Reason Number 421: First Iced Coffee of the Year, Not Counting the One I Drank in Los Angeles

Breaking news: People are not nice.

I think in every post I reference a bad pop song or unpopular vocalist. This probably won't change, and right now I'm absolutely dying to drop Glen Medeiros but I just won't. Or will I? Or did I just? The games we play.

I think I like being embarrassed more than other people do. In fact, I know I like being embarrassed more than other people do, because most people don't enjoy being embarrassed whatsoever.

At this stage in my writing life, I try not to compare myself to famous authors, because that's generally a pointless, grief-inducing strategy, but as I approach thirty my worries about my literary shortcomings are heightened to the point that I wake up sweaty thinking holy shit, Flannery O'Connor was only ten years older than me when she died and even boring writers I don't care about like Junot Diaz were starting to publish at twenty-seven and man oh man I'm not as young as I used to be, or think I am. But then there are total badass weirdos like Grace Paley who didn't publish until their late thirties, which gives me another decade, but decades fly by as they say. And I know I'll never be a Joyce Carol Oates, and I wouldn't want to be, and most likely I'll end up a Ronald Firbank, or an anonymous monk who transcribed segments of Beowulf and imho turned them into Jesus-speak, or maybe even an Aldo Buzzi if I'm lucky, and by lucky I mean perseverant. The point being I need to punch myself in the face and try harder.

Also, LA's pretty cool. I drank my first iced coffee of 2011 there, but fuck if I'm going to count it. This fine New York morning I scaled the stairs in the New Science Building to drink the yuppiest iced coffee in town, and right now I can't think of any better way to spend four dollars than delicious caffeination, which is not a word, and the idea of making up words is really dumb unless you're David Foster Wallace, who should have read this blog because listening to "Rhythm Nation" would totally have given him the fortitude he needed to not kill himself.

Sometimes I ask myself why the J. Crew factory online store is only open on weekends, but then I realize I know exactly why, and feel embarrassed for thinking about the J. Crew factory online store in the first place, but since I like being embarrassed I continue thinking about the J. Crew factory online store, and smile.

And next time: dealbreakers.

And, in the near future, an -ly adverb-free post. It's like Oulipo all up in here! Constraints. Challenges. Life being a highway and all.

Reason Number 420: Floral Arrangements turn you into your Mother, acceptance follows

There's a time in every lady's life when she says goodbye to her ravaged red cowboy boots. They are no longer wearable, not only physically, but stylewise they no longer pack a punch, or even seem useful. Not throw them away, but stuff them in a shoebox, save them for a niece. This sounds like a metaphor, and not a very good one.

The time it takes to walk from my house to Fairway (hearthearthearted) is exactly the time it takes to listen to George Michael's "Freedom 90." Like, we're talking down to the last second. Trial and error led me to this exhilarating conclusion.

Today, as I skipped at the prospect of blueberries on sale and then subsequently felt self-conscious about my exuberance, I spied some hipericum, and although I've never purchased personal-sized, pre-cut flora in my entire life was inexplicably inclined to put them in my basket alongside my chard. I'm now searching for a receptacle to put them in, but since this is a new experience for me, I have no vases, only an empty tin of Irish oatmeal, or maybe a tall plastic cup. I will let you know how this goes.

I know I've mentioned this before, but there really is a Janet Jackson song for every emotion I could possibly feel in life. It's both terrifying and strangely comforting to turn on my ipod and listen to her wise advice and spot-on observations. Sometimes it's a good idea to wait awhile, nice packages are alright, lots of things don't really matter, and who doesn't love an escapade, or want to encourage another person to participate in an escapade?

My dweebiness knows no bounds. In other news, anything related to celebrating St. Patrick's Day is the biggest holiday dealbreaker. My word problems continue. But I temper my inclinations with vigilance, and small, average words.

Reason Number 311: A Well-Stocked Pantry

Sometimes it frustrates me that even after all these years I still wake up wondering whether my life would be better if I were ten pounds lighter, and frantically trying to figure out how to attain a greater lightness. This is indicative of my inability to sit with myself, to respect myself as I am, and to strive for improvement in areas that actually need it, because doing that is more difficult than going on a diet. I wonder what people who don't fret about their bodies do with their thoughts, but I don't envy them because I'm sure they have other things to fret about, and I maintain a general happiness in cohabitation with this preoccupation (rhymeskies!). I don't know this will ever go away, but maintenance makes me resilient. And there are times that are better than others, and those times are extra wonderful, but that doesn't mean I should give up when things are sub-wonderful.

I think I'm almost at the point where I can write about it, like, in a nonfiction way. I've yet to read anything that's captured how I feel about eating disorders, as most articles are full of generalizations about control, or theories on how recovery happens, or triggering personal accounts. Not that these things don't help some people, and it's also worth noting that nothing anyone can do or say to an eating disorder sufferer will make them want to recover unless they reach a point at which that life is no longer sustainable, and this often happens in a very tangible and tragic way. These are strangely contagious illnesses, too, and oftentimes I've found companionship with fellow sufferers has been painful, though at this point in my recovery that is a lot less true.

I will always maintain that the reason eating disorders are ultimately harmful is because of the toll they take on one's productivity and existence. You never regain what you have lost (PUNS!) in the process. And that having something(s) to live for and take comfort in--in an overarching, personally significant way--is the only way to climb out.

Recognizing that this is not about bodies, really, and coming to terms with the subliminal factors, is a trying process, but it's the best thing you can do. The translation of "my thighs are disgusting and need to be diminished" to "I am miserable about the fight I just had with my mother" is so crucial. This is something I need to work on. And often feelings about body parts are so deeply ingrained you don't exactly know what's bothering you, but in this case you just have to dredge and plow through the sadness and anxiety and self-hatred.

I will now step off my soapbox to say I've spent my entire life hating "Lady in Red" for what I thought was Chris de Burgh's faux-British pronunciation of "dance" but today I found out he actually is British, born in Argentina. So fuck me.

Reason Number 112: Singular Pluralism, Warm Showers, Literal Diarrhea, Beasts

Someone, somewhere thought naming a band "Vertical Horizon" would be a great idea. It's always weird, and more than a little lame, when you can precisely identify an artist's* motivations. I would bet at least two boxes of Publix brand popsicles that the word "paradox" played a substantial role in the dreaming up of this brilliant moniker. Can a horizon be vertical? I dunno, but wouldn't that be cool? And like think of the connotations of horizon, like so much space, into infinity. Space! Infinity! Deep thoughts into deep songs.

Champaign is also no stranger to transparency. Clearly, these folks sat down and thought, who the fuck doesn't love champaign?** And, by that rationale, who wouldn't love a band named after a benign alcoholic beverage served at even the most milquetoast breakfast gatherings?

Every time I read anything I'm guilty of immediate analysis of the writer's intention, and not even consciously at this point, but in most great shit, these intentions are complex and highly subject to debate. And that makes literary analysis, and the possibility of discussing that analysis, so exciting for me I could dance in a circle.

Today, I am run ragged. I sit down to write, feel that familiar throat knot, but am somehow less inhibited in exhaustion. Maybe I should exhaust myself more often. Along with being wet, being tired is one of my top most intolerable feelings, but today, between taking re-taking bad camera phone pictures of black wool coats, I realized the only solution is plowing through anyways.

I'm working on deadlines here. Hiatus from my brain. I need to write something I'm proud of again. I will write something I'm proud of again. I just have to sit and write embarrassing things and not be afraid.

*ha! I'm calling the band member(s?) of Vertical Horizon artists. I need to go to either go to sleep or be a total blogger hypocrite and do the deed for goodness' sake. I've always wondered whether goodness is, in this case, a singular or plural possessive. Good thing I'm not ninety and will therefore use this word sparingly for the next several decades.

**I don't really love champaign.

Reason Number 111: March Approaches, Imminent Self-Fortification

You know, in life, really bad shit happens.

Like Youtube starts inserting advertisements into otherwise unadulterated Destiny's Child videos.

Kenneth Cole appears in news articles because of some stupid insensitive comments about Egypt and inspires people to pay attention to his disgusting and embarrassing clothing, even in infamy.

The Project Food store runs out of Kashi Go Lean Crunch and 1 percent milk in the very same day.

Golden raisins happen to innocent baked goods.

You find yourself liking particular Kelly Rowland songs for no reason you can identify consciously.

You purchase unflattering pale-colored pants you can't afford while too tipsy to control yourself.

The month of March.

Staples begin creeping out of your always stalwart, perfectly-constructed clog boots.

You begin to wonder if, in your heart of hearts, your self-defining hatred of all cheeses might be dissipating along with the vestiges of your suburban childhood.

You use phrases like "heart of hearts" in place of something that means anything. And then you're like wtf do I even know myself one tiny bit?

Then as you prepare to squirt the heinous three dollar Johnson and Johnson baby shampoo conditioner hybrid (NO TEARS? More like MANY TEARS because I'm POOR, with the worst split ends) into your outspread hand, you take comfort in wtf. Something as dumb as a healthy heap of unrefined oatmeal in a bright green bowl will get you to apply lipstick so red it repels certain insects, and thinking of weird inside jokes makes you smile broadly enough to showcase the crimson smears all over your front teeth to strangers at Fashion Week events.

And in spite of crusty black ice patches and sinus impairments and resounding halt in professional success, the Project Food Store will never stop carrying Colt 45 tall boys. And after twenty-seven years of daily pixie stick ingestion, your teeth are free of cavities. You discover a secret C Town(town (town)) so close to your house you could practically throw a stone through the window if you could throw a stone at all. You fall onto your knees, get right up and poke your gigantic bruises without a single flinch, look down at your boobs, which are bigger than they used to be, and then at the end of the day you open your freezer to the comfort of APC jeans and supple, untouched chicken breasts, and deduce with a sigh that soup is imminent, and in your control.

Official Story Time

You Can’t Ride That Man, He’s a Ghost Man

We were married beneath the auspices of a rollicking coaster, our hair spun sugar in the gusty lurch of overhead cars—the splendid screams, the raising of desperate hands, the suckling on spoonfuls of frozen raspberry lemonade, the scent of rapidly-generated fried doughballs that exploded in our mouths, our hands. I flipped his bangs with my free finger, and repeatedly we reeled through Monster Plantation until the bedraggled animatronic shag mammoths retracted their acrylic claws. I spread even sandwiches, intercepted afternoon calls, rigged extraordinary windsocks, noteworthy backsplash murals, but it wasn’t long before David met his ghost boyfriend behind the washing machine. Pinching my flesh into shrunken shirt dresses, selvedge denim, I began to launder away, in coin-operated machines, to achieve that desired delicate softness, light lofty warmth, while David spoonfed his ghostman chocolate ice cream, watched it dribble down his transparent esophagus, occasionally prying fingers in, to taste. Alone, I watched gumballs spiral down intestinal shafts, waiting for a pink, settling on recurring green, stale, unfit for bubbles, belabored, jaw-throbbing smacks as my legs dangled from the behemoth dryer, vibrating, pulsing imitation radiance. The bras and sheets so dank, but in front of me a freckle-breasted woman with serrated teeth airing clean purple towels. Flapping and flying, buoyant in the warm milky din, her mouth rounded in anticipation of aftershower. STOP, I pressed, releasing my towels from tumble. I held them, smelled something like my skin in the folds.

Reason Number 111: Delusions of Grammar

Sometimes, I want to be important.

I am a bad writer, getting worse and worse, especially late at night when coffee makes me fall asleep and no matter how many Wham! songs I listen to I want to hibernate.