Tis true. I’ve had a good run on this chere blog, but I’m kind of over it and decided that it’s time to start fresh and new and free and clean.

If you can’t live without me, my alter-ego has created a new place to write about life and pasta and the male species over at Sheela-Na-Giggle.

Luv u 4evr and here’s a parting gift of John Goodman as Dan Conner wearing a Black Flag t-shirt,



“Why can’t you go for a nice engineer type?” – Mom

Re: My penchant for non-committal wandering musician/artist/writer/manchildren.

Cause I don’t want to, Ma. Cause I’m a non-committal wandering womanchild. Cause musician/artist/writer/manchildren are hottt.

On a slightly related note, I’m reading The Paris Wife right now and loving it because I’ve always liked to imagine what it would be like to be in a relationship with Ernest Hemingway. You know that man was crazy talented and funny and enigmatic, but maddeningly cocky and self-centered. Can you imagine how exhausting it would be to date that guy? We’ve all met dudes like this. Paula McLain just makes it so real. So real. You should check it out, especially if you also have a love/hate relationship with that irresistible asshole too. Sigh.


In which one song makes me think about cheerleading, ballet flats, and a sex bet.

Isn’t it awesome how songs just assign themselves to life events? Minor or major. You hear a song and you’re back in a place so specific.

Weezer. Only in Dreams.

Instantly I’m in 10th grade and us cheerleaders are changing into our uniforms for the basketball game and my friend and I are talking about how we love this song. Especially the part where he sings, “You say it’s a good thing that you float in the air, that way there’s no way I will crush your pretty toenails into a thousand pieces.” We were sixteen and ate that line up. I still love that line.

This opens up a pandora’s box of memories involving random things that happened around that time. Things that seemed to so important to me then, but that I haven’t thought about in forever.

I think about these black ballet flats with little bows on them. They were my favorite shoes because Teen Vogue told me they were the hottt new thing and I was obsessed. I think about how I always forgot to bring shoes to change into for P.E. class. I forgot so often that I got written up for it and had to eat lunch in a classroom for a couple of days and that was the most delinquent thing I ever did in high school. (Actually at school anyway LOLOL).

I think about how this guy in my P.E. class made a bet with one of his friends about how long it would take for him to sleep with me. I still laugh about it because I was this American Eagle wearing goody two-shoes and he was this Etnies clad sk8r boi.  Some real Avril Lavigne shit. I remember writing in my journal about him and how I liked his new haircut. Of course I was suddenly into this dude because when you’re sixteen you’re blindly  infatuated with anyone who shows interest in you. I wasn’t mad about the bet at all. I was itching to change my image and he was just the guy to help me do it. I started imagining how we’d listen to Taking Back Sunday and go to Warped Tour together and I’d start shopping at PacSun. All of a sudden my life was straight out of a Degrassi episode and I was mad pleased.

Long story short,  he didn’t win the bet , my virtue was still intact, and I never got to go to Warped Tour.

…..And then the song’s over and I’m not talking to my friend about music and kissing boys and cheering anymore. I have no idea where she is now. I don’t know what her life is like or if she still listens to Weezer and remembers that conversation too. I’m not in my dainty little ballet flats crushin’ on some Tom DeLonge wannabe.

And I’m way cool with that.

I hate how my generation communicates.

Social media, texting, maybe even e-mailing. They all suck. No one calls each other anymore. No one writes to one another.

This might sound strange coming from someone who despises talking on the phone, but I think that’s part of the problem. I hate talking on the phone because talking on the phone isn’t what I’m used to. Texting is my fuzzy comfort blanket. I need it. But I hate that I need it.

We go for what’s easy nowadays. We go for what’s efficient. If it’s 3 a.m. and you’re tired but want to let someone know you’re thinking of them, it’s “easier” to just send a quick text. It takes two seconds to send an “I miss you” text, which will be almost instantaneously received and (hopefully) responded to. It takes two minutes to make an “I miss you” phone call, which are practically extinct. Two seconds vs. two minutes: those extra 118 seconds MATTER, damn it.

But texting can feel so impersonal at times. Seeing someone’s words light up your cell screen and hearing someone’s voice in your ear is kind of like the difference between smelling a cake baking and getting to eat said cake fresh out of the oven. Sure, there’s that brief moment of excitement when you see that someone special has texted you, but when compared to actually talking to that person, it’s not even comparable.

And what about those text messages or e-mails that are sent out into the information superhighway and get no response? Good God, this is the worst. This is the worst thing that happens to us. There are people who don’t even have clean water and we act like we’re going to die because some dude didn’t respond to a text.

We’re impatient and irrational. Can you imagine how we would be in a time when we had to wait weeks, months, years (!!!), for a response? I feel like we’d be a lot more appreciative of one another’s words. Well, maybe not appreciative…. but something can definitely be said about the delayed gratification associated with waiting for a letter to arrive. These days, we’re ready to walk into the ocean with heavy rocks in our pockets if a text message isn’t responded to within three minutes.

Speaking of letters, are love letters even a thing anymore?

I remember when I was about 14 years old, I was snooping around my mom’s dresser and I found this little wooden box, full of random items that she’d saved throughout the years. Inside, among other things, was a napkin from her senior prom, some multi-colored really long cigarettes that I wasn’t quite sure about, and a folded up letter my dad had written to her on a brown Food Lion paper bag. I knew I probably shouldn’t have read this letter, but I did it anyway because I’ve always been nosy as fuck. My dad used to work at Food Lion and I’m guessing he wrote it to her during one of his breaks. I can’t remember exactly what it said, but I do remember reading some very inappropriate things about tongues and hands that no one ever wants to read their parent say. (Barf.) (Also, sorry for going through your shit, Mom.)

The modern day equivalent of this paper bag letter would be sending a “Hey, I wanna [blank] your [blank] tonight” text message. The execution feels lazy and insincere when compared to a good old-fashioned love letter.

Maybe I’m just equating amount of effort with amount of value and that’s not really fair if you have the “it’s the thought that counts” kind of mentality. Does it really make a difference if someone is thinking “Hey, I’ll write a lil love note to her” or “Hey, I think I’ll text him this totes cayute emoji”?

Maybe I romanticize too much.

PJ Harvey wrote a song called “The Letter,” where she sings, “It turns me on to imagine your blue eyes on my words.” Damn. Imagining someone reading what you wrote to him or her. Imagining them laughing or frowning or shaking their head or crying. Does that not turn you on, too?

I like to picture someone writing me a letter. I think about some imaginary dude hunched over a desk, holding a ballpoint pen in his callused hand, trying to come up with the perfect words to tell me what he wants to tell me. Sometimes he writes frantically with excitement. Other times, carefully and deliberate. I think about James McAvoy’s character in Atonement, sitting in front of a typewriter, working so damn hard to communicate his thoughts/desires/whatevers to Kiera Knightley’s character. I think about these things and I feel…annoyed.

I feel annoyed because I don’t think about some imaginary dude holding his iPhone while haphazardly texting me using as few words as possible. I feel annoyed because I want it to be 1935 and I want James McAvoy to be typing me a fucking letter on his fucking typewriter.

Am I being too critical of this generation of young people just trying to get with each other via the only means we know how? Communication is communication I guess, no matter the medium. And chances are, even if I did receive a five-page letter, full of all the romance and charm I dream about, I’d wonder what kind of weirdo wouldn’t just type it all up in a quick e-mail?

How To Play Hard To Get

When you know someone has their sights set on you, the last thing you want to do is make it easy for them to get to know you or talk to you or touch you or even blink at you. Why would you want that? Why?

My default setting is hard to get. Not “playing” hard to get. Just hard to get. I don’t know how to get and others don’t know how to get me. It just comes naturally. I don’t even have to try. *brushes shoulders off*

Here are some helpful tips if you’d like to stay single forever and want guys to think you’re batshit bonkers:

When you meet a guy at a bar, don’t bat your eyelashes or smile or do any of that charming shit. Instead, look at him as if you’ve got his balls in a vice and are on the verge of completely obliterating his manhood if he so much as even breathes in your direction.

You know that move guys do where they oh so gently place their hand on your lower back, maybe to guide you or maybe just to have some kind of physical contact? This is territorial as fuck and if it makes you turn into a wild-eyed caged animal, I totes understand. This is so easy to handle, though. All you have to do is let your instincts kick in and claw his eyes out, much like a feral cat facing potential domestication. Want a less…violent option? Lean in and seductively whisper in his ear, “Your touch makes me sick” and then throw up on his feet.

The other night, this dude grabbed my hand to lead me through a crowded bar and I had to fight the urge to be like “Uh, does it look like I don’t know how to walk through some people? I’m not like a four year old needing help crossing the street, bro.” If you ever find yourself in a similar situation, simply dig your talons deep into his palm until you’re able to feel his blood oozing all over (and ruining) your hot pink manicure. Bastard. Or you can just let go of his hand. Whatever.

Maybe you’re dealing with a guy who likes to ask you questions about your life and talks about things that matter and offers to get you a water when you’ve had too much to drink and you’re like “Oh, he’s so niiiiiice. Even though I’m not really feeling it, I can’t be mean to him! He cares!” Yeah, okay. If you’re not feeling it, don’t make him feel like you’re feeling it. You feel me? Just give him your number and then ignore his texts because you’re not mean at all!!! Teeheeheehee.

Can’t wait for us all to die alone together! ❤

One time:

– I dreamt that Marilyn Manson was tattooing my shoulder but he had to pause midway to go photograph my friend’s wedding.

– Someone tried to hug me and I didn’t want them to and by one time I mean all the times. (Maybe not all the times)

– I cried while listening to a P!nk song and it sent me into a dark spiral of sadness, confusion, and ultimately, shame.

– When I was four, I decided to run away from home, so I put the slip I used to wear under my church dresses into a brown suitcase and went to the edge of my backyard and then I stopped because I was scared.

– I found a turtle and decided that he needed to be fed, so I put him in one of my mom’s hanging baskets and hung him on a tree branch so he wouldn’t leave while I went inside to get food. When I came back outside, he was gone and I think I made a turtle commit suicide or something idk.

– I was trimming my bangs and I accidentally cut some of my eyelashes off and isn’t it so weird how they GREW BACK LIKE WHEN DO THEY GROW AND HOW DO WE JUST NOT NOTICE THIS IS HAPPENING HOW DO WE NOT SEE IT?

– I thought that “All twerk and no play makes Jack a trill boy” was an original thought and I got super excited about tweeting it until I googled it, saw that it was not an original thought, and remembered that the universe is vast and complex and owes us nothing.

– I decided to give up soda and I lasted three hours before I began murdering innocents.

– I placed my hand directly on a hot burner because the burner looked sideways and I wanted to fix it, but I forgot it was turned on and then I screamed because it hurt. That was this morning. I am an adult woman and hey, they don’t call it a “burner” for nothing, amirite???

Blah Restless Blah Bored

Is anything worse than that feeling you get right after a great haircut and you realize that it didn’t change anything about your disposition?

I don’t know why I always think a hair change will make feel “better.” I dye my hair so often I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen out. I was going to say that I’ve dyed my hair so often I’m surprised it hasn’t “died,” but then I realized that hair is already dead. Whatever. That’s weird.

I hadn’t had a haircut in over a year. It was long overdue. I even took a picture of what I wanted this time. I never take a picture. I usually say, “Oh yeah just give me a bob.” And then I grow my hair out for another year and repeat the process.

Today I went in with a picture and I went somewhere new and I was cautiously optimistic, but I knew that even if I didn’t like my new hair, it would still achieve the goal of dulling my restlessness for a while.

Restlessness. That’s what it all boils down to. I get restless with my day to day. I get so bored and I want, I NEED, an immediate change to distract me. Where do I go for that distraction? My hair.

What if my hair wasn’t there? What would I do? Maybe I would buck up and figure out what’s making me feel so discontented. And then figure how to make a change that’s permanent and not a “Hey, maybe I’ll go a little darker this time. Gothic chic!” kind of temporary appeasement.

So here’s to being a grown-ass woman taking control of her shit and getting her happy on.

For now, though, I’m going to play with my new ‘do in front of the mirror and consider maybe getting some highlights next time.