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Saturday, March 29, 2003

Isweartotheholymotherofjesustherewasjustawoodchuckthesizeofasmallzebrainmybackyard.
This weekend, I-
-chased said creature out of my yard
-watched four movies (one excellently depressing, one lovely, one terrible, and one annoying because it won way to many goddamn Oscars for its own good)
-discussed the darker side of Willy Wonka
-fawned over my best friend Elyn's new guitar, and learned to play enough chords to stumble through a Bright Eyes song.
-took a picture of a homeless guy
-scored an awesome t-shirt from the seventies for one dollar
-and all that jazz
More later. It's 10:30, I'm on Spring Break, and I'm tired. (Nope, nothing wrong here).

Fresh squeezed by melly at 10:16 PM

Thursday, March 27, 2003

Spring Break, here we go.
We're not going anywhere this year. We were planning to take a trip to Greece, however, that was before Pfizer.
My dad works for a large pharmaceutical company called Pharmacia. Before that it was Upjohn and Pharmacia, before that it was just Upjohn. He's smart (Harvard), he has a good job (upper-level scientist-turned-exec), and he's survived 3 mergers so far.
But when Pfizer announced last summer that a) it would be purchasing Pharmacia to become the largest pharmaceutical company in the world and b) in doing so, it would cut 2 billion dollars worth of jobs in the process, things don't looks so optimistic 'round here in little old Kalamazoo, where at least 20 percent of the population works at the plant.
So instead of Greece this year, I'll be going to the mall. And the forecast says snow, despite the sun that's out now.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 12:01 PM

Wednesday, March 26, 2003

On my way to a little greek restaurant this evening, I passed by a woman that looked exactly Rose. I was afraid it was actually Rose coming in some hellish form to the Midwest, but alas, it was just deja vu.
When my beloved Aunt Jennifer switched apartments a year or so back in Mexico City, she rented this neat little flat in this very cool district of the city. The building was old, but the various clubs and cafes around it were good, and so she up and packed her stuff and met Rose, the owner of said flat.
I was visiting Aunt Jennerlyn about this time, and so I vividly remember meeting Rose. She was short, somewhat chubby, and exuberantly loud. She wore an oversized Martha's Vineyard sweatshirt with jeans. Her apartment was a cesspool. Broken cd's intermingled with potted plant dirt. Spoons and random change fell on the floor side by side. Her couch had so many fast-food wrappers on it it was hard to tell where the couch began and where the garbage started.
Pizza was delivered. Unable to find any money, Rose began bartering with the pizza guy to pay him in various decks of playing cards. Trying to help out, I scooped up a handful of pesos from the silverware collection and handed it to the delivery boy and politely shut the door, embarrased by the awful portrait of Americans Rose embodied. What the hell was she doing in Mexico City?
Working out the final details of Rose giving up ownership of the flat to La Tante Jenny, I remember Rose trying to sell some various spices (read: salt, pepper, maybe some garlic) and some cleaning supplies (read: air freshener, a broom) for the price of about 75$ US, and then loudly proclaiming that "this was a good deal, it's all from the States." As if Mexico, the country providing her with room and board and a nice salary at the moment, isn't good enough to make its own damn Lysol.
I hope that at this current moment Rose is rotting her large ass away in some extremist right wing political rally on the East Coast somewhere, just because that would make me despise her more.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:15 PM

Go. Read. Be happy.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:10 PM

On a web-techy-geek related note:As briefly mentioned yesterday, I love to take pictures almost as much as I love to write.
I received a FujiFinePix for Christmas, and it's been by my side ever since. I'm not a photographer by any means, I'm just a person that happens to like to take pictures.
I think I like it because it's a way of expressing yourself without actually having to be yourself. The shot is already there, you just have to find it and capture it. And it can be beautiful.
Anyway, I'd really love to start over with this blog and create a brand new layout, full of color and warmth and photographs and originality and (gasp!) archives, as well as some other real content.
The problem is I have no image server, and I really don't want to shell out any money for one. Can anyone recommend me something?(Note: This server would have to allow offsite posting, as it would obviously need to host my layout.)

Fresh squeezed by melly at 2:06 PM

Tuesday, March 25, 2003

Driving home today, I realized that there are multiple pairs of tennis shoes hanging by their laces from various telephone wires, power cables, etc. around my neighborhood. Just shoes, nothing else, silhouetted by the sky.
My digital camera batteries are juicing up as I write.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:24 PM

Monday, March 24, 2003

When I was little, I discovered the wonderful secret about icecream--it can be easily mashed up with chocolate sauce.
So began my slippery sloped journey into ice-cream demolition. I never bother to eat it in its raw form anymore. No, I take the time and the effort to mash, puree, and to acheive perfection.
I used to think (circa 2nd grade) that when ice cream was mixed with chocolate sauce, it looked like mud due to its coloring and consistency. I would make stupid comments like "OMG DON'T EAT THAT IT IS MUD" and then proceed to shove big dripping spoonfuls of the sugary dairy goodness into my mouth.
Being finally warm outside today to constitute an ice-cream bowl, I performed the ritual as always.
I think that if I should ever buy a large raft and put it out to sea and form my own mini-nation, like some celebrity did (his name escapes me), I shall start things off with a good bowl of mashed ice cream. It's a good way to start out, I think.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 9:33 PM

I am told to run, and so I do.
I know it will be a long trip, so I start off slow. I pace my feet, my breathing, my mind. One two breath one two.
My feet are large, giving me the awkward sensation that my feet are flat. They're not. They are bending, moving, eating up the ground, carrying me forward. I slip on my headphones and pull away from the crowd.
I'm alone now. Most of the others stay in groups, barely moving and barely thinking. They giggle aimlessly about the latest movie, forgetting their pace. I'd like to join them, but I'd like to prove to myself that I can do this more.
I push the on button. I am on. It is on. I continue, timing my feet to the rhythm of pure acoustic American Pie, my favorite running song. It's roughly 9 minutes long, I set it on repeat. With no one to talk to, it's important to keep your mind off the physical pain in your chest. The emotional pain, however, is what keeps you going, moving, running away.
I keep running, my feet on the ground and then off again; my mind never moving from the music. The CD track starts over several times. The asphalt track has started over several times as well.
I slow down, and realize that the beating of my feet have been replaced with the beating of my heart. My breathing speeds up, I have lost the pace. I have won the race.
I smile. I love three mile runs.

Fresh squeezed by melly at 5:40 PM