Thursday, April 10, 2014

I'm Ok

When we last left off I was feeling rather sorry for myself, so I thought I'd take a quick moment to update you on what I've been doing to make myself feel better.

First off, there's this: my new spirit animal.
This is V.C. Andrews, and if you don't know who that is then you can't sit at this table. And yes, I'm mixing Mean Girls metaphors with Flowers in the Attic, so? So.

So. Me and a few of my favorite people at work have started The No Shame Book Club, and right now we are doing a close reading of the tome Petals on the Wind (in preparation for the Lifetime Original Film of the self-same name debuting at the end of May). This is in stark contrast to my other Legit Book Club Made Up Of Moms From Zoey's School in which we are now reading the biography of the first Hispanic Supreme Court Justice, Sonia Sotomayor, and when I say "we" are reading it I mean "I" am totally not reading it and will probably just go to the next meeting for the fine selection of cheese and gossip. But back to Petals on the Wind.

Of course I read all of these books when I was in the 7th grade (My Sweet Audrina being my fave), but it's different to read as an adult slash as someone who has actually french kissed a boy. Here is but a sampling: "How beautiful your breasts are," he said with a low sigh, leaning to nuzzle them. "I remember when you began to grow. You were so shy about them, always wanting to wear loose sweaters so I couldn't see. Why were you ashamed?" BECAUSE YOU'RE HER BROTHER, YOU SICK FUCK. p.s. Happy National Siblings Day, Christopher.

So there's that. V.C. Andrews has been making me feel better, as in I am not locked up in an attic and my head is not too large for my body, nor am I in the 7th grade anymore, thank god. So there is that.

Then there is Nurse Jackie. Please tell me someone watches Nurse Jackie. BECAUSE IT IS THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN ON TV, the end. (Yes, even better than Breaking Bad because I actually really care about the characters.) Bryan and I have been binging together every night, only I have the sinking suspicion that I am more into it than he is, kind of like a bad relationship when one person is more into it than the other. Just recently we had to break up our Game of Thrones relationship because I couldn't bring myself to care about the dragons anymore. So now he just watches that alone while I read V.C. Andrews, i.e. we are so hot right now.

Also? Cadbury Mini Eggs are keeping me together. And red bell peppers (I eat them like an apple). Melatonin, yum. I am loving these cheap camo pants paired with Converse and have been listening to a lot of The Beatles and Led Zeppelin on Pandora. I think I have finally learned how to style my bangs.

I am ok, everyone. Things still suck, but I am ok.

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

I Feel Sorry For Myself (And I'm Not Sorry)

The funny thing about grief, I am finding, is that it's embarrassing. Like no, no, everything's fine, stop looking at me like that, ha ha! Make a joke someone please, how do we extract ourselves from this conversation kind of embarrassing. Like maybe I smell, I don't know. Because do I? Smell? Can you smell it emanating from your screen? The smell of bad things happening to someone and you kind of want to turn away? Don't worry, I get it.

It stinks.

Chachi is dying. 
My mom died in September, then we had to put my cat to sleep on the day of my mom's memorial, then we got a new kitten, because rebirth! And then my step-dad died last week and yesterday we found out Chachi, our new kitten, has a rare, incurable and fatal disease called Feline Infection Peritonitis and will die in a matter of weeks, months if we are lucky.

We are not lucky.

There is a zen saying or a Yiddish proverb, or maybe my dad just said it to me once: if we all put our problems in a huge pile and saw everyone else's that we would grab our own problems back. Or maybe it's if we all put our trousers in a pile and saw everyone else's that we would grab our own pants back. 

See how I make jokes when it's really not funny at all? The point being that I know I actually am lucky. I like my pants and I know that my problems could be way, way worse. But goddamn if things don't suck ass right now. I mean--a kitten? A fucking kitten dying??? It's like some off internet joke that's forever too soon...every time you (fill in the blank) a kitten dies. Only the blank this time is me not believing that there will ever be a time again in which I am not wading in embarrassing, clumsy grief.
Fuck this.

Tuesday, March 25, 2014


Once upon a time there was a man who pulled beetles from blocks of metal. 
That might be the wrong way to tell his story, although scarabs are a symbol of rebirth so hopefully that works in a way. 

Other possibilities: He was a jeweler. A contractor. A fisherman. 

No, instead I will tell the story of how once he knew another man, an acquaintance, in the town in which they both lived, and this other man thought his name was Bob or Dave or Bill, something that was most definitely not his name, and he let the other man call him Bob or Dave or Bill rather than embarrass him. They did not see each other often, just the odd run-in on the street, and so it went for years that this other man knew him as the wrong name. No harm, no foul. Until one day the other man moved a few doors down from him and began to socialize with his other friends, and he had to tell him that, in fact, his name was not Bob or Dave or Bill. But rather than embarrass either of them he said it had been his name once, that he had been right to call him that other name then, but he had since changed it. And his name was now Allen.

I love that story.

He was a sailor. A tinker. He used to put blue cream soda in empty Windex bottles and squirt it into his mouth. He could fix anything.

Tonight I found out that Allen passed away, and even though things with him have been so hard for the past few years and even harder since my mom died, grim, confusing, downright awful, I know that his story is more than that.

Once upon a time he was my stepdad, and I loved him.

Sunday, March 23, 2014

The Tooth Fairy: An Epistolary Post

Saturday, March 22, 8:01 a.m.
Dear Tooth Fairy,
I was so excited for what I was going to get, I was really hoping for 10 dollars! I tried to lose my tooth, I wiggled it, I flicked it to the top of my mouth, I twisted it and I tried everything, nothing worked and after all that effort all you give me is 2 dollars. Just 8 more dollars please. If you don't accept what I need it's okay, I'm used to being upset. But please don't take away my 2 dollars because then I'll be broke because I only have 6 dollars!

Saturday, March 22, 10:41 p.m.

Dear Zoey,

Thank you for your letter. Not many kids write's nice to hear from you.

I'm sorry to hear that you were disappointed with the $2. The thing is, that particular tooth is worth $2. That's the going rate for the Upper Left Lateral Incisor. Different teeth have different rates. For instance, the first tooth you lose is usually worth much more, which may be why you were expecting more money.

It's important to learn that you need to work for your money, earn it and save it up. If you are simply given money (and toys), then you will not appreciate what you have. Unfortunately, I've seen this happen, not just with kids but with grown-ups, too...if people are given anything and everything they want, they only want more and more, and they forget how to appreciate what they have. Eventually this makes people feel sad, and the last thing I want is for you to feel sad.

Listen--I have been alive for 1700 years, three months and 4 days. I have learned a thing or two watching kids grow up, so let me tell you this: money that you earn, a toy that you save up for? That feels so much better than money or a toy that you get just because you want it. Simply put: happiness is found when you want what you already have (and you have so, so much).

At the same time, I am also proud of you for writing a letter to me, for speaking up for what you think is right. This is an important skill. You won't always get what you are asking for, but I want to encourage you to continue to fight for what you are worth, and I don't just mean this in terms of money because you are worth more than $8, more than $800,000,000, more than any amount of money. You are worth everything, and I love that you felt confident enough to write me. So even though the tooth was only worth $2, I am going to leave you a little more because you had the guts to ask. I won't give you the $8 you are asking for, though, because I want you to earn the rest. Here's an idea: ask your parents what you can do to earn the rest of the money. I am sure that together you will be able to think of something.

Anyway, it's such a pleasure watching you grow up. Me and the other fairies are so proud of you and how well you're taking care of your teeth (although you have to remember to brush before school every day!).

You are amazing.


The Tooth Fairy

p.s.Thanks for the ring. It's too big for my finger but looks great as a belt. I love it!

Sunday, March 23, 8:17 p.m.
Dear You,

Let's just pretend I didn't disappear for a few weeks with no explanation. Because quite frankly the explanation is icky and I don't know how to write about it, if I should at all. Apologies for the vaguery--I do hate me some vaguery--I also hate hearing about dreams, though I do want to point out that teeth falling out is a symbol of anxiety, of losing something, not sure how the Tooth Fairy figures into all of that. Though I will say she is right...happiness is found when you want what you already have, and in that way I am very, very happy.

Missed you.


p.s. Ugh. I'm sorry all. I hate hate hate vague posts, and I ended this with such vaguedouchery. I am fine. My family is fine. The Ick of which I speak has to do with my mom's estate...maybe one day I will be far enough away from it to write about it. Or not, and we'll just talk about kittens.

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

#Promagram #TBT #EvenThoughItsWednesday

I wore a dress I designed myself: forest green velvet bodice with a black chiffon skirt. Bryan was too cool to wear a tux; he picked me up in his dad's classic Volkswagen Microbus. There were no seats in the back, so he put down a mattress with a pile of crochet blankets his grandma had made and we parked way out in the middle of nowhere and slept there after everything.
I don't know if his parents know that part, about the bus, but they are my in-laws now so let me just say sorry on this Throwback Thursday and divert their attention to how plump our skin looked back then.

Fast forward to now when we are all paradoxically worried about protecting our private information with encrypted identities and passwords that we forget while simultaneously oversharing our online persona, myself included (especially myself). Because, see? Once upon a Thursday I was younger, my eyebrows thicker, and what is up with my hair? Thank god you cannot actually see the dress I designed. I post this as a #MeToo, but also, admittedly, as a #GiveMeValidation, #ForWhatIDontKnow. I am annoyed with myself while also loving the collective nostalgia that is Throwback Thursday when we all post photos of a time that seemed simpler, dorkier, our skin smoother. Because, see? That is all. Just see me, and I will see you.

(What you cannot see but I will tell you is that it rained later that night after prom and at daybreak we fell asleep on the mattress listening to metal pings of rain on the roof of the VW bus while sticking our toes through the holes in the crochet and somewhere I still have that awful dress in a box.)

Tuesday, February 18, 2014

7 Truths and 1 Lie

Quick! I have 30 minutes to write a post before I have to jump in the shower to rinse #6N Brilliant Brunette out of my hair before it turns into more of a #6AhHellNo. Trouble is, I got nothing. Just a couple of gray hairs that glint just so in the bathroom mirror at work and a handful of weird facts that don't fit anywhere else, so here goes:

1. There is a genetic mutation called Alexandria's Genesis that causes deep purple eyes, pale skin and no body hair, although it does not affect the hair on your head or eyelashes/eyebrows. Women with this mutation do not menstruate, but are still fertile. (In other words: no shaving, no period, purple eyes = why can't I have this mutation?)
2.  Semordnilap is a word that, when spelled backwards, creates a new word such as stressed/desserts, regal/lager, deliver/reviled. It is also "palindromes" backward. This makes for fascinating small talk, trust.
3. If you ever doubt camaraderie amongst strangers, watch a line of cars band together to prevent an asshole from cutting in line.
4. Freshly shaved legs feel just like dolphins.
5. There should be a gym that makes you pay $10 for every day that you don't go. That's not really a fact, but a free idea.
6. One time, Woody Harrelson came up to me at McDonald's, took a french fry off my tray, looked me in the eye and said, "Nobody will ever believe you."
7. The only place you can tickle yourself is by using your tongue on the roof of your mouth. (Double dog dare you to try it.)
8. The only thing more ignored than the allergy test instructions on hair dye is the warning label on cookie dough.
Oops, it's been 35 minutes.
Adios, bitchachos.

Sunday, February 2, 2014

Public Service Announcement

Whatever you do, don't buy a bikini wax from Living Social at a place you've never heard of, particularly if that place turns out to be in a strip mall next door to Domino's Pizza. Then? If the lady makes you wait for 35 minutes even though you made an appointment? Don't act as if you're even mildly inconvenienced, seeing as how this is the same person who will be applying hot wax to your lady garden in about 5 minutes.

But wait, there's more.

If that same lady asks you if you want it all off and you say no, but at the exact moment you say no she answers her cell phone, maybe you shouldn't let her start slathering said hot wax on your bits while she has her phone still cradled with one shoulder. Chances are, she is not listening to you. These chances go up if she drops her cell phone on your vagina and picks it up and carries on her conversation as if you are simply a table, albeit a sticky one.

Too much?

Lastly: if at some point she asks you to flip over and you don't want to appear prudish or dumb so you do it, well then. I have nothing more to say about that.

The good news (I am nothing if not an optimist) is that I no longer want to get a hairless cat because, ew. Also? This gif has nothing to do with this story except for the fact that you're going to have to trust me when I say you really don't want a pertinent photo. Plus, I just freaking adore me some pissed off Joan Crawford (she is my spirit animal).

Sunday, January 26, 2014

Climate Change

My house looks out on bay marshland so we see the tide go in, go out, the bike path disappear during a full moon. It's nice, this unspoken tie to it all, something that I forget sometimes, take for granted most times. Although one of my favorite small pleasures happens when I get off the bus at the end of the day from my commute back from the city--I take a deep breath of salt air. It smells of sweet grass and right.

Which is why it suddenly struck me how wrong it is that every photo I have taken this winter is of us sailing or swimming or at the beach, short sleeves and warm. We are smiling, I won't lie. 72 degrees in January is amazing, but it is an unsettled amazing. Amazement met with worry, with a gut level realization that this is wrong, because really? This is the driest year in recorded history and everywhere I go conversations are peppered with percentages of rainfall, record high temperatures and the rapid increase of catastrophic fire. My skin is dry, my eyes feel gritty, my banana plant died from frost or lack of water, not sure, the hills are the silver gray of teak. I am scared, and I want to turn to Zoey and Ozzy and apologize profusely because this is my fault--our fault--not theirs. We fucked up, and now they have to live with it.

So here we are. It's been a beautiful winter, stunning. Today we went on a bike ride and I wore a tank top. I am trying, but it's hard to see the glass half full when the Sierra snow pack is grasping at 17%.

Monday, January 20, 2014

Cartoon Eyes

Sit down, let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I had nothing to say. And then it was New Year's Eve and I got throw up sick and listened to the fireworks at midnight with my head in the toilet. I tried not to feel too sorry for myself or think it meant something. Not everything has to mean something, I said to myself. (I had eaten pizza earlier that night and my thoughts tasted like sausage and onion.) And then it was New Year's Day, and then January 2nd. The 3rd. Still nothing meant anything, and I had nothing to say. So I didn't. I just kind of did this...
I went to a few dress up parties and read a really good book. I started binge-watching Nurse Jackie. I bought a lighted marquee om sign for my living room because, well, I don't know. It never rained once during that time, and I thought, I should update my blog, I haven't written anything, but I didn't. And then it was mid-January and we are officially in a drought. Yesterday was my mom's birthday and I fully intended to volunteer somewhere in her memory, but it felt more right to go shopping instead, to buy myself something I shouldn't spend money on. Which is how I ended up buying leather pants, or more specifically leather-coated denim pants, but whatever. My mom would approve which didn't keep me from feeling sad, but I'm thinking leather pants don't keep anyone from feeling sad. That's not their strong suit.

But there is this. We got a new kitten. Meet Chachi (nicknames so far: Chach, Cheech, Chicharone, Chachicha, Chachi in Charge.) I picked him up 2 days ago. I can't believe I haven't eaten him up yet, he is so delicious.
Before he fell in love with me.
After he fell in love with me.
Loving my babies.
I still intend on volunteering somewhere, and I still don't really have anything to say except I guess I hope it rains soon, and I am lucky. Though it doesn't mean anything, I'm going to write anyway.

Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Get the Fuck Out 2013

This will go down as the hardest year of my life, the most painful, a year of regrets, the stupidest, worst suck ass 365 days (give or take a few/many/lots of loving memories, but this is a post titled Get the Fuck Out 2013, so let's stay on task, shall we?). Yes, this year can well and truly go fuck itself.
Onward and upward, my friends. Cheers to hoping that better days lay ahead in 2014...*

Staggering out of here,

*Damnit all to hell. Lie ahead? Lay ahead? I should know this! Fitting to end the year on a possible grammatical error. Fuck this shit. Happy New Year. Be safe.

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Because Nothing Says Merry Christmas Like the Back of a Head Gazing at the Tree

Wishing you peace, love and warmth.

Monday, December 23, 2013

Don't Ask Me Why I Have Pantera On My Phone

Things are about to get pretty schmaltzy around here, what with Christmas Eve being tomorrow, so I thought I'd squeeze this in while the glam can still be labeled heavy and not tinsel.
I think we gave him the right name (mixed metals, I know). It's also perfect that a 2 year absolutely loves to rock out to an album called Vulgar Display of Power.

I am so in trouble with this one.

Monday, December 16, 2013

Some Weird Shit I Have In My House

With absolutely no hyperbole whatsoever, I have no idea how this reindeer toy got into my house. Which in and of itself is kind of creepy, but then it scoots its little reindeer bum all over the carpet like a dog with a tapeworm or irritated anal sacs or ho ho hey there! Please disregard my dirty floors. This is one of the reasons I will never own a dog. See also: don't hate me, but the barking. And the poop bags. And the boy dog parts.
Speaking of parts. I know how this got into my house: it's one of Bryan's old toys that his grandma made him when he was little and now my kids have found it and think it is the funniest thing ever.
I mean...

The most disturbing thing is that I hate lists of 2. Because two things? Does not a list make. I have searched all over my house for at least one other weird thing to include here. 3? 3 is good. But I can't find anything else. So now this is just a post about a mystery reindeer with an anal sac problem and a troll with a pokey ugly penis.

Happy holidays then.

Thursday, December 5, 2013

Check This List

Like any good anal-retentive Virgo mom who spends the month of November filling virtual shopping carts across the www with the plan to pull the trigger on Cyber Monday, I have been asking Zoey what she wants for Christmas for months now. Except, of course, I ask all "yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" coy. And for months now Zoey has been her own kind of coy, replying mostly with "I forget," or sometimes, "You know, that thing?" When I press for more information because someone must have forgotten to pay the domain registration on, she tells me not to worry, that Santa will know what she's talking about. At which point I slink back to Amazon and buy more packs of Rainbow Looms feeling like a total dick.

We all know that after Thankgiving there is Black Friday, then Cyber Monday, and what follows is Smug Tuesday, when you have hit all those purchase buttons and are done with your Christmas shopping. What I did not know is that Zoey also celebrates Sucker Wednesday, otherwise known as Wait-Til-Then-To-Do-Her-Christmas-List Wednesday, although that phrase is not quite as marketable. It has not gone unnoticed that this sudden zeal fell on the same day as the arrival of one American Girl catalog in the mail. Behold the scroll of her Christmas list, spoons for scale:
If I may, let me type out the list verbatim (spelling is not her strong suit):
Braded hedband
pollr bar pagamas + charm
Sage's sliprs for girls and dolls
fancy erings for dolls
Sage's horse and helmint
The American Gril doll Makena and her stuff!
My little pony kute bobl hed that is Rainbow Dash!
Makena's pet!

You can practically feel the momentum of gimme gimme growing with the addition of exclamation points. And then it quickly snowballs:
I want to see Santa!
Love all araownd the wold!
Peece all araownd the wold!
Happynis all araownd the wold!
10 packs of Rainbow Loom
I wish that plastic cood desolv!
I wish that I had reelly kute cklos!

I mean, come the fuck on. She wants plastic to dissolve for Christmas? SO DO I. I want happiness all around the world, peace and love and really cute clothes. I want to see Santa! So I did it. I bought the stupid American Girl doll braided headband and polar bear pajamas, fancy earrings for her doll, Saige's slippers and the My Little Pony cute bobblehead that is Rainbow Dash. Because sometimes peace is found in really cute clothes (a blue Roxy sweatshirt and boots in this case) and it is all I can do to give her love and happiness all around her world until the inevitable one day when she finds out that Santa is not real and those 10 packs of Rainbow Looms are made of plastic that is never, ever going to dissolve.

So yes, Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Smug Tuesday, and every day I love her as if there were no tomorrow.

Although, p.s.--I did not buy her Saige's horse and helmet or the American Girl doll Makena or a phone, because I am not totally crazy.
p.p.s. Right? I was right not to get her Saige's horse?


Tuesday, November 26, 2013

To Spite My Face

You can never not see your nose. See? It's right there. You see it now, don't you? And once you notice that it's hard not to see it all the time. Just there like that. Being your nose.

This is where shit gets weird.

Because that's kinda' sorta' why I haven't been blogging. I've been too busy noticing my nose. Except, of course, substitute "my nose" with "thinking about my mom" and there you have it. Here's the thing: when someone you love dies, the world lets you grieve for a nebulous amount of acceptable time and then at a certain point everyone expects you to move on. Gently, sure, not callously, but quite frankly...there is oil to be changed and people to be gossiped about, somebody has to send the Netflixii back, after all (not a typo but the plural of 3 Netflix discs, i.e. Game of Thrones Seasons 1 and 2, i.e. medieval fantasy porn, i.e. King Joffrey sux dragon balls). So yes, I've been doing all this, acting like a perfectly normal person amid a perfectly normal world all the while obsessed with my nose. My nose being the fact that my mom is gone. I don't talk about it all the time during my day, at work, to the grocery store cashier, but it's there, my nose, and I see it. I am thinking the whole goddamn time my mom is gone my mom is gone my mom is gone. Because once you realize you can never not see your nose it is there. Just like that. Out of the corner of your eye, in the periphery. A part of you. And you walk around seeing your nose and even noticing other people's noses and you wonder why nobody is talking about any of it, all cap-locked and shit. CAN YOU NOT SEE MY NOSE? ALL OF US, WITH THESE UGLY LITTLE APPENDAGES ON THE FRONT OF OUR FACE LIKE THAT? PEOPLE YOU LOVE DIE! MY MOM IS DEAD. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!

Hardly the stuff of a blog people want to read, non?

The thing is, this blog has always been where I've gone to write about whatever the hell I want to write about but it's been hard lately to navel-gaze when my nose is in the way. So here's the deal: I'm just going to keep writing. Whatever that means. Maybe it will stink (too much? The nose analogy?). But I don't want to cut off my blog to spite my...yeah, totally too much with this nose thing. But it makes sense to me, so.

On another note, not entirely unrelated:
Lately Ozzy has been infatuated with grocery bags, preferred toy of cats and kids. I am thinking about stuffing his stocking with Trader Joe's bags. I have also stumbled upon this fabulous little life tip: if you're ever afraid of someone, nervous around someone or just really angry at someone, picture that person wearing a paper bag on their head and it magically dissolves the edge of the feeling. Try it. I double dog dare you.

Shit. There's my nose again, lit up by the glow of the computer screen.

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Fall Is Here, Hear the Yell, Back to School, Ring the Bell...

I realize that in showing these photos I am one thin blog post away from those stupid stick figure family decals that people put on the back window of their car, but I can't help myself. My kids...THEY ARE SO SQUISHY!!!
School photos have come a long way since the 80's, though those pigtails don't fool me...she is growing up too fast, isn't she?
Giving his best Blue Steel. If this photo were scratch-n-sniff it would totally smell like clean puppies.
See also: Despite the mid-70's forecast today I wore my knit beanie and scarf to work. I am feeling very fall delicate, tomato soup and movie nights in which I cry at the part in Toy Story 3 when they go down the trash compactor...the suspense is just too much sometimes, you know? And so it is that on days like this I sing to myself in my head a cozy little ditty--And we don't notice any time pass / We don't notice anything / We sit side by side in every class / Teacher thinks that I sound funny / But she likes it when you sing...

Pumpkin spice and everything nice,

Sunday, October 27, 2013

Like I Blister in the Sun

We should have named him Harold. Or Frank. Frank sounds like he would be a good sleeper, right? And Harold, well--Harold would never throw his toys at your face. Tim. Tim's a nice name, a nice guy. Tim doesn't dump a bag of Goldfish crackers into your cart at Target, Tim doesn't chew his cake pop and then let it fall slowly from his mouth and onto the floor the minute a stranger says how cute he is.
But Ozzy does. All of this and then some. Which is what we get for giving him the same name as the Prince of Darkness, even if we totally didn't name him after that Ozzy at all. Whatevs. Because my Ozzy doesn't sleep lately. Like from midnight until 5am, and then during the day he is a two year old nightmare on Crocs, yadda yadda, mommyblaaaahg, it's so hard and all that. As hackneyed as ripping the heads off of bats.

Tell you what else is hackneyed--because when he gives me a hug I fucking love him so much. I love him even before he hugs me, love him even as the chewed up cake pop falls down his shirt like a wet piece of poo and the stranger backs away with that small, horrified smile. I love him.

Though I will say this, not unrelated: I have been perfecting my 80's punk Pandora station. The Clash, Suicidal Tendencies, Bad Brains, Violent Femmes with a little New Wave and Ska to soften the blow--Talking Heads, The Specials. This is what I listen to on my headphones when I am at work now, partly to keep me awake and partly because I am an emotional, exhausted mess just jonesing for a mosh pit were it not for my fear of touching sweaty people I do not know + the possibility of getting hurt divided by the square root of my ballet flats. God, how I am tired.