Next Stop, Hades

Is anyone else concerned that Muni hired Satan to record the overhead announcement at the Folsom Street N-Judah stop?

Trains, Tags, and Blood

While I sit around musing about not writing (I learned my lesson and put an extra notebook by my bed), my favorite cousin, Ben the lovely giant (he'd kill me for saying so but most of his life, he looked like a little blond elf. So cute!), art student extrordinaire, and all around amazing person, is out and about in the middle of the night doing his work. Feel free to comment if you think this is vandalism rather than art but know you aint gonna change my mind.

Behold:


Say it, baby. And thanks for sharing.

"I Won't Ever Forget You", She Said Before He Sailed

I hate when you've just gotten into bed, just found that sweet three-cornered perfectly orchestrated merge of heaven when the sheets warm to body temperature, the thump-thump thhhhhhhump-thump of reggae from the fuck-wad law students below suddenly ceases, and your body finally says goodbye to today's slice of 24 and starts to fuzz out, eyelids first.

And then the poem comes.

One of those poems with a concept so basic, you can't believe you'd never thought of it before. A subject so day-to-day but so significant that you instantly think of two full phrases and an opening line. The kind of poem so frickingly, brilliantly simple, that you can assure yourself with all confidence that there is no need to get out of bed; no need to disrupt the lull of tucked in warmth, no need to step out onto the chilly floor to get a pen and the journal, no need to shake sleep. No, this one's a keeper. And you think of the last poem that came to you like this and how nice it was that you woke yourself up and wrote and wrote in the warm summer early morning, and how good it was, the final poem. But you also think, how nice, but how unnecessary, because this poem is different: it's so simple, so right, you'll never forget it.

For the life of me, I can't remember last night's poem. A good poet is neither lazy, nor easily chilled.

Papa Lets Baby Grow Up...And She's Not Sure She Likes It

I've made it to the final step of eHarmony's guided conversation with the first of my matches ( there are 8 remaining in various stages) so now we're free to communicate on our own, i.e., send each other self-crafted emails rather than canned questions. When you get to this point, you get this slightly scary message from the founder reminding you to trust your gut (my gut? the one that landed me with the 29 year old?), to be safe, and to take it slow. And you think, enough, already. But then it hits you - you're on your own now.

The funny thing is, I actually kinda liked being in the safety net and now I feel kinda nervous. Am I gonna say something wrong? Will he nix me because I'm not smart enough? How do I explain the midlife crisis (he asked about my "career transition")? And the thought of meeting him in person...fuck. I'm having those poisonous girl thoughts: maybe I'm not his type? Maybe I need to put this off until I lose 10 pounds. And why did I think it was okay to label myself "confident"?

Just to be clear, this is all taking me a little by surprise. After all, I'm the kind of girl who talks to the cashier just for fun, just to see what he's all about. I'm the one who talks with the super hot guy in the bar even though he's way outta out my league. So I know this is partially because it's That Time of Bitchiness and Tears, and partially because I'm feeling insecure about not having a job. But I also wonder,

how much of this fear is it that these guys want Commitment. Really. And if that's what I want, really, then I've got to pull this shit together.

When I wash my face tonight, I'm gonna look in the mirror, smile, wipe that toothpaste from my chin and say, you are The Queen, Miss Victoria, THE QUEEN.