mid, “Shout out to the tummy for anchoring my body and keeping my back strong. Thanks for the balance. Nice job with all the guys, boobs.”

It didn't used to be this way. Allow me to make an excuse for myself by sharing with you a snippet of my highschool graduation. The superintendent, Dr. Sabatella, read out the names of my graduating class,“Gina Danitella, Angelina Dennabella, Lisa Donatucci, Michelangela Fabiwasborninitalymonapoli, Jessica Farris, Daniella Ferrario…” Perhaps you’ve deduced that in this crowd, your hair could not be dark or shiny enough, your boobs not copious and your butt un-apple-like. My innocent reflection withstood years of unfair comparisons. I tugged my hair straight and I plumped and thinned my limbs through binges and diets.

For the last year or so, I’ve also been trying to see a cheeseburger as a delicious and simple mixing of beef, bread and cheese rather than a fat, juicy ticket to self-loathing. I know a cheeseburger is a cheeseburger but, to me, it feels a lot like an ugly hook-up I brought back from the bar. I lay in bed the morning after and still feel the stare of the cheeseburger’s squinty eyes; its toenails are unclipped, it has plaque, gingivitis and an unfortunate mushroom cut, and the filthy memory of our merging is with me long after it’s gotten up to put on its blue jeans and split. No matter how many times I tell myself before sleep that it was okay to eat it, okay to treat myself, okay to mess up a little, I still wake up and smell its breath. I’m haunted and unforgiving. I’m working on that.

In the meantime, my new favorite thing about being healthy is the power felt when completing 15 regular push-ups when 2 weeks ago I could only do 10.

lazy week

2006-07-06T03:05:00.000+01:00

Because today was a day of work which came after a day of no work, it feels like tomorrow should be Tuesday. However, it will be Thursday- a most blessed day. I salute you, 4th of July, by laying back and playing some guitar the day after you came, for the weekend is almost here.

Like Li’l Kim, this will be my first free weekend in a very long while. I will entertain no visitors nor will I visit anyone. No appointments plague me, I'm no obligation's bitch, there will not even be any plans for fun. There may be cleaning, but I’m just sick enough to think that’s awesome.

My to-do list is as follows:

Go to the Salvation Army, if you feel like it.
If the mood strikes, finish Herzog.
Maybe rent a movie.
You may possibly crave a berry crisp. Make it. Or don’t.

I feel a little guilty about this idle weekend, but the forthcoming pleasure is surefire as a sober, southern man. I suspect it will be similar to, as Dave Attell once mused, eating a Bald Eagle egg…wrong, but filled with the sweet taste of freedom.

Do you know what time it is? Tenacious Sean time....

2006-07-06T02:42:00.000+01:00

I ask you, HAVE YOU EVER HEARD AN ANGEL SING?

Becuase there's one in my apartment with an affinity for lime green shirts.

on being 24

2006-06-30T15:01:00.000+01:00

It's just like 23, except I am one year closer to flying somewhere and renting a car, bitches!