If you like this stuff that I've been splattering over here, check me out here. I may occasionally still post stuff here, so I'm not deleting it, but I've pretty much moved to that link.

My brother found these glasses at a dollar store last year, and I rediscovered them the other day in a drawer in a bathroom at my parents' house. We HAD to play with them. Seriously, how could we not?

"Wasteland" by Francesca Lia Block

I know it's technically YA Fiction and turns some people off, but not only is Francesca Lia Block a beautifully poetic writer, but this book deals with a pretty touchy issue. Block's other books are amazing too. If you like poetry and fairies and awesomeness, you'll love her books (I'm thinking of someone in particular here, QUEEN OF RETRIBUTION). But even if you don't, READ WASTELAND. It's not about fairies, but the language knocked me off my feet the first time I read it in high school, and when I re-read it last night, I fell in love all over again.

An excerpt (near the end of the book, but it's my favorite):



The Rain Is Coming

Little sister, the night broke. The thunder cracked my brain finally. The rain is coming, I promise you. I didn't mean to but your tears will bring life back. Purple flowers grow, the color blood looks in the veins. They'll sprout out of my chest. I promise you they'll crack the ground, grow over the freeways, down the slopes to the sea. I'll be in their faces. I'll be in the waves, coming down on you from the sky. I'll be inside the one who holds you.

And then I won't be.

How cute is he? Lee plays Ned on the abc show "Pushing Daisies," which is a surprisingly creative and colorful, awesome show. Everyone should check it out, I think. It's great. BUT, Lee Pace. I would have a couple of his babies, wouldn't you?



AND this is unbelievably, strangely sexy (clip from Pushing Daisies):

Dear Sam,

You were just a boy on a bench by the fire. Your hood was pulled up over your hair, shadows hanging in your eyes. Your jeans were torn and you jabbed the coals with a blackened stick like you were angry at them, like they had somehow offended you. I could only see your mouth, full lips curled in a scowl, and your hunched shoulders. The keys on your belt jangled sometimes with the force of your movements, clinking together like broken glass.

"He's a punk," Melissa explained to me in a whisper, pointing at you. "He doesn't date high school girls."

You kicked your combat boots in the dirt and sunk deeper into the shadows. I watched you dig into the pocket of your black sweatshirt, watched the firelight glint off the silver metal of the flask you concealed in your big hands. When Melissa left, I got up and sat back down beside you. You didn't move, didn't look at me, didn't say a word.

"The only living punk in the suburbs," I said, watching you out of the corner of my eyes.

Your shoulders shook a little and you put the flask to your lips. "Fucking almost," you said, your teeth clicking against the mouth of the flask. I heard the liquid slosh and echo inside the metal as you pulled it back into your lap. The sharp smell of whiskey snapped through the air for a moment and then the smoke wrapped around us and all I could smell was fire.

You were just a boy on a bench in the dark, but we sat in silence, sharing your flask and letting our knees knock together, and when you kissed me under the trees later that night, your tongue tasted hot and stinging like the whiskey we drank.


You were just a punkling, a lost little boy who didn't know what he wanted except that it had to be loud and fast and your mom had to hate it. And when I was your girlfriend, you wanted me, too. So I snuck out of my house or said I was sleeping at Stephanie's and we took the train into the city to find the loudness. You were my punkling boyfriend and for you, I wore black and plaid and combat boots and thick eyeliner and went to shows. The kind of shows where I didn't remember the names of the bands, wasn't sure I ever knew. The kind of shows where you would push me out of the mosh pit because it was too crazy and there were too many spikes and sweating boys kicking, but I wanted to be in there, flailing and thrashing with you and I'd scream that I hated you, my voice disappearing into the music, and I'd try to hit you, even though I knew you were just protecting me. And you would grab my wrists and stare right into my eyes and look so angry that all I could do was keep yelling or cry.


You were just a boy in my arms in the dark, your breath hot in my ear, your stomach heavy on mine. You kissed me hard everywhere, your lips leaving bruises on my white throat, hips leaving bruises on mine, marks of our violent love. When you were away from me, I stood naked in front of my mirror and touched each purple mark on my body, thinking of you.


You were just a voice, far away and quiet, on the phone from the psych ward.

"I tried to kill my mom," you said. "Or at least, that's what she told the cops. I don't remember anything except when they found me downtown."

You tried to run away, tried to leave it all behind. But I couldn't understand why you didn't ask me to come with you. I waited the twenty-eight days until you were out, counting each one with sleepless nights and little slices on my body where only you could see; twenty-eight thin, red, scabbed lines on my inner thigh that you thought were pen marks at first.

"Why did you do it?" I asked you, sitting on the edge of your bed, watching you chew your dry, chapped lips.

"Do what?" You asked, running your fingers over my brand new scars.

"Leave me behind?"


You were just a boy in a bed by yourself, staring at cracks in the ceiling and taking too many pills to make the mania stop. Everything else stopped, too. We sat in your basement and listened to your mom vacuum the living room floor above us. You kissed me gently, your dry lips barely touching my skin. Your eyes were blank and dark, the shadows coming from inside.

"We're taking him away," your mother said, her hand on your shoulder while you stared straight ahead. "Somewhere he can get better." She leaned across you and rolled the car window up, backing slowly out of the driveway, away from me.


You were just a boy on a bench by the fire, and when you left me behind for good, you didn't even move.

Many guys say they like a forward girl, things like, “I like her to let me know she’s into me—it’s sexy.” This is a lie. No guy that I have ever met has responded positively to knowing that I’m “into” them. And yet I insist on applying the “let him know how you feel” approach to the gentlemen I’m interested in.

For this reason, My Dating Life is pathetic at best. A stunted attempt to connect with any male in tight pants, usually tattooed and on a bike, My Dating Life repeatedly falls short of expectations (both my own and society’s). Datees are typically overjoyed by my eagerness to kiss and ability to pay for my half of the meal, but that’s only the first time; second dates are few and far between.

While contemplating My Dating Life, one should be aware of the fact that the subject (myself) is a young twentysomething in her last year of art school. She is perhaps a little too desperate for male affection, having been an official participant of “the single life” for…well, a good long time. But, it should be noted that she is genuinely an interesting young woman with plenty to offer a potential boyfriend, if a little too eager and upfront.

My Dating Life, however hilarious, is ultimately a dead-in-the-water spectacle of misguided affection and overenthusiastic attempts at hooking a tall, angst-ridden hipster boy.

Kissed him. Traced my fingers over the lines his bones make beneath the skin of his chest, curled my fingers over his shoulder and raked my nails down his back. Let him bite me (asked him to, once. Or twice. Maybe three times). Spooned all night, sleeping skin to skin and so easily in each other's arms. Felt him rub my back in the morning before the alarm went off too many times. It was so like a chick-flick, made me so smile-y and warm all over that I promptly ruined it by getting fabulously drunk at one of his shows two days later and asking him to come back and make spoons with me when I should have just let it be, let him say it, instead of me.

When will I learn?

Rain like little bullets, hitting the cover of my umbrella, smacking and dripping like lips laughing with liquid in your mouth. You smile at me from under your umbrella, just beside me, eyes sparkling no matter how gray the sky above us is. Who are you? And, more importantly, where are you? Or when? I see flashes of you in my dreams and in the boys and men I pass on the soaking streets. You are at the tips of my fingers, the tip of my tongue, hovering just out of reach, just beyond comprehension. I can't find you, haven't found you yet, but I will. Will I find you in Chicago, freezing knees knocking together in the winter wind while we wait for the el to come? Or San Francisco, tattooed arms and ink-stained fingers whipping down those steep, impossible hills on your bike? When I get there, will you be waiting for me, ready to love all over-- in the streets, between my sheets, in the front seat of you car, on the beach? Where will you be? And when?

I can't
I can't
I can't
breathe when you are so close to me. I want to climb into your eyes, or gouge them out and keep them on a string around my neck.

You are mine
You are mine
You are mine

I will kiss your eyes into the back of your head and press my chest through yours while the girl who lives below my bedroom watches The Wedding Singer at top volume at 2:30 in the morning on a Sunday.

I will make you so loud, my sheets will quiet down, tired under the smooth downy of your leg hair.

I will watch you in the light and knit your bones to mine when the sun goes down.

I will land this plane for you, pull your clothes from your back and feed them to the dogs to keep your love safe in my pocket.

I am what you want with all of half your heart. I can feel you thinking of me while you jack off across five states, or maybe more--I've lost count by now. I hear the pounding of your blood in my ears and feel the give and take of your muscles in my own right arm. I am becoming more like you every day, just like you are slowly bleeding my blood, coming my come, tasting my saliva at the back of your throat.

I will burn you with my sharp teeth and bite you with my fingernails and fuck you with my words and when you shudder violently and spill yourself onto your sheets, you will feel me above you in the darkness, smiling and satisfied.

I don't often write songs, owing to the fact that my singing voice is terrible, my guitar skills are minimal, and my piano-playing is rusty beyond belief now that my piano's been sold out from under me. But I was, the other night, struck with a rare bout of musical inspiration, sitting in my parents house by myself, slightly drunk of vinegary wine and bored because everyone else was asleep. Posting un-recorded songs on the internet is stupid, if not only for the possibility of having my shit stolen (which is incredibly slim, as I'm convinced I'm the only one who reads my blogs), but also because it's slightly ineffective-- I really can only put the lyrics up here. I have no idea how to write tablature on the internet, and even then, it'd be pretty useless to anyone who isn't musically inclined. However, I'm particularly proud of these lyrics, especially since I wrote the whole song in the space of an hour (which can't speak much to the quality of the song itself, but the lyrics--while admittedly repetitive-- are always what come easily for me).

If someone happens to read this, and that someone happens to know me well enough to get me drunk and in the vicinity of a guitar and a copy of these lyrics, be sure to make me play this song for you. It won't be good, but I promise it'll be funny.

Here are the lyrics. The song is called Pull Your Hair.

( Get your hair pulled, verbally at least. )

Should be writing but instead I’m skinny dipping. Biting my tongue and wishing you were here. Sleeping in twin beds with long, tall boys and tripping over myself to hear a whisper of what I was thinking last week. Limping and drinking and trying to sleep. Words stuck in my fingertips like blood pooling, long and slow and full of pressure. Pressure of three jobs and parents who won’t stop nagging, pressure of knowing what I should be doing even if I’m not doing it, of credit card companies calling me and asking for money I don’t want to give.

Should be writing but instead I’m typing and reading blogs about celebrities I don’t really care about, reading crappy vampire novels just to figure out how to story ends, and wondering how on earth something so cheesy and melodramatic could possibly be so fucking popular. Looking at pictures of myself and realizing how fucking fat I’ve gotten since I’ve come home. How fucking unsexy and virtually hideous I’ve become. No food no food no food no sleep ‘til Brooklyn. How ‘bout some exercise? What will make me smatter, thinner, prettier, quieter—harder, better, faster, stronger? Crack my knuckles and try to sleep again, try not to worry about how weird this feels because I haven’t written it down in my journal first—fucking with my own process. Why? WHY? why? I’m tired but I’m not. Erase, re-race. Rematch. Light me up before I go. I’m going. Going.

gone.

Couldn't sleep. Looked at pictures of shoes. I want these:





( More Shoooooooes )

So. It's the night before I fly out of the Windy City to spend the summer in Filthadelphia.

And I feel OK about it.

Initially, I was really disappointed because I couldn't find a job (don't get me wrong, I went on nine million interviews, but I guess I'm no longer server material. Who do you have to screw to get a job these days, is what I wanna know. Just kidding. I promise) AAaaaaaannyway. I was upset at first, because the deal I made with my rentals was that No Job in Chicago = Come Back to Philly and Work There for the Summer, and I wanted so badly to stay here.

But now, I'm actually looking forward to getting a breath of familiar old Philly air. Yeah, it totally sucks that I'll be gone for most of the summer and the summer is the only time I actually enjoy being in Chicago (That's a lie. I enjoy it every time that's not winter, and since winter here lasts from December to April... you get the idea). Yeah, it totally sucks that I'm leaving behind crushes (the only two I have being my friend's not-so-little brother and this guy Kevin who has lots of tattoos and is always at Galway Bay, where we are always at) and friends and family and new roommates. It really sucks.

But sometimes I just need a break.

I know I can't keep running home to my parents' house every time I need a break. But this is the last summer I'll be able to do that. Next summer, I'll be out of college and looking for a REAL JOB. This is the last summer I'll be able to mooch off of my parents' food for more than a week or two at a time. This is the last summer I'll be able to pretend that I am not an adult, that I am still a kid, or still in high school and I don't have to worry about the world catching up to me when I'm not paying attention. Or at least, I can pretend I don't have to worry about the world catching up to me when I'm not paying attention.

Here's the thing.

Everyone I know is doing something big. And by big, I mean they are doing one, all, or any combination of the following:
1. Graduating College (or high school)
2. Starting Relationships
3. Getting Married
4. Having Babies

Big things, right?

Here's the other thing.

I'm not doing any of those.

1. I'm not graduating college because I chose to do the BFA program in the Fiction Writing Department (remember how I'm at Columbia College, right guys?), which adds a whole extra year (including an internship) to my college career. Which is good. I know this. But it also means I'm not graduating college right now. (And I'm not graduating high school because I did that in 2004 and I would never do it again, no matter how much you paid me. I will, however, probably write about it at some point in my life).

2. I'm not starting a relationship because I am mostly insane, and most dudes I dig don't understand me. But that's okay. I enjoy sleeping in my bed all by myself (most of the time). I also think that being single is not a bad thing, it's just frustrating sometimes. Why, Anna? Why is it frustrating? Because pretty much everyone I know is in a relationship, so I tend to be the only single one at most get togethers. Or, I'm related to a bunch of them, and that's just way too gross for me. No matter how desperate I am, I will never hit on my cousins. ANYWAY. What I'm trying to say is that I enjoy being single. If I were in a relationship, I would have to do things like stop gawking at every cute boy I see on the street (or at least, I'd have to stop doing it when my boyfriend was around), and I would have to stop flirting with my friend's not-so little brother who I definitely have a crush on, or my other friend's not-so-little band mate who I already kissed and got bored of, but who is so very fun to flirt with because he won't stop smiling and he has such a wide, wonderful smile. And I would have to coordinate schedules and wake up in the middle of the night to brush my teeth so my rank morning breath wouldn't kill my boyfriend when he innocently and unsuspectingly gives me a kiss good morning. And I would have to give him space in my closet and my dresser (which only has two drawers and which I can barely fit all my clothes into) and in my bed, and mostly in my heart, which is scary because being vulnerable and actually, seriously letting someone into my heart and thinking about maybe actually, seriously loving them is scary and I haven't done that in a long, long, long, long, long, long time and maybe I won't be good at it and maybe I don't even remember how and SEE?!?!? THIS IS WHY I AM NOT STARTING A RELATIONSHIP. Because I am crazy.

3. I am not getting married because, even though most of the time I think all that stuff I just bitched about might actually be fun and awesome and I want it I want it I want it, getting married is way too big and scary for me. I am sooooo not ready for that kind of commitment. But yay to my nine billion friends and relatives who ARE. (Also, I think everyone in the entire world is getting married in June 14th. Raise your hand if you are NOT getting married on June 14th, because I don't think there's anyone who isn't and I'd really like to know if there is.)

4. I am not having babies because the last thing I want right now is some helpless but inevitably cute little thing that is completely dependent on me, which would make me completely dependent on whoever fathered the thing, and the current possibilities for that position are not so promising. And I like sleeping way to much. But yay to everyone who is having babies because, awwww! They're so cute.


Here's another thing.

I have been alternating between freaking out because I am not doing one, all, or any combination of these things and being sublimely happy and content that I am not doing one, all, or any combination of these things. One second, I am sitting in class stealing glances at my friend's not-so-little brother who I definitely have a crush on and thinking: Oooooohhhh I want a boyfriend and I want to kiss this boy and what does his back look like underneath that shirt and what does his breath smell like three hours after he's brushed his teeth and do his feet smell and does he snore and would he take showers with me in the morning because I love doing that, I love washing someone else's hair and kissing under all that steaming hot water and does he like to spoon all night because I get kind of sweaty and then I can't sleep so maybe he would compromise and we could spoon for a little and then I could push him onto the other side of the bed so we could sleep without getting sweaty, and holy shit I am a huge creep because he hasn't even asked for my number yet, he just laughs at my lame jokes and looks at me a lot and I don't even know if he likes me and I'm already wondering what his breath smells like, Maaaaaannn I am such a creep. And then the next second, I am still stealing glances at my friend's not-so-little brother, but I am thinking: Is my attention span long enough for me to do this more than once? Because it didn't last very long with the tall metal boy and what is it with me and metal heads and what about the one that is far away and what about the possible love of my life and what about all these other beautiful boys who I know or who I haven't met yet or who I haven't kissed yet and if I pick one, I'll have to give all the other ones up and how could I do that? Which is kind of weird, because I usually don't have trouble making up my mind. And I am not a man, and that mentality seems to be one that is more commonly attributed to the male sex, of which, I repeat, I am not a member. But I just can't help thinking about all the beautiful boys out there and how I want to know them all and kiss them all and I want them all to belong to me and good lord, I am a selfish bitch.

I had this dream and I woke up at 6:40 in the morning and wrote down everything I could remember and now I want to know what it means and what the details I remembered mean and somebody tell me somebody tell me somebody somebody...

So I'm walking down a forrest-y road and I see two boys trying to steal a truck outside a rundown house. Apparently, I know the owner of the house (who is also, of course, the owner of the truck), but I have trouble yelling his name because I just start screaming-- wordless wailing that rips in my throat. The owner, an old dude, sticks the barrel of his shot gun out a second story dormer window and shoots one of the boys in the hand (not the one trying to pick the lock with a jackknife). The boy who got shot falls down on the ground screaming like a little boy. His friend goes to attack me with the jack knife because he thinks I pulled the trigger, but I say something like, "What a great thing for a boyfriend to do."

Apparently, knife boy is my boyfriend.

I take the knife from him, he gets his friend off the ground and I knock on the door of the run down house. It opens like a big swinging door, and the floor inside is chest high. I lean in and yell the guy's name, "Mr. Dorian!" and this oldish guy stumbles out of the shadows (he's probably Tom Cerwensky, the guy who did dishes on the weekends at Horizons and who took me to buy my skateboard with the hot pink trucks and then let me squeeze his arms and scream in terror when I went down that huge hill and he ran with me the whole way, only in my dream, he's older. Much older). He leans out the door, holding onto the frame, like he wasn't the one who shot my boyfriend's friend, like this wasn't all his fault. I ask him if he can take us to the hospital, and he says, "No."

"Are you drunk, Mr. Dorian?" I ask him, like I don't even remember that he shot my apparent boyfriend's friend, or like it doesn't matter at all.

He nods.

"Then can I take your truck?"

"No."

"Well, how are we supposed to get to the hospital?"

"Walk."

Meanwhile, my boyfriend, who is blonde, is trying to get the bullet out of his friend's hand. He asks me for the jackknife . I don't want to give it to him, but I do. He still can't get the bullet out.

Mr. Dorian makes a sling for the friend out of a brown plastic grocery bag. I thank him and we start walking. My boyfriend's hands are in his pockets. I slide my right hand into his left pocket and link my fingers with his, and I narrate this whole thing in my head as I do. Like, as I'm reaching toward his pocket, watching the spot on his arm where his wrist disappears into the fabric of his pocket, and in my head, I'm thinking, She reaches toward his pocket, then slides her hand along his arm until their fingers link inside his pocket. Like I'm writing a story about us, about me and my knife boy and his friend with a bullet in his hand. There is a wadded up tissue in my boyfriend's pocket, which I can feel. He wraps his fingers around the tissue and moves it to his other pocket, so I can keep my hand where it is.

Later, we are still walking down the road to the hospital. There are all these already harvested cornfields around us, and somehow another girl appears and somehow I know she's a close friend of mine.

The four of us are walking and my boyfriend's friend starts walking funny, all tight and rigid, like there's a stick in his ass.

"What, do you have to poop or something?" My boyfriend asks him.

"Yes," his friend says bashfully.

"Me too," says my friend.

"OK, you girls go that way," my boyfriend gestures to the left side of the dirt road we've been walking down. "And we boys will go this way," he leans his head to the right.

"Let it loose," shouts my friend, who is now definitely Rene Cousineau. "I'm so excited!"

We are running toward this big concrete building that starts out as a maintenance building. From behind us, I hear one of the boys say, "Poop goes plop!"

Rene and I find our separate places to poop, during which time I realize the concrete building in the middle of a cornfield is actually a bank with people in it. I can see them through a heavily tinted window, tons of them.

I find Rene, who has finished pooping, and begin to tell her about my discovery, but she is laughing really, really hard. So hard, she can't listen to me. Through her laughter, she manages to tell me that she pooped off a platform and Ashton Kutcher walked by and didn't know it was poop.

"Did he pick it up?" I ask, disgusted.

"No!" she laughs hysterically.

Then I am inside the bank and Ashton and Demi Moore are sitting there quietly, and I am thinking how different he seems from the time he came to Columbia College and did a stand-up comedy sketch about his relationship with Demi (which I think actually happened in another dream I had a few weeks ago, but I can't really be sure. I know there were a few nights in a row where I had dreams heavily centered on Ashton Kutcher, none of which I wrote down, but all of which involved sex of some kind, and now I really wish I had written them down. I also had a sex dream starring Anne Heche and Jerry O'Connell, which was one of the best and kinkiest sex dreams I ever had--they totally did it doggie style in the middle of the woods and got all muddy and sweaty and Jerry O'Connell had a huuuuuuuge penis--but when I woke up, I was baffled and a little weirded out by the fact that I'd had a sex dream that didn't involve me at all. Plus, Anne Heche is creepy and annoying and I didn't want her in my dreams. Jerry O'Connell can stay if he wants, though).

Then, from the other room, I hear this conversation:

Bri Kern (who I went to middle and high school with, and a little bit of college, too, and who I was very good friends with for a while and then we stopped for one reason or another, but her grandma still lived next door to me and Bri would help her garden a lot, so I'd always be walking by and she'd be in the garden and it would be weird and awkward, and now she's getting married, I think--but then, who isn't, these days?), showing a picture to a woman sitting across a desk from her. Except, I can't see this in my dream. I just KNOW it's happening. Like I can see it in my mind, in my dream: And this is how I turned my excrement into a carpet when I was in Costa Rica.

Bank Lady, slightly horrified: So you're a hippie?

Bri Kern: No! No!

(The conversation continues, but I can't remember what they said)

I find this absolutely hilarious and try to write it down so I can submit it to overheardeverywhere.com, but I keep getting interrupted by my dad and my youngest brother, Sam.

And then I am in my room at my old apartment, the one on Hampden Court, only my whole family is there. We must be living there or something. Meghan and Katy H (who is not a member of my family, but who I love anyway) and one other girl are all sitting on my bed and I am walking back and forth in front of my closet.

Suddenly, Rebecca comes in and begins messing around with my dresser, looking through my jewelry. I ignore her, continue talking to the girls on the bed (though I can't remember what about). Rebecca asks if she can borrow a pair of earrings. I look over at the earrings she's holding up, see I've already worn them, tell her she can, then go back to talking. She asks if she can borrow a necklace. I look at it and tell her no, because I haven't worn it yet. She gets really mad, clutches the necklace to her chest and runs out the door. I chase her, grabbing her by her long, dark hair.

I yell for my mom, hoping she'll intercept Rebecca when she gets near the kitchen, but I tackle her to the ground by the fridge anyway. My mom, who is standing at the stove, turns around to discipline Rebecca about the necklace, but before she can say anything, Rebecca looks at me and pulls the necklace apart. Little bright pink beads go flying everywhere. With a little bit of a struggle, I pin her down and tear my earrings (which are clip on) off her ears, trash-talking the whole time.

Rebecca goes into a fit of rage after I get off of her with my jewelry, and I say to her sarcastically, "Great way to set an example, Rebecca."

I am standing over her and she is a twenty-four-year-old woman having a temper tantrum on the floor in the hallway by the fridge. I start walking away, and little Sophia, her two-year-old daughter, walks past me to see what her mom is freaking out about.

And that's when I wake up.

Click here or I will hunt you down and spit on you. Or pull your hair.

There's this boy ache thing that I wrote about here, but now I'm talking about a man ache. A famous man ache. Or celebrity or well known or whatever. It doesn't matter what we call it, as long as we know that these are the men that make me ache with their beauty. (If you notice a trend, just know that I can't help it. I really can't. Also, if you know a man who embodies any or all of the traits exhibited by these men, please send him to me. Or, if you ARE a man who embodies any or all of the traits exhibited by these men, please apply here. I'm really tired of waiting.)



Brandon Boyd of incubus
He is one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen. Seriously. I read somewhere that he has Aztec (or some other Native Americans) ancestors, which would explain the bone structure. And his music (okay, maybe not the latest two albums) and his art just drive me nuts. And he's just soooo beautiful. We could do yoga on the beach together, and go surfing and then we could get dressed up in weird clothes and go to music events and concerts and smoke a lot of pot and hang out with his band and I would be such a good lover for him.



Devendra Banhart
This man seems so strange, I just have to love him. Again, with this one, the music is part of what draws me in, but also, just the strangeness of him. I mean, seriously. Go to google images or whatever and type his name in and look at some of the pictures of him. He is a strange, sexy beast. We could make jewelry together and live in his house in... wherever it is...the one with all the people who are just there... With Devendra, it would be all hippie all the time and I would love it so much and I would hear his music first and he would hear my writing first and we would probably do a lot of drugs, but I think I could handle that as long as I got to curl up at the end of the day (or night, or whenever it is we would actually go to sleep) next to this weird, strange, beautiful man who is so full of creativity, it will probably never stop.



Jared Leto (of course we know all about how I feel about him because of this post)



Duh.
I think Kurt Cobain is my soul mate. Like, when I die, Kurt and I will be together. I was born too late and on the wrong coast to save his life. But you can blame me for his death, because if I had been in the right place at the right time, this boy would not be dead. Nooooo way. And I would have loved him well. I would still love him. He needed me, and I let him down. Because I was only nine when he died.



Conor Oberst of Bright Eyes, etc.
Everything I hear about Conor is basically this: Conor Oberst = Giant Slut and Huge Coke Head. I could easily fix the giant slut part, but the huge cokehead thing, I'm positive I'd have trouble with that. I can see many nights of falling asleep by myself, with Conor, while he's not where he said he'd be, doing drugs, and our relationship would be dramatic and tragic and tumultuous and tearful and destructive and I'd leave him and come back a hundred times but at least we'd both have something to write about.



Emile Hirsch. IMDB him for his movies, but most recently, Speed Racer and Into the Wild, although I first ached for him in Lords of Dogtown
I think he reminds me of the Hanson brothers, and that's partly why I ache for him. But I also envision lots of hiking and surfing (which could just be from the characters he's played), and I imagine he's funny and kind of normal, and that I'd get to hang out with Sean Penn, which would probably be cool.



Adrian Brody. Again, IMDB for movies (Darjeeling Limited is most recent, I believe)
He always looks so sad. I just kind of want to curl up in his sadness and kiss it better. Which is funny, because he's smiling in this picture. But look at his eyes. His eyes say that even though he has millions of dollars, he is still sad and needs me to make sweet, sweet love to him all night long and then he'll feel better.



Michael Vartan
I don't know what it is about him... he's probably the most normal looking person I've ever thought was hot, but damn, he is good looking. The only problem is, this character he plays in the show he's in now, Big Shots, he's way too sensitive and boring. He needs to be more like Vaughn in Alias. That was hot. He was even hot in Never Been Kissed, which was a pretty bad movie but I totally love it anyway. But Michael Vartan, I would like to take all your clothes off and then look at you for a while, that's how hot you are.


Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers
Man, is he weird and awesome and beautiful, and I want to have his baby and name it Everly Bear.



Adam Lazzara of Taking Back Sunday (the one with the water gun to his head. Although, the other one ain't too shabby, either--Gerard Way, he looks like the missing member of the Thomas family, for those of you who know what I'm talking about...) And yes, I am totally aware that both of these guys are probably huge tools, but Taking Back Sunday is so totally my guilty pleasure of the century, and when my old roommate Simon met Adam Lazzara at his Starbucks, he said he hadn't been by himself in years and Simon said he seemed so lonely and I keep imagining him as this poor lonely famous boy with sad puppy dog eyes and I could be the only one that understands him, you know?


Jim Sturgess. Across the Universe and 21, most recently.
Oh how pretty. Oh, how British. Plus, he reminds me of my character, Jackson, from the novel I'm working on, and I sort of have a crush on Jackson...

NEW ONE:

Ben Barnes. Also known as Prince Caspian.
He's lovely. He's British. That may be all that's required for me to have his babies.

So obvious I almost forgot to mention him:


Johnny Depp makes my eyes feel better every second of every day of my life.

I'm sure I'll be adding to this post on a consistent and regular basis, but for now, this shall have to suffice. I have to get back to all my final projects and movements and whatnot that are due this week.

I think I have insomnia.

Again.

Which means I better get this job I interviewed for on Monday, or else I will absolutely go insane this summer, like I did last summer. Which is not good. I am insane enough as it is. We do not need to add chronic sleeplessness to the list. We do not need to add seeing the sun come up every morning, the gray-blue light of dawn slowly seeping through my curtains, turning into orange and yellow and then the sun is up and I haven't slept for a second. We do not need to add making potato salad and egg salad and cookies at 5:00 in the morning to the list. We do not need to add 4 AM cigarettes with my roommate who has just woken up to go work an opening shift at Starbucks. We do not need to add coming to in the middle of a journal entry and not remembering a single world of what I have just written. We do not need to add bursting into tears for absolutely no reason other than that I am so, so tired and I can't sleep no matter what I do, we do not need to add watching a spider crawl all the way across my ceiling and out my open window, we do not need to add trying to count sheep and instead getting bored because the numbers are so high.

Seriously. I do not need to go insane again. I don't want to either.

So I better get this job.

So on Monday, I watched Into the Wild and cried so hard I couldn't breathe for a little bit. It was actually pretty embarrassing because for a while, I couldn't stop and the whole rest of the day, if I started talking about the movie at all, my eyes teared up and my voice got all shaky and high-pitched and I had to quit it.

At first, I couldn't figure out why I had such a strong, tearful reaction. I mean, I knew he was going to die at the end, I knew that. So why all the tears? Then, I realized that Chris, or Alexander Supertramp as he was also known, he reminded me so much of people I know, boys who are so restless to be outside and traveling. And I could see that happening to them, dying so alone and lost, but happy, too.

He reminds me of my father, the restless wanderer who spent his youth hitchhiking across America and driving cars and flying planes. He reminded me that I want to write my dad's story, the ins and outs, the things that made him who he is today, the reasons why he hates living where he does so much, why he needs little distractions and adventures just to make life bearable, why sometimes thinking about my father and the difference between what he wants and what he has makes me cry so easily.

He reminds me of Donovan, who as soon as he settles into one place, becomes miserable and insufferable and pathetic, who drowns himself in drugs and alcohol so at least his mind goes somewhere else, who was so happy in Hawaii, far away from us, so happy he barely called and didn't want to come back.

He reminds me of Preston, the great outdoorsman, who couldn't just disappear like that, no matter how much he wanted to because he has diabetes and can't live without his insulin. But he'd do so well on his own like that, meditating and hunting and being wild. Pres belongs in the wild. His heart is there, for always.

He reminds me of who I could have been, if things had been different, if I weren't a writer, and were instead a wanderer.

And that's why I cried.