What's left?

The insanity is currently palpable and I can only pray that the mixture of hormones and Yuletide emotions have sparked it.

2000Great.... to 2000Hate

We had such high hopes for the year. Most went unfufilled. I'm still working at the same boring job in the same uninteresting field. I made lots of new friends this year. Trimmed the fat from the rest of the stock, which is exactly what I needed to get my head on straight. Reconnected with some oldies but goodies. Picked up the bass again. Started riding my bike a whole bunch. Totaled a truck. Bought some guitars. Formed relationships that I hope are as deep as they feel at this very moment.

There are other things I'd rather not go into detail about. Having my heart broken. Watching my father slip away slowly and painfully. Mourning over the past. Visiting too many hospitals. Fallen idols, wreckless decisions and the like.

This year was supposed to mean something. Supposed to be the beginning of a chapter in my life. A step in the right direction. And as I look back on 2008, the only thing I can really say about it is I hope that 2009 does not follow suit. Perhaps it is a new beginning. The chapter of a book that starts out sad and lonely, and ends on a high note. Our hero, beat down and defeated, will rise from the ashes of mediocrity and strive for something she's destined for. Reach for that brass ring the wind keeps blowing just out of reach. Because we've all got to have something to hope for.

I'm a stronger gal than I was 12 months ago. More self-assured, more indignant. For better or for worse, I'm a different person and at 26 (a mere 2 months shy of 27) I can finally say I understand that life is an ever evolving, ever changing thing. Outlooks and opinions should not be concrete. They should not be rigid. They should not be steadfast. Life changes, and so should your actions. The past is what it is, and what it always will be. Your future is the only thing you have control over... and even that is limited to your ability to recognize and act upon it. Something I've taken for granted in my formative years.

So, for 2009, I wish myself the best of luck. The strength to do what needs to be done. The courage to see it through. The wisdom to choose between right and wrong, and the heart to keep on moving.

I wish all of you the same.

Vroom, vroom. Screech!

I am not a "car girl." But, considering my new-ish truck had just been totaled by some coddled bitch from Brooklyn (who is, officially, fighting me on fault for the wreck -'nother story), I've gotta turn into one, quick.

This involves some decisive decision making.
I am not known for my decisiveness.
Ever.

So, I had band practice with Matt and Eric yesterday at the Kiss of Death/Fueled by Ramen/Vertical Merch warehouse in Tampa. After oohing and ahhing at the industrial though obviously punk fucking rock equipment (screen presses, sticker ovens, et cetera), laughing at the 3 miles of LTJ merch, and generally feeling really depressed that I didn't get to work in such an awesome atmosphere (blasting rad music from my iPod, free records, and puppies), Eric mentioned to me that he was trying to get rid of his truck. A 1993 Dodge Dakota. With a V8. His bandmate Bryon, being the original owner, was telling me how it was an honest workhorse, and how impressive the engine was ("I could kick a Mustangs ass all over the Howard Frankland Bridge"). With 160,000 miles on it, and some minor problems... Eric told me he'd let it go for $500 bucks.

Holy crap. $500 bucks. For a truck to get me to and from work on rainy days, to and from Tampa for band practice/social events. Nothing fancy, nothing pretty, but powerful and steady, just like I like my men. So, I told him to let me know what was up with it, and since the boyfriend is an amateur mechanic (he's fixing up a '62 Ford truck at the moment), I'd see if any of it was out of his comfort zone. Called Owen, and he said "That's a fucking deal, take it. Even if it dies in a couple months, so what?"

That was, until, I got on the Craigslist to see what I could get for $2500. And I stumbled upon a '66 Chevy Corvair. Fully restored. 66,000 miles on it. Baby blue. White interior. The type of car my 16 year-old self would have died for. http://tampa.craigslist.org/hil/ctd/947954107.html

So, what am I to do? Put the three grand (that I don't have yet) away for a snowy day, or throw it all into the hands of some slimy used car salesman just for an extension of my non-existent (though, obviously HUGE) penis?

Ah well. I've had worse things to be distraught about.

Friendsgiving and the weekend that followed - quick update

Friendsgiving was a tumltulous arena for gorgeous boys and girls to showcase their bike skills via polo, and street methods. Lily and I drank lots of wine. Then Scotty bought me a slice of pizza. Seattle Amanda drank whiskey straight from the bottle, and made me fall in love with her. I fell, twice. Then I decided passing out on Pam's garage floor alone was a poor substitute for my warm bed and puppies.

Saturday, I got into a car accident. Bettie Dakota has severe front end damage caused by an out of town Bride-To-Be not watching where she was going. Hopefully they total Bettie out and just hand me some cash. I think I know what I'll do with it...

In the meantime, trying to get ahold of Allstate to secure me a rental car (her insurance company, as I was not at fault for the accident), a lawyer to make sure I didn't do any permanent damage by slamming into an SUV at 30 mph, and tuning up my bike as I'm set to be a commuter for the next few weeks...

Other than that, life's good.

Cranksgiving, hummers, and boat races.

Orlando is a town full of hospitable, wonderful people. Of course, I could just be saying this because I don't know anyone that well, but bliss is ignorance... isn't that how the saying goes?

Anyway, we got lost off the Ivanhoe exit for about 20 minutes. I didn't realize we were going the opposite way of downtown (also known as, two way Orange Ave), and anyone who was speaking to anyone who was already there, regretfully did not inform the driver (read: me) of such. Regardless, we got there 30 minutes after registration and had little time to socialize before saddling up.

Once we received our manifests and had a hearty laugh at the number and length between check points (7, and spread the fuck out all over a town we were extremely unfamiliar with), we decided to call it a "Fuck It All - Skirts Ride" and have at it. The race was for a great cause, having us stop at Publix and Albertsons for canned goods for several checkpoints/dropping off food at others, and there was no entry fee (modest donations were welcome for spoke cards/manifests). It was supposed to be a casual pace, which we took a bit too literally, realizing this when we were told to "just head on back" by the second to last checkpoint gal. I guess stopping to down a couple High Life’s behind the Publix at that 5th checkpoint cost us some time. But if riding in an alley cat teaches you nothing else... it should teach you that beer conquers all. Does that ring a 17-hour-lap-bell for anyone?

On the way back, my pretty green metal toe clipped finally snapped. So, semi-clipped in we made our way to Ethos to sell yummy cupcakes, muffins and fraternize. I ate an overpriced vegan kielbasa sammie, and got yelled at by some waiter for taking Lucy into the bathroom (Pam's 3 lb Chihuahua that was zipped up in my hoodie for warmth). We were then invited to "Dexter's" by Mike, only to find there was no table room for us by the time we showed up. Being fashionably late gets you fucked, and not in that good way. Pam, Scotty and John (brothers, not a couple), Carolyn and I proceeded to scarf "cha-cha" chips, drink $10 shots of Patron, and make sexually charged innuendos at each other, the wait staff, and most patrons from across the restaurant. Carol and Mike came over from their fancy table to share some nice "thong view" from a customer in booth #1. If by nice, I mean they vomed in their mouths a little bit. I, having been raised with class, refused to look... and merely made off color comments about the type of woman who would be caught in that situation.

Carolyn was on the horn trying to firm up after party plans, while we waited for our friend Helen to meet us. After much discussion, Helen's arrival and a novella's worth of directions, we were all on our way to a house party, minus the boys. If by house party, I mean a bunch of fixed gear kids acting like it was rush week at UF. Which, isn't as much of an insult as it sounds. It may have been offensive if it were rich, Abercrombie and Fitch'ed out white kids... but there was something about seeing people of all colors shapes and sizes banding together to race boats. Oh, if you don't know what racing boats at a party entails... it has something to do with chugging a blender full of beer. I can't really go into further detail about that one.

Somewhere along the line it was decided that Backbooth would be where the evening would end. Despite the fact that 99% of us were already wasted. Despite the fact that last call was in an hour. Despite the fact that half of the group were under 21. I, being the sheep that I am, piled into the car to follow, fully convinced I'd just sleep in whatever parking spot Pam managed to find while the rest of the heathens did hedonistic things.

Soon enough, we came upon an intersection. Saw several people on bikes and lots of traffic. Stopped traffic. Bike kids, and stopped traffic in the middle of the night is never a good idea. Apparently, Julius decided to take "going green" to another level, by showing a Hummer just how much he hated its MPG. We rolled up just in time to see a dazed Juls, a busted Fuji Track Pro, an SUVs with some exterior damage and a lot of drunk kids. The cops were on their way fast and Julius wasn't planning on sticking around. After some confusion and debate, Helen and Carrie decided it was best to walk to the club so we could accommodate our injured guest to his desired destination. After more confusion and debate, Julius called his lovely girlfriend who was already waiting for him at the emergency room. I swear the conversations between them were the sweetest things ever. Lots of "I'm ok mama bear" and "I love yous" making me puke unicorns and rainbows all over Pam's Focus. (I'm sorry boo, I'll clean it up I swear.) We dropped him, and his taco'd (albeit gorgeous) frame off at "The Hospital" and left him in the hands of the good doctors, and his wonderful ladyfriend.

Shaken up at the evening's progression, and cursing our dying cell phones, Pam and I attempted to make our way to Backbooth. If you've never traveled towards downtown Orlando via Orange Ave on a Saturday night at 1am... DON'T. Perhaps if I was in the mood for a car show, and had a blunt on me it would have been amusing, as it seemed to be for those who were there with blunts in hand for said car show. I believe it's what the kids call "cruising the strip" and I've never seen so many god damn Lamborghini doors and 26" rims on 1998 Chevy Malibu’s in my fucking life.

Pam and I texted Helen with a no go, rolled up to Helen's apartment complex and shared snacks and a bowl until we heard a knock on the window informing us that there was a much more comfortable place to sleep upstairs. Helen lovingly referred to each of us as her "little St. Pete Orphans", tucked us into her expensive comfy bed, and stayed with her gentleman friend for the evening. You don't get a better hostess than that.

In the morning, we ate all her potato chips, drank all her Sierra Mist ("HEALING BUBBLES!"), smoked a bowl on her patio, and headed on out. Made it back to St. Pete in record time.

Currently. I'm still recuperating from the weekend’s activities. Then again, I didn't get into a fight with a Hummer and win so why the fuck am I whining?

What's so funny about peace, love, and understanding?

I’m through with bike scene politics. The he said she said, mob mentality. We don’t have to like everyone, but who is to say we can’t be decent to everyone? It’s nice to have a close knit group of friends, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a douchebag to everyone outside of your exclusive clique. Seriously, when did class and manners go out the window? A smile or hello to someone who isn’t exactly your friend doesn’t equal being fake, it means you’re a human being who doesn’t feel like treating others like crap all of the time. Perhaps if more of us strove to achieve this simple sign of compassion, there wouldn’t be so much division in the community.

That being said, I love you all, and will do whatever is in my power to help out a fellow biker (cyclist?). Whether that means setting up rides, giving out hugs, donating parts/time, or just lending an ear. I've come to certain realizations and I'm getting too old to be so angsty for little to no reason. I'm no innocent party, here. This is not a holier than thou post. I just don't have the energy to waste on it anymore. I don't have the time to let other's actions affect my life. You can either respect that, or go on hating. Either way, won't change my outlook one bit. You'll still get my smile and hello as we pass, regardless of what it is met with. Hopefully others will adopt the same mindset. If not, best of luck. <3

High School was years ago, Brah.

I am really getting sick of the battle lines being drawn needlessly. The elitism and petty behavior. It's why I didn't involve myself with these "bike" people to begin with. Sure, my judgement was clouded for a bit, but I'm out of all that now. I'm out of the negative haze, and back to a place where all I want is to be happy, for others to be happy, and for everyone to enjoy each other's company. Sounds lame, and it is, but it's really all I can do at the moment to keep it all together.

I could be mean, and rude. Petty and childish. I have been all of those things. I've said some things I regret, made comments in the heat of the moment that I wish I could take back. Who hasn't? Though these scene politics are above and beyond anything I've ever dealt with. I just want a close knit group of friends who enjoy the same things I do, and don't feel the need to cut others down just to make themselves feel better. And I'm well on my way to achieving that.

So why do I feel like giving up? Why do I feel like selling my bike and never looking back? Why do I feel like the "community" is hopeless and self defeating? Why do I feel like every stride of advancement is met with apprehension and negativity?

Could it be, because they are?

eBay Fever.

If you took a look at my eBay watch/bid list... you'd get the impression I'm a 15 year old boy.

I'm currently bidding on a 52cm 1986 Bianchi road bike. Top tube is 56 cm long, which will accomodate my abnormally long torso (and short-short legs). May not even convert it. However, if I'm outbid I ain't going for it. Conversion frames/road bikes *have* to drop in price soon. Right? RIGHT? I'll just bide my time until the right one falls into my lap.

I still haven't dismissed the idea of getting an actual track bike, but those are a biiiit more pricey. Especially for something that I'll probably be replacing components on.

I was outbid at the last second for my #1 love... the Danelectro Rumor bass. I had one in my possession once, but that is a long and boring story. Someone used eSnipe or some other vile internet program to beat me out by $2.50 at the last minute. So, I'm currently looking for a Univox bass. Mosrite rip off. Those things are light, and sweet. I see a few on there, mostly in the $100-$300 range. Maybe I can convince the boyfriend to get one for a Christmas present? I hear he kind of likes me.

Either way, one thing my house doesn't need anymore of is bikes or guitars. I have a crappy Ibanez that buzzes (intonation is waaaay off) and looks like someone in Slipknot should be playing it. I am borrowing a vintage Epiphone Thunderbird which, while awesome, is not mine. I also have a Fender acoustic, and an Epiphone Les Paul Jr. This does not include the two guitars that my boyfriend has at home, either.

All of this aside, I still don't know what to ask my parents for, for Christmas. Same thing happened for my birthday (in March) and they were just like "Eh, figure something out, we'll get it for you" which never happened. This weekend I'm going with mom to a LBS north of Tampa to pick out some cycling gear... maybe they'll have a few components that I can talk her into putting under the Chanukkah Bush this year.

Earth keeps on spinnin'

We are in like Flynn. Owen and I are renting an adorable cottage in Old Southeast. Smack between the ghetto and the fancy houses... hence the affordable rent. We have a HUGE backyard that I hope to fill with my friends sometime soon (the puppies already adore it), as well as several tire swings and a clothesline as I love my freshly hung laundry. Things between us are tense, as we're dealing with condensing our life from a 3 bedroom house to a one bedroom cottage. I'm not home as much as I used to be, considering how much I'm on my bike and all the new friends that I've made. He rushed the move because of his parents and because of that I wasn't able to pull my own weight with some of the tasks (previous engagements and whatnot). It put some strain on us, but we've been through worse. At this stage in the game it's nice to have enough self-confidence, self-sufficience, and self-worth to not freak out at every argument. If my world comes crashing down, I know I'm fully capable of picking it up and putting it back together again. I get by with a little help from my friends...

I've been riding my bike at least 3 times a week at 10+ miles per ride, which was the goal that I had set for myself. Yay for accomplishments! Pam and I had a casual ride to Gulfport on Thursday and a speedy north loop on Friday. On Sunday Britt joined us for the Skirts long ride out to Seminole. The ride was a breeze and the pace was wonderful. We even caught the boys coming back from their trail ride (the conversation was akin to a middle school dance. Lots of "uhh" and "uhmmm", boys on one side, girls on the other, et cetera). Not to mention that the weather is perfect for cycling. Having a nice refreshing jump in the Tinnen's pool post-ride didn't hurt either! We even snuck in a little playground action on the way back.

We're at it again this Sunday, and hopefully we'll get past Seminole this time. Goal is to be able to make it to my parents house in Port Richey and back before the end of the year. I think we've got it in us. I've improved a lot over the past month, and there are several girls that inspire me to jump on my bike and beat the shit out of myself each and every day. Don't know what I'd do without them.

Tampa Bay representing in Orlando

Tampa Bay dominating the Back 2 Skool Shuffle!
I'm in the middle with the smushed boobies and the white wife beater.
Good times were had by all.

Keeping score?

1 point for negi, -2 for posi.

Still trying to get my shit together. Still trying to find the time to ride. Still trying to get all the chemicals in my brain to work together instead of against each other. Trying not to listen, trying to pay attention to detail, trying to keep it all together.

Shit ain't as easy as it looks.

Took the ride from my new house in Old Southeast to Britt's place near the Publix downtown. Real easy, nice ride. Less than 5 minutes. 3rd St. is the way to go, as I got hooted and hollered at while taking 4th St. home. That neighborhood is a little more sketchy than my new one is. I'm looking forward to riding to and from work as well. It's 5 miles each way, so I think 10 miles a day plus whatever I ride afterwards should be the golden ticket...

It's hard to believe I've only been at this for a month. Finished my first alleycat. Piecing together a bike that I can call my own. I wish I could focus on all the good that is coming from all of this, and ignore all the petty bullshit associated with it. I'm not hardwired for that sort of thing. I need some kind of biking zen. Some nice calm stress free zone where I can be pushed but not embarrassed... sweat and grunt without feeling as if I'm being stared at even though there's a good chance I'm not.

I just need to get my head back in the game.
Bring it, motherfuckers.
I work best under pressure.

Quick thoughts.

There's something different in the air. The smell of hope and salvation. I want to be posi, but I don't think my brain makes the correct chemicals to allow that to happen. Sure, I'm over-stressed, under-slept, sick sore and tired... but other than that I see no reason as to why I shouldn't be smiling at the birds and singing to the trees.

Other than the fact that life sucks and the world is a piece of shit, obviously.

But really, how do you tune out all the negative nancies and debbie downers in your head. How do you put all your fears, worries, even blatant name calling and evil aside... to just be happy?

I used to think happiness was a warm body. That changed into a warm puppy. Which then morphed into a warm bike seat. My psychic told me that the key to my happiness would be being outside, but outside contains people and I don't really like having to deal with more of those than I have to. A select few are fine, sometimes even welcomed, but for the most part the general population brings me to tears.

So, how do you do it? Maintain the posi. Fuck the negi(?).
How do you push on through the ho-hum to get to the fuck yes?

NOBRAKES. (TRT)

Britt and I have officially formed a fixed gear team. After Team Tecate was forced into permanent hiatus, we have since re-emerged as a female powerhouse of fixed gear fury. I present to you, ladies and gentelmen... TEAM RED TIDE.

In other news, I'm racing my first alleycat tomorrow. I've put bullhorns on my bike and wrapped them with some nice squishy tape, which should alleviate some of the back issues I've been having with my old bars. The most scariest thing about all of this is... I'll be doing it with no brakes. Yes, you heard me. NOBRAKES. You see, I had a mini-lever on my bars reminiscent of a BMX brake (because it is one)... Owen kinda snapped that off by accident while switching out my bar yesterday, so because my new toe clips are oh-so snug and nice... they'll be my only method of stopping..... in a foreign town, on my first race, tomorrow.

I may be brilliant, but I sure am stupid.

So, I'm looking forward to racing. While I have no illusions of grandeur, my only goal is to actually FINISH said race. I don't think I'll have much of a problem with that, though I might come in dead last. Orlando is known for it's amazing checkpoints. Drink a shot of whiskey. Roll down a hill. Bob for mannequin heads... Things of that sort. Fun, fun. I guess the real feat will be if I can still race after a 2 hour car ride with Pamela Jean Tinnen. That girl knows how to ROADTRIP.

Still going on a ride tonight, as I haven't tried my new bars out for more than 2 miles, but I'm hoping I don't strain myself. I've been lucky so far with soreness and injuries (nothing that a hot shower couldn't fix) and I don't want to blow out a knee or hamstring just because I couldn't keep my ass off a bike seat for 24 hours. Like the jackass that I am...

- photo courtesy of Britt & Judy (and whoever took the actual picture).

This is what I have to deal with... when I ride with other people. This... is why I am vehemently opposed to Daisy Duke Wednesdays. Oh, and dumb kids who buy bikes in installments, then sit on a message board all day instead of looking for an actual job.

I like to ride my bike.

I'm so good at being so bad.
The pessimist. The hypocryte. The anti-hero.
Yes, sirs and madams... I ride a fixed gear.

I ride without a helmet, down the wrong way on one way streets. Dead of night with a sole LED cutting between me and the darkness. Earbuds in, Pinhead Gunpowder blasting. My own damn fault, I'd assume. Not hard to get sucked into any sort of mess in this town. There was the one boy who broke me of the saddle years ago. Technically, two. One got me on it, another got me down. The first never had his shit together enough to even formulate what normal adult relationship would have been (the only kind I stand for). The second, well that was through no fault of his own... I decided to hop off the bike when I realized testosterone and sexual tension were not a good combination in close quarters. No need to hurt any feelings or feed any egos... there was enough of that to go around.

Now the tides have turned, sun set, page turned et cetera, ad nauseum. I'm back on two wheels and it feels like I never left. The last time, my bike was clumsy, slow, and didn't work quite right. Sort of like the boy who bought it for me. This time around my steed is lighter, more efficient, and fun as shit. Sort of like the boy I got it from...

I'm having some problems assimilating to the culture. Technical terms and jargon aren't an issue. Research and love for the game will always handle that, regardless of what the new situation is. Once again it is the social interactions that leave me speechless. With other hobbies it was never a problem. Hide behind a pen, a computer screen, a guitar, a microphone. Slink away into your Fortress of Solitude and create your art. But what happens when your art is all around you? How do you get the assholes out of your studio?

I'll let you know once I figure that shit out.

SATC...

Sucked. I'm sorry but it really did. Coming from a girl who has all six seasons on DVD (separately), I would say it was a huge dissapointment but the reviews kind of padded the fall if you know what I mean. I understand what they were trying to do, and what constraints they had on the story line... but whatever.It's all about the clothes (specifically this one hideous studded belt Pat Fields INSISTS that Carrie wear through the whole move, and I mean the WHOLE movie), men being flakey assholes, women being overbearing and insane, and lots and lots of overpriced shoes and handbags. I think half of the reason I'm so fucked up when it comes to relationships is because of this show... and any asshole exboyfriends. Can't forget them.

As we all know, I am not opposed to overpriced shoes and handbags. I am, however, opposed to UGLY overpriced shoes and handbags (though I kind of coveted the "Louise" Vutton).The movie was decent until the happily ever after bullshit. That isn't a spoiler, we all know it was coming. Just like how the series ended with pink fuzzy bunnies, lolipops and babies... Why should you expect a movie about four 40-something women in NY who can afford to look and act like THAT not have a happy ending? The 35-50 female demographic would fucking riot...

All in all, not a total dissapointment, only because I enjoy fashion, NYC, and have read several reviews by women my age who were 100% on the money. It's 2.5 hours of catwalk, and Cosmo (the mag)... combined. Don't go and expect much else.

Drink Smart Water. Use Sprint.

PS: I would have rocked the fuck out of that bluebird hat... and the Vivienne Westwood. For shizzle.

Oh, oh, oh, oh... GUITAR!

I've been listening to an ungodly amount of Exploding Hearts songs lately. I've finally gotten over my disdain for the band, although it had nothing to do with them directly (personally or musically, Adam was always a sweetheart to me) and I've been listening to the Shattered comp a bunch.

I just bought an epiphone les paul Jr. and have decided that instead of playing the fuck out of songs on my iPod, I might as well learn how to play them along with listening to them non-stop. I don't know about you, but sometimes I'll become musically obsessed with a song, listen to it for DAYS on end, then suddenly become sick of it and never want to listen to it again. Hopefully trying to play along will hold my interest. I'm halfway through Shattered (the lead is sooo much fun), and am closing in on Still Crazy and Your Shadow. They use a lot of weird ass chords as well, so I believe I may have bitten off more than I can chew trying to emulate those boys right out of the starting gate. I might have to go back to some Pinhead Gunpowder instead to tighten up. Don't want to get discouraged too easily... 

The only thing is, my new guitar keeps falling out of tune. Lots. It's pretty discouraging when you A. haven't picked up a 6 stringed instrument in a while and B. know that you're playing the god damn song correctly... it just doesn't sound that way. I'm going to look at a Boss TU-2 stompbox for a very very good price today. I've been wanting one for a while, and finally found a deal on one, though they're well worth the c-note. Of course there was that moment of absolute horror last night where I scolded myself for thinking a cheap ass brand new Epiphone would stay in tune... but really? A guitar should stay in tune for at least one song, regardless. It's like having a fridge that doesn't get cold. I hope the TU-2 along with a setup job solves the problem.

All in all, bad week turned around so far. 

If you hear this song one hundred times it still won't be enough.

It's never enough, it's never going to be. Sometimes I don't even know if it's him, or this unattainable brass ring I keep reaching for on this crazy merry-go-round called life. Am I really that terrible of a girl? Does the normalcy of my life and my standards really outweigh all the good in me? It seems as if my strive for a decent life has left me light years away from everyone around me. I don't know if I'm so far ahead I can't see them, or so far behind because it's all pointless. We're all going to be miserable in the end. So why bother?

I was driving home on the Bayside Bridge and Sluttering came on. That song always makes me think of another boy, which makes me think of another time, which makes me sad. I cried so hard I thought it was 2001. I cried because this looked just like it did in 2001, though I'm now 26, and was still suffering heartbreak and dissapointment of this magnitude. I cried because I always get my heart so involved regardless of the situation. I cried because I hoped that at this point, I'd be over and done with all of this.

I cried so hard I almost took my truck into the bay. I still don't remember if it was because of the tears... or because of the tears.

Open letter to Ms. Jones

Oh, Rashida. What is it about you that attracts them? Your natural beauty? Ivy league education? Trust fund? Lineage? Why is it that out of the two men I would give my left tit to kiss on the cheek, you have dated both? Not merely dated, but you were ENGAGED to one of them. I understand you come from good stock, and have a level head on your shoulders. You're tall, thin, exotic looking, well spoken, and seemingly down to earth... but seriously. Back the fuck up before I have to cut a bitch.

John Krasinski I can deal with. Tall, WASPy, Red Sox fan. Take him. Get married and have pretty babies together. Sure, I'll shed a tear but I know that deep down inside I'm really only attracted to Jim Halpert, and John Krasinski will always leave me feeling a bit unfufilled. Unsatisfied if you will. I hope he yells out "PAM!" while you're in bed together.

Now, while at work surfing wikipedia (what else do you do at work?) I stumbled upon my future husband's page. He's a Ashkenazi Jew from North London. Raised in NYC. Grammy winning producer & all around white ass boy who has worked with members of Wu Tang. He also has a penchant for dressing like a Mod. How much more perfect can we be for each other? I'll be marrying a nice Jew from NY, which is sure to please dear old Mom. He will have someone who the tabloids don't care about, and will fully support him in any endeavor he so chooses (as long as I get to come along). Mark Ronson should be mine, Rashida, but instead is dating someone half his age with a fraction of his talent. As we both know, 19 year old models ain't got nothing on a real woman... or so I try to tell myself. Ce la vie?

These roadblocks I can overcome, Rashida. But how am I supposed to compete with all you have to throw on the table? You're older, more experienced, better educated, talented and gorgeous. I'm woman enough to admit that to the interweb. But do you HAVE to run thought my "Before I die" list this quickly?

At the very least, you should introduce me to your ex-boyfriends. I can take it from there.

I told you I was trouble.

I usually try and keep it 'mum' on any problems I am having. Sure there are general bitch fests, and cry-a-thons, but if something is really honestly truly wrong, I just keep it bottled inside. Perhaps I'll talk to one or two people about it, but here's the thing about people: They're usually not very good at listening. Personal company included. They always want to draw parallels they think will help you (they don't), or give you advice they'd never take themselves, or they just talk over you about their problems. In my 26 years I've learned to take it in stride and realize that the only people I can usually talk to about my issues without having them bring up their own is my mother and my therapist. One I have to pay, and the other I have to pay back.



So things have been a little strained for me. I haven't been speaking to many of my friends because A. I don't really want to talk about any of this B. Chances are they'll just talk about themselves anyway and C. The more I fester about it, the more I'll actually have to buck up and do something. It's this big white elephant in the room, and I let it out of its cage. Perhaps prematurely but nevertheless it's done now and I should have been prepared to deal with the consequences. I don't think I'm ready for all of that yet.



You see, we all have issues. We all have things to deal with, accomodate for, get over. The thing is being able to put those issues aside for the greater good. At what point do you let your issues start running your life? Making choices for you? Speaking on your behalf? When do you say enough is enough and decide what you really want and go for it? When do you smother those schizophrenic evil little demons and say "Fuck you. You can't stop me"?



I guess, it goes to show you, that sometimes you can give your all, do whatever you can, and still end up with the short end of the stick... through no fault of your own. Kind of a take it or leave it sentiment, but then again I guess I'm just a take me or leave me kind of gal.

1-2-3-4

Wrapping my fingers around the neck of a guitar is actually helping. Low profile, style.

I've been in a proverbial funk about my future. Moreso, lackthereof. I just can't be stangant anymore in this town. If I'm going to be here I should make the best of it. Not wallow in self-pity. I guess this whole leaving the house and picking up a guitar thing is supposed to be helping. It falls right in line with my horoscope. New moon on 5/5 brings new faces and people. Band practice on 5/4 did just that. Who knows, this new direction may pave the way for going out on Saturday nights as well.

Baby steps, boo. Baby steps.
Let's just ride that train for a while and see where it takes us.

LOST SPOILER!

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If sawyer is still on the island, that's exactly where I'd wanna be. 

Oh Sadie.

Sadie is my puppy dog. She's going to be 10 months May 6th. She is a boston terrier, english bulldog mix, and most people think she's a baby pit bull. Which, is adorable as well as frustrating. It's like when people ask you all the time if your tattoo hurt, or if black is your natural hair color. People will just start ranting to me about the merits of Pits, or how I shouldn't clip her ears, et cetera. Which, was fine the first 3 months I had her, but considering she should have a life expectancy of 10+ years, I'm considering putting a sign on her neck that reads "BOSTON BULLDOG" just so people will shut their yaps about the whole thing.

I found her on craigslist, or rather, she found me. I made a post about how I wanted a smaller dog, but was getting a hard time from the SPCA because I slipped up and let them know I was a renter AND that we had another dog already. This meant I needed written notarized proof that I could own a pet, and that we'd need to bring Dutchess (Owen's dog) into the SPCA after picking out a dog to make sure they got along. It doesn't sound like a lot, but considering the SPCA is 20 miles out of town, Owen and myself work 40 hours a week, and our landlords (his parents) live in North Fucking Carolina... it was just too much to deal with. So I made a post on craigslist to that effect, stated that I wanted a smaller dog, that I had a large house with a fenced in yard, was able to bring my dog into work with me so she wouldn't have to be home in her crate all day, and one she was old enough, she'd have Dutchess to fart around with inside all day. As far as dog adoption goes, large house, prior experience with puppies, and a fenced in yard are all big pluses.

So, I received a few emails from people trying to unload poodles, lhasa absohs, and chihuhuhas. I knew none of those types of dogs would be for me. I'm a fan of large dogs, but I don't own a house and wouldn't feel right putting a 60lb dog into a one bedroom apt if it came down to that. So, I wanted to stay 30lbs or less. Well, the day after posting my "request" I received an email from a guy who said his dog (a boston terrier) just had a litter of puppies and he had one left. He sent me a picture of baby Sadie and that was it. I was in love. Her adoption fee was completely reasonable ($100) considering she was 4 months old and was current on all her shots. I tell you, $100 is barely enough to feed a dog for 4 months, let alone vaccinate her, so I knew she was coming from a good place and not some breeder or puppy mill. I called the guy and made plans to come meet her the next day. She was so little and shy and small, I was in love. If you've ever met my Sadie, you'd know the LAST thing she is is shy. So I walked into the nice man's porch, saw her, and said "sold." She came home with me that night and hasn't left my side ever since.

Sadie has managed to charm the pants off of everyone (well, everyone except Pam, because I'm fully convinced Pam doesn't enjoy puppies in general. Too hyper and jumpy for her to deal with). My parents, my friends, relatives who haven't even MET her are in love. My old grumpy father who manages to scream on a daily basis about how we should just "put him out of his misery" gets a huge grin on his face when she comes to visit.

This morning I took her in to get fixed. There is a rescue organization called Pet Pal Rescue (petpalrescue.com) that is a local no-kill shelter and they just opened a spay/neuter clinic in town. I'm a big believer in adopting pets and not buying from breeders (I was honestly upset that the SPCA thing was such a pain in the ass because I really wanted to rescue an animal, but in a way I guess I still have) because there are so many wonderful adorable animals out there for people to love; older dogs for those without the paitence to train, puppies for people who want to baby something, etc.

We got in at about 7:30 and the place was really nice. Bright and clean and friendly. The vet techs were immediately under her spell, came out from the back and ooed and ahhed over her. She even went right with one of them to get weighed while I filled out paperwork. As she played with the employees I tried to gain composure and choke back tears. ME. CRYING. OVER A DOG THAT WAS GOING IN FOR A ROUTIENE PROCEDURE. Wasn't going to happen. So I listened to their pick up instructions half heartedly while they took her into the back. The motherfucking backstabbing bastard didn't even put up a fight. Walked right with them wagging her nub the entire way. Traitor.

I'm glad she went happily, honestly, because if she would have turned around and looked at me with that underbite and those wonky big green eyes I would have lost it. So, with all that being said, if you're reading this keep Sadie puppy in your thoughts today as she goes in for her procedure. I'll be sure to update on her progess and healing as well. I'm at work and there's no warm fleabag sitting on my feet, or sleeping on my lap. It feels a little empty, and I just can't wait to have her back home. <3

Crossroads.

There comes a point in your life, where you need to re-evaluate. Take a look at what is important to you, and what isn't. Where you see your life going, what path you are taking to get there, and how it's going to happen.

Right now, I'm there. In the middle.

It's an especially hard time for me. I feel 100% alone. No friends, no boyfriends, no family. No one except myself and my mother seem to understand. They just can't relate. I don't blame them, can't blame them really. They're all younger, still undergrads, in amazing cities having the time of their lives. I've already been there, already done that. It's fun for a little while, but I couldn't imagine twelve straight months of it, let alone one.


I just can't seem to put time and energy and money into another heartache. Can't sweat it out in suburban utopia for absolutely nothing. Can't throw my savings and my hopes into a crappy overpriced apartment in St. Petersburg to work this crappy office bitch job for this crappy company who only looks out for #1.

But is the devil I'm unfarmiliar with a better foe than the one I know?

I guess that's the big question everyone has when faced with a major life decision. On top of it all, I feel like a fool. A love sick puppy who makes decisions based on her heart instead of instinct and intelligence. I've been doing it my entire life, and it has gotten me nowhere but here. Literally.

He isn't much help. Stuck at his own crossroads, seeing no future other than what is before his eyes. No hopes, no dreams. Just trying to keep his head above water. What he doesn't seem to realize is that we all are. With just a little help from each other, it will make life easier, make the world less harsh, make it all bearable.

But maybe my mother is right. That apparently the idea of me leaving doesn't seem amount to much. And who wants to feel that insignificant?

Boys who like girls who are boys who like girls...

This town doesn't fare very well in the respect department.

Serious relationships... scratch that... monogamous relationships are few and far between. People have issues with dropping the "bf" and "gf" words even when they don't plan on fucking anyone else (read: aren't ALLOWED to fuck anyone else). They have even changed the entire lexicon of relationship vocabulary! For example, the word "talking" is frequently used as most normal human beings would use the word "dating". Therefore, if I'm overheard having a conversation where I say "so, I've been talking to John..." before you know it twelve people think I've cheated on my boyfriend with some dude named John (and I'm also pretty sure they'll have about 3 different 'John's' in mind).

Also, being in a monogamous relationship usually garners some sort of respect from the opposite sex. Girls (in theory) won't hit on your boyfriend because they know you've been together and efforts would be futile. Either the boyfriend in question would turn them down, or the girlfriend would curbstomp them outside the Orpheum. Or, maybe that's just what I would do. Guys (in theory) won't hit on you because they know your boyfriend. I can say with 100% certanty that none of these facts have ever proven true for St. Petersburg Florida. Actually, I think I've been hit on more seriously and ferverently IN a relationship than I did before I was in a relationship (breakup break nonwithstanding - all bets were off, boys and girls knew we were both free agents and [more than likely] took advantage of that. I know they did with me). As for my boyfriend, I can not say. I don't like to know who hits on him, I just like to know that he turns them down with little to no lead on.

Who I can't begin to decipher are the people who completely disregard relationships in general. Whether they are in one, or the people they are after are in one. I can't begin to tell you the number of boys who have muttered phrases to me like "I won't tell if you won't" or "So? I've got a girlfriend too." Honestly? What the hell is the point? Is it so someone will pay half your bills, sleep in the other half of your bed? Why enter into a 'monogamous' relationship when you're just going to go and run all over town with other people? Why sneak and slink? Why not just be an out-in-the-open scumbag and own it?

For the record, if anyone reading this ever dates me, please just do me the common courtisey to let me in on your little secrets so I can plan accordlingly. I understand I've spent the majority of my adult promiscuous dating life in St. Petersburg Florida... but it simply can't be like this everywhere.

Always want to talk it through, I don't care.

I've been listening to intense amounts of Amy Winehouse lately. This isn't anything new, except for the fact that she has now joined the ranks of other lesser known (and less talented) musicians in my collection... as someone who is now deemed utterly obnoxious to those around me because of my incessant need to blast her tunes all the time.

Oh well.

I should probably download some more of her tunes, though *I* have now joined the ranks of the old and feeble... I pay for my music. Yes, you heard it. Pay. iTunes makes everything so convenient and nice and easy that shuffling through Limewire hardly seems worth it anymore. All the computers in my house (3) were taken hold by some nasty spyware bug that infested itself into our registries and therefore making said computers utterly useless. It took $80 bucks, Norton, and some love and care to get them back up and running. I'm not going to compromise my hardware all for a free cover of "Valerie". Maybe that means the terrorists have won, but for now I'm willing to back down on this fight and just go about my merry little iStore loving way. 

You can't spell emotions without emo.

So my bestest friend has deterred me from wanting to write in this blog. This will come as a surprise to him. He said that he didn't want me to turn into a whiny little girl, so now every time I feel like blogging abotut something, I'm secondg uessing myself. Whether it's about the hopelessness I feel about this god forsaken town, or my life in general, or the world around me... I still can't help but feel like some part of me is being that "little whiney girl" he keeps describing. I'm going through a rough patch right now. My career (mostly lack thereof concering it's direction) isn't going too well, my boyfriend and roomate basically just got laid off, and my small pile of savings is slowly diminishing because I believe that retail/food/drug/alcohol therapy is the last resort I have. I'm spending 90 bucks a month on anti-depressants that don't work, and chewing xanax like they're tic tacs just to deal with all the extra stress and pressure being put on me at work and at home.

I'm a mess. Really.

(I'm also starting to get really into riding my bike, but do not wish to speak about it because I don't care if you like riding your bike. It's like that friend who LOVES his dog, but couldn't give a shit less about hearing you rattle on about yours. I like... possibly even LOVE riding, but I don't want to talk to you about it. )

With all that said...
Bobby, with all due respect. Fuck you.

This is my blog, I'll write whatever the fuck I god damn please.
Love you.

Get to know me a little better... Nice to meet you.

Unreliable narrator

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

This article needs additional citations for verification. Please help improve this article by adding reliable references. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed.(January 2008)

Illustration by Gustave Doré forBaron Münchhausen: tall tales, such as those of the Baron, often feature unreliable narrators.

In literature and film, an unreliable narrator (a term coined by Wayne C. Booth in his 1961 book The Rhetoric of Fiction^[1]) is a literary device in which the credibility of the narrator is seriously compromised. This unreliability can be due to psychological instability, a powerful bias, a lack of knowledge, or even a deliberate attempt to deceive the reader or audience. Unreliable narrators are usually first-person narrators, but third-person narrators can also be unreliable.

The nature of the narrator is sometimes immediately clear. For instance, a story may open with the narrator making a plainly false or delusional claim or admitting to being severely mentally ill, or the story itself may have a frame in which the narrator appears as a character, with clues to his unreliability. A more common, and dramatic, use of the device delays the revelation until near the story's end. This twist endingforces the reader to reconsider their point of view and experience of the story. In many cases the narrator's unreliability is never fully revealed but only hinted at, leaving the reader to wonder how much the narrator should be trusted and how the story should be interpreted.

The literary device of the unreliable narrator should not be confused with other devices such aseuphemism, hyperbole, irony, metaphor, pathetic fallacy, personification, sarcasm, or satire; it may, however, coexist with such devices, as in Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho, a satire^[2] whose narrator is unreliable (and thus not credible). Similarly, historical novels, speculative fiction, and clearly delineateddream sequences are generally not considered instances of unreliable narration, even though they describe events that did not or could not happen.

Some works suggest that all narrators are inherently unreliable due to self-interest, personal bias, or selective memory; "reliable narrators" would be "unreliable narrators without hints or clues of their very own unreliability".

Contents  [hide] 1 Examples of unreliable narrators 1.1 Novels 1.2 Films 1.3 Music 1.4 Television 2 Works featuring unreliable narrators 3 References

[edit]Examples of unreliable narrators

[edit]Novels

One of the earliest known examples of unreliable narration is Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales. In the Merchant's Tale for example, the narrator, being unhappy in his marriage, allows his misogynistic bias to slant much of his tale, and in the Wife of Bath's, the Wife often misquotes and misremembers quotations and stories.

Many novels are narrated by children, whose inexperience can impair their judgment and make them unreliable. In Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), Huck's inexperience leads him to make overly charitable judgments about the characters in the novel; even going so far as to accuse his author, "Mr. Mark Twain," of having stretched the truth in the previous book, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, an early example of a fourth-wall breach. In contrast, Holden Caulfield, in The Catcher in the Rye, tends to assume the worst.

Henry James' classic novella The Turn of the Screw, in which a young woman experiences ghostly hauntings summoned by supernaturally-powered children, can be interpreted as a novel of unreliable narration, but whether or not the narrator is actually delusional is (perhaps intentionally) ambiguous. It is of note that the story was not interpreted thus until several decades after its original publication.^[3]

The first part of William Faulkner's novel The Sound and the Fury is, literally, "a tale told by an idiot." The other parts are told by other, damaged but perhaps more reliable narrators.

In the novel Zeno's Conscience (La coscienza di Zeno, 1923) by the Italian writer Italo Svevo, Zeno, the first-person narrator, continuously tryies to justify his failures, often telling lies or, more often, avoiding important details and providing excuses to the reader and to himself. Moreover, since under the effect of psychoanalysis, Zeno's point of view on the past events is always changing and never definite.

Another class of unreliable narrator is one who intentionally attempts to deceive the audience or other characters in the story. One of the earliest examples is Agatha Christie's detective novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, in which the narrator is scrupulously honest in facts revealed but neglects to mention certain key events. His unreliability is noted in Dean Koontz's Odd Thomas, in which Odd, the narrator, is also unreliable: he admits the nature of his unreliability at the beginning of the book, but the exact meaning of that admission is not made clear until the book's end.

In some cases, as with Vladimir Nabokov's 1962 Pale Fire, the reader is unable to discern among several possible narrators, each with his or her own intrinsically unreliable agenda and bias. This serves to effectively include the reader in the experience of the novel, rather than simply providing a narrative, encouraging independent theories and ultimately furthering a point.

Gene Wolfe could be said to have made the unreliable narrator one of his stylistic signatures. The most famous example is the complicated and self-contradictory autobiography of the Autarch Severian, who claims to possess eidetic memory, in The Book of the New Sun. Narrators in others of Wolfe's books include a soldier who loses his entire memory every morning (Soldier of the Mist) and a combination of multiple personalities sharing one body (Book of the Long Sun and Book of the Short Sun).

Randy Mulray, the main character in C.W. Schultz’s Yeval, easily qualifies as an unreliable narrator. The reader grows to know that Mulray is a very self-conscious man with a low self-esteem, which in turn makes him obviously overplay (or underplay) situations that he describes to the reader. Because he is a drug-dealer and envisions thoughts of a serial killer, there are several hints throughout the novel that Mulray could be hallucinating some of what he tells.

The eponymous narrator of Michael Moorcock's Pyat Quartet is thoroughly and entertainingly duplicitous.

Ken Kesey's two most famous novels feature unreliable narrators. "Chief" Bromden in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest suffers from schizophrenia, and his telling of the events often includes things such as people growing or shrinking, walls oozing with slime, or the orderlies kidnapping and "curing" Santa Claus. Narration in Sometimes a Great Notion switches between several of the main characters, whose bias tends to switch the reader's sympathies from one person to another, especially in the rivalry between Leland and Hank. Many of Susan Howatch's novels similarly uses this technique; each chapter is narrated by a different character, and only after reading chapters by each of the narrators does the reader realize each of the narrators has biases and "blind spots" that cause them to perceive shared experiences differently.

Charlie Gordon, the narrator in Daniel Keyes's epistolary novel, Flowers for Algernon is mentally retarded at the start of the novel but develops greater intelligence and understanding. Following a Rorschach inkblot test early in the novel, Charlie reports that he was told to imagine pictures in the ink contrary to the standardised way of delivering the test. Subsequently, on listening to an audio recording of the test, he realises that his memory was flawed.

In some instances, unreliable narration can bring about the fantastic in works of fiction. In Kingsley Amis's The Green Man, for example, the unreliability of the narrator Maurice Allington destabilizes the boundaries between reality and the fantastic. The same applies to Nigel Williams's Witchcraft.^[4]

Mary Shelley's Frankenstein has often come under fire^{[citation needed]} for being presented by an unreliable narrator. We are being told the story by a sea captain who has heard the story from a dying Victor Frankenstein. It is posited that Victor's pride could have affected the version of the story he tells the sea captain. And further still, the sea captain could be embellishing the story to impress whomever he is telling the story to.

[edit]Films

A more recent example of intentional deception is the film The Usual Suspects, where the narrator is a man being interrogated by the police. He offers a detailed account of the events leading up to a recent crime, but avoids sharing everything he knows about the mysterious crime lord Keyser Söze. The 1945 film noir classic Detour is told from the perspective of an unreliable protagonist who is trying to justify his actions.^[5][6][7] Another recent example is the movie Lucky Number Slevin in which the main character, Slevin Kelevra, claims to be an innocent bystander caught in a case of mistaken identity. This claim is supported by a number of flashbacks, however, many of these flashbacks prove to be fabricated with Kelevra pulling the strings.

Mentally impaired narrators may describe the world as they perceive it rather than as it really is. In the film, Bubba Ho-tep, the main character is either Elvis Presley or an Elvis impersonator named Sebastian Haff. He appears to suffer from Alzheimer's disease, making it unclear how much of his story is real. In the film Memento, the narrator is a man who suffers from anterograde amnesia. He is unable to form new long-term memories, and is thus unable to provide reliable narration about crucial past events or even his own motivations.

The film Rashomon uses multiple narrators to tell the story of the death of a samurai. Each of the witnesses describe the same basic events but differ wildly in the details, alternately claiming that the samurai was killed by accident, suicide, or murder. The term Rashomon effect is used to describe how different witnesses are able to produce differing, yet plausible, accounts of the same event, with equal sincerity. This kind of unreliable narration has also been used for comic effect in movies such as He Said, She Said and Grease, where the two romantic leads offer very different accounts of their relationship.