This is the last straw.

Twitter has been down all morning. Which is annoying, but not world-ending. But now? MAFIA WARS IS NOT LOADING.

What am I supposed to do? Work? I am half asleep and I want to goof off online while Sam watches cartoons!

Since I am too distraught to do anything but whimper pathetically, here is a nice picture I took in April of 2008. I’m sure I’ve posted it before, but you’ll live.



You guys have no idea how hard it was to not edit this while I transcribed it.

I find it hard to look him in the eyes. He wears his happiness like a comfy old t-shirt, smiling in bliss because he’s holding me, finally, after all this time waiting for each other. We’ve stopped beating around the bush and spend our spare time kissing, but for some reason I feel that I’m only in this out of curiosity, not from the pure love and desire I see shining on his little boy face. In my detached state I am easily able to tell him that he is taking this more seriously than I am, but then I feel sorry and also wonder if maybe I do love him but I am afraid he will hurt me again so I am hurting him first. I run my fingers over his bony face and kiss him again, feeling mean and sexy and powerful and cruel all at once.

There is more below this, scratched out later with a different pen. I don’t think I care to decipher it. This guy was so weird, I don’t really want to know what else I had to say about him.

Also! Did this happen to anyone else? It happened repeatedly to me: I like a guy for a long time, he finally decides he likes me, we get together, he TURNS IT UP TO 11, I lose interest. I think that’s why Will is so perfect for me–we always liked each other equally, even if one of us didn’t admit it at first (me).

More from my 1996 Journal

haikus like they taught us in 5th grade

I hate poets who
think they’re the greatest thing since
sliced bread. They aren’t.

you don’t understand.
if you did you’d go away
and leave me alone.

Just because I am
kissing you doesn’t mean that
I love you at all

are you kidding me?
that dumb-ass look went out of
fashion years ago

god you suck, and I’d
be ashamed to be seen with
you, bloody asshole

this music makes me
remember how I felt once
four years ago. sleep.

Punctuation, capitalization, etc., is all intact. That last one is about Kurt Cobain. I know this because the one that came after it was more overt. I have discovered my limit, however, and will not publish that one. But! There is more to come! And some of it is BAD!


365-110YOU ALL. I just found my journal from when I was 17/18. I use the term “journal” loosely, as I never used it as a diary. No, I used it for a far better purpose.


I mean, kind of. I wrote in this odd poetic prose with the occasional poem-poem. Some of what I wrote was true, some of it was fiction. Naturally, I did not distinguish between the two and have NO IDEA who or what I was talking about in most of it.

Would you care for a sample? OF COURSE YOU WOULD.

a black canvas
I painted this to show you
how I feel when I think about you
and when you ran away
and that you never felt
the way that I do

I never could write poetry
but I don’t know how else
to show you the pain you’ve caused
Inadvertently, I know
but don’t think I’ll ever forget

Let’s talk about this a little bit, shall we? I mean, A BLACK CANVAS? Seriously, that’s the best I could do? In my defense, this is one of the few that I’m sure who it’s about, and I had been hung up on him for YEARS with no reciprocation. Or acknowledgment. Or guts to tell him. I know, it’s so tragic. Moving on: “I never could write poetry.” LET ME STOP YOU RIGHT THERE. You are correct. Now stop writing it, for your own sake.

Also it is worth noting that many of the other poems in this book are edited half to death. This one is untouched. Did I think it was perfect as-is? I prefer to believe that I could not stand to look at it long enough to edit. Because it is SO BAD.

Here’s a curiosity:

I want to be the kind of writer
that Lisa Levy is as an artist.
Or, as a writer, be the kind of
artist that Lisa Levy is.

And I want to write songs like
Robert Smith.

The question is, of course, whether this was meant to be a poem. Was I just noting this idea down, and the line breaks make it look like a poem? WE’LL NEVER KNOW.

And here is a poem that I actually kind of like:

flashing back to 8th grade while sitting on a crowded subway heading downtown to 28th Street

black converse
blue plaid pants
a little too big
black t-shirt with nirvana
light-weight plaid shirt
chin length reddish blond hair
newspaper in hand
that certain swagger
oh yes I’d like to be that boy

I mean, I’m not sure what the hell I was talking about, but I like it.

The back of the notebook has an unfinished story in it, written so you have to turn the notebook upside-down to read it. I don’t know if the influence was the new Smashing Pumpkins album (which I’d probably just bought) or Geek Love (which I’d definitely just read), but apparently it’s about Siamese twins connected at the wrist. I declined to read past the first sentence.

Next time, all the love-hate stuff from the beginning of the book, when I was frequently making out with a guy I’d liked for a year and lost interest in the instant he decided he liked me (I was so awesome). Also some haiku.


I tell people that my earliest memory is of my sister’s birth, but that’s not really true; there is one memory that I know is earlier, of my father (or possibly my mother) asking if I wanted a little sister. The question, of course, is whether the memory is real. For one thing, what if I’d said no? And for another, they had no way of knowing they were having another girl. But they did, and we were best friends for years before spending years barely knowing each other and now being pretty much best friends again.

My earliest memory that I know for certain is real is of my sister’s birth on March 8, 1981. She was born at home and my father and I walked to the corner and bought the newspaper. I told the man at the shop about the placenta. I was a little bit younger than Sam is now.

My sister will be 28 years old tomorrow.

Years ago we’d IM on the MSN Messenger, and close our chats with the umbrella symbol, which is made by typing (um). We’ve since moved to iChat/AIM and now Skype, but still close our chats with (um).

So for her birthday I made this for my sister:


More Baby Nostalgia

June 3, 2006 (two weeks old):

October 3, 2006 (four and a half months old):

Today (two years, eight and a half months):

I have to tell you, I am wishing I’d done a monthly project or something. These were all taken totally spontaneously.

Time Flies

We have lived in this crappy apartment for six years today. We barely fit into it when we moved in (and by “we” what I really mean is “our stuff”) and since then we’ve grown an entire person and a lot of chairs. And also some yarn, fabric, toys… Lordy, we are bursting at the seams.

Today is Superbowl Sunday. We are not watching the game, or even the Puppy Bowl, because we don’t have television or any interest in either. But we are cooking chili, which I believe is somewhat traditional (oh man, do I ever want jalapeno poppers and wings to go with it) (the wings are for Will). And I will be secretly rooting for the Steelers. Somebody tell me if they win.

Here’s the weird thing: if we have lived here for six years, then it has been almost ten since we lived in Pittsburgh. It is only two weeks until our eleven year anniversary. ELEVEN YEARS. Wowie-zowie. I had a dream last night that I was leaving Will (and Sam!) to move in with my boyfriend. It was such an unbelievable dream that halfway through it changed to the three of us moving into what had been the boyfriend’s apartment. Still, it was not nice.

In other news, I have once again managed to get myself into a situation where I have five million unfinished knitting projects and just keep starting more. Can you believe that four years ago I was just learning to knit?

The high today in Los Angeles is 74. I can’t wait for tomorrow when we find out if there will be six more weeks of winter!

Stop me if you’ve heard this one…

One problem with blogging for over six years is that I’ve totally run out of original stories to tell and am not making new stories fast enough. So I occasionally recycle and just hope that I have enough new readers who’ve never read these stories.

Will at Be the Boy wrote about excuses for staying home, and #4 was something about being too drunk to drive to work because he’d been composing an email to the girl he liked. That reminded me of the second time (my) Will and I hooked up.

I’d stayed over once, a mostly-chaste encounter that left both of us embarrassed and avoiding each other. Three or four days later Will and our friend Adrian showed up at my room, shitfaced and looking for cigarettes. I invited them in and gave them smokes, and after a little while Adrian went to the water fountain down the hall and never came back. Turned out he was Will’s wingman that night. Will needed the liquid courage (in the form, if I am not mistaken, of PBR) to come tell me he’d like to make out and fall asleep together again.

All together now: awwwwwww!

(P.S. Will Betheboy also married the girl in the story.)

OK, here’s a weird one.

Do you ever google yourself? I don’t mean a straight-up vanity google to see if anyone has mentioned your name (damn right you do–I get google alerts for my name daily); I mean something a little weirder, and I hope I am not the only person who does stuff like this.

See, I read this post on first kisses. And I remembered mine, and for the first time in seventeen years I didn’t cringe. It was what it was. It was even kind of nice. That was, after all, the first night I saw Tarsem’s work (before the kiss we watched MTV, including the “Losing My Religion” video), and he went on to make my favorite movie.

But the kiss. His name was Barrett. He was three years older than me. He had ratty blond metal hair. I was way into him. I sincerely doubt that I could pick him out of a lineup now. (Not that I think he’s a criminal! I’m sure that at least 50% of kids raised in Saugerties, NY, go on to be law-abiding citizens.)

So I googled “barrett first kiss.” Why? I have absolutely no idea. I certainly wasn’t trying to find out if he was anyone else’s first kiss, though it would be kinda cool to find that someone else had written about him. No, see, I think maybe I was looking for myself. As if some other me had written about my first kiss. I told you it was weird.

Naturally, I got one gazillion results for Elizabeth Barrett Browning poems about kissing.