disgusted.

It seems that in the Supreme Court these days, justice is the opposite of being served. In a 5-4 decision, the Justices ruled today that workers can only petition for pay discrimination within 180 days of their pay being set. Um, I'm sorry, but have you been in an office recently? People don't talk about how much they're paid. So you won't ever know you're being discriminated against just because you have a vagina until one of your drunken male co-workers blurts it out one night while you're at a crazy office party. And, generally, it'll take you about 90 days - at least - to feel comfortable enough to see said co-worker wasted off his ass. Then, of course, another 90 days until he's comfortable enough around you to talk about his paycheck.

O'Connor never would've let this shit happen. I'm so glad that the United States is regressing 40 years. I might as well aspire for mediocrity and second-best if that's all they're going to give me.

But, no, women of America, I think it's time we kick some ass. Even if that means getting rid of the women who give us a bad name (Britney Spears, girls on any VH1 reality show, Harriet Miers, that girl who sits behind you in your Comm class), it's what has to be done. Let's hold Ruth Bader Ginsburg's rational and not-completely-big-corporation-absorbed hand and jump up and down until someone stops to see what we're doing. Then we'll explain that we can jump just as high as any man can (I'm not sure what the actual statistics are, but metaphorically speaking). And that we can work just as hard as any man can. And that we're sick and effing tired of being told we are of less worth and that we will never achieve as much as someone with bigger shoulders and a deeper voice. Just make sure to wear a sports bra. We want the right kind of attention.

believe and pray.

I spent the day driving around with friends from back home, picnicking (is that a word?), and riding my bike around Burlingame. It reminded me of Now and Then and it reminded me of how badly I wish I was twelve instead of nineteen. I'm probably way too old to be riding my bike with a little gang of 5 people around me. And yet it didn't bother me at all. Since when did I start believing I had to act my age? And since when did I start believing there was some ultimate arbiter who could tell me the cut-off date and time for swinging on swings (which I did today) and riding up and down the block in circles (which I also did).

Being home makes me feel very content. I know it's Saturday night, but I love that I am sitting at home doing nothing. Travis and Marie just left. We were watching Animal Planet and Curb and sitting in my room doing lots of nothing. I am not sad that I didn't get drunk. I am not sad that I didn't get dressed up. I am not even sad that I didn't meet someone new. My home here is a little self-contained world, where nostalgia finally collides with experience. It would be hard to ask for anything more than a repetition of the warmest moments of my life.

out of nowhere.

On my flight from LAX to SFO this afternnon, I started feeling guilty for missing my early seventeenth-century lit class and so I read some Sir Thomas Browne. I felt like the hugest nerd in the world. There I was - sandwiched between an old Indian man reading the United Airlines magazine, Hemispheres, and a businessman who looked like he had better things to be doing than sitting down - reading from this 3,000-page anthology about what some aristocrat thinks should happen to you after you die.

I might as well be wearing taped-up glasses and a pocket protector.

And all of this contemplation of thesis topics for my paper and senior thesis topics for a year from now and waiting in line for office hours and hating and loving the challenge of a good piece of literature has made me realize that I really admire professors for their single-minded dedication. It's really quite remarkable. It's got me thinking that - if I didn't hate people so much - I would totally want to be a professor. You know: use all the big words, edit some obscure academic journal, have a really comfy couch in my office. That's what they do, right? I'm sure it's that simple. I'm calling for a new life plan.

vodka and orange juice.

In the glowing light of the computer screen, I can see his smile as it dances across his lips. And there's no other light in the room, except maybe the strip of light that is crawling in through the space between the door and the carpet. But that light isn't pure, it has ricocheted off of the wall, which was reflected off of the bathroom ceiling. The room is blue like water in some three-year old's crayon landscape. But it's so warm. Maybe it is because of that smile, those parted lips now pirouetting in their finale as they make their retreat back to position one. Maybe it is the echoing of his laugh or the echoing of my own as they bounce back and forth on the walls of the blue room - that's right, maybe it's a Freudian thing.

Two feet apart; we are afraid to touch. So when he brushes my hand, when he touches my knee, when he does all of those obnoxiously cute things he does - even in the dim light of this room - they scare me. I retreat, fall back, drop onto the floor. I look up and he is smiling again, smiling at me from just above. And I wish his hands weren't so afraid. I wish my body wasn't nailed to the ground. But I can't change our awful circumstances, so it is best that I just lie here and breathe. It's comforting, in a way - some consistency. At least I know that no matter what my next move is, be it closer to him or on my way out the door to home, he will always care for me as I am and never for what we will never be able to become.

piano bar.

It has always been funny to me that people say that Carrie Bradshaw makes bad decisions in her fabricated Sex and the City world. It's like they've never had a someone who was always there just around the corner, reminding them of what it's like to have a crush, what it's like to feel both superbly sexy and comfortable, what electricity feels like when it translates into connecting fingertips. If Big was chasing me all over New York City, I think I'd probably fall into his arms at some point, too. And I don't want to hear that you don't find him attractive. Imagine that one person who awoke you from your dreamless sleep. Or maybe you haven't found that person yet. But when you do, you'll know what I mean. And nothing will be able to stop you from playing that hand, no matter the consequences.

I don't think she makes bad decisions. I think she relies too much on her heart and not enough on her mind. She lives a little too much for the electricity, not enough for the right and wrong. And there's nothing wrong with that.

a long night.

Professor Post, reading from John Webster's The Duchess of Malfi): "Blackbirds fatten best in hard weather —"
(Pause)
Post:"...That's what she said."
(Eruption of laughter)
Post: "Is that how you use that phrase?"




Probably the cutest little English professor I have ever had.

just a small part of me.

I don't remember how my parents told my brothers and I that we were moving to California. I just remember that my father would disappear for a few months at a time and I never knew why. That year, he missed Halloween and he came home only on the day of Thanksgiving. I don't know what I thought had happened to him. But one day he just returned and we packed up all of our things.

There were rocks in the backyard that I had to say good-bye to. Even though I don't remember much of our beautiful home in Altanta, I remember on summer afternoons, my brother and I would lift up this rock and play with the ants living beneath it. I also remember having to say good-bye to the creek that ran through our backyard and the playground my dad had built from scratch and the deck he and my brother constructed one summer and my friend Sharon, who lived a few blocks away. I remember hugging her for the last time, although at the time it felt like I was taking a trip to Disneyworld and would be back the next weekend.

On the drive to California, my dad pointed out the mountains and the statelines and the animals along the freeway. I watched as the world changed from flat and tree-filled Georgia to Louisiana to Texas to Arizona.

"Look, Carrie, you couldn't see this in Altanta," my dad said to me, with his usual enthusiasm.

"It looks like Georgia," I said.

We stopped at the Grand Canyon on our way to my aunt's house in Phoenix.

"It looks like Georgia," I said.

We stayed in Phoenix for Christmas. The air was dry and hot, not cold and moist as the air in Altanta had been. Not on the verge of snow. We took hikes up mountain sides and saw geckos and snakes and scorpions.

"It looks like Georgia," I would say.

When we finally reached our new home in Hillsborough, California, it was New Year's Eve and my dad's birthday. The sun was shining and we drove the car up a steep driveway into a two-car garage. My mom hated that driveway; the 90-degree angle always scared her.

We pulled a few boxes out of the trunk of the car and my dad showed us our new rooms.

"What do you think?" he asked me when he took me to my new bedroom. There was a cockroach lying on its back next to the closet.

"It looks like Georgia. Let's go home."

I'm not sure when I finally admitted to myself that I was wrong. Maybe I knew all along. I've never been good at being defeated.

dusty bookshelves.

I don't know why, but they're making a second sequel to Gone with the Wind. As if one butchering of Rhett and Scarlett weren't enough. And it's being written by a man named Donald McCaig.

I don't care if it's good or if it's bad. I refuse to read it. Although, you know, it's interesting, Gone with the Wind is no longer my favorite novel. I don't care what Rhett and Scarlett do to make it work. But bringing this tale back off the bookshelf in a form it was never intended to be placed in? Please, just leave it alone. Restore some sanctity to this world of commercialized fiction.

uhhhh.

I got a $5,000 scholarship-- the one I was filling out during Spring Break and being very cynical about. Every time I think about it, my hands start shaking again. That kind of money is unimaginable to me right now.

where you are.

I just went downstairs to go running on the machines in the gym down there. But, at 10:30 on a Saturday night, every machine in that normally-empty room is occupied. Do these people not have lives? Do they not have parties to go to or alcohol to drink? Do they not have friends to go out and watch a live show with? Maybe even dance a bit? Go out and eat at one of the thousands of cute little restaurants that sprinkle the streets?

I had my ipod on already. I was pumped up, settled on Justin Timberlake. I even had a graphic novel in my hand, which I had resolved to read despite my great surface aversion to the medium. I brought a water bottle, had convinced myself to even do some stretches in my room beforehand. I was READY. READY, dammit.

There I was. One of those losers. Planning to work out on a Saturday night. And I was turned away at the door.

So, in defiance and frustration, I have resolved to come back to my room, pretend like it never happened, and eat three cups of yogurt, the rest of my Girl Scout cookies, and a Snickers bar.

king henry viii.

I don't know how many people know this, but James Franco goes to UCLA and is an English major (with an emphasis in creative writing). I only know this through word of mouth, but I do know it as a fact from several reputable sources. Yesterday, I had an orientation for my study abroad program to England, and guess who was there?

James Franco.

Now I don't know if he's going to Europe with me, but if he isn't, he must really like to sit in on informational meetings.

stream of consciousness.

North and South. Two opposites that seem to be connected in their center by some strange magnet that pushes them apart. I'm standing somewhere on that magnet, looking up, looking down.

Above me is my favorite Chinese restaurant in the whole world, sitting there in Palo Alto. My fluffy gray cat, Spunky, is licking her paws by the fire in early December. My dad is polishing his motorcycle and eating apples and peanut butter and avoiding sugar so he stays healthy and saves himself from diabetes. My mother is filling out crossword puzzles in pencil on the couch in the living room. My friends come running down the familiar sidewalk. They swing open the fridge and pull out the pitcher of water. We drive to the beach in Half Moon Bay and play frisbee until we get hungry again. San Francisco glistens from the big window in Marie's living room. We walk to our favorite French restaurant for lunch and we pace through the halls of our high school. Sometimes, we meet up with unfamiliar people. Sometimes we drive to Foster City to watch Disney movies with Brandon or go shopping at Target. Sometimes I spend time with Sammy. We laugh about the past. We cry about the present. We hope for the future. Ryan brings Bonne Sante sandwiches to my house and refuses to share. Evan always leaves his cup on my desk, where the condensation leaves rings in the wood. Brian used to come visit in the summer and we'd make dinner and laugh, like always. My mom comes home and takes me shopping. My friends treat my house like a playground. They do backflips in the front yard. We play with candles as they melt on the back porch.

I look in front of me. Southern California. Trendy shops and too much coffee running through my veins, making me jittery. Three feet of books, but I love to read them when I get the chance. The sun shines. Movie studios every mile or so. Rebecca comes home and we go out for dinner. Nina, Caroline, John and I watch America's Next Top Model and laugh at what we will never be. John wears stupid hats and runs away from everything. Nina smiles and behind that smile there is so much. Caroline dances. I wave at people on my walk to work. On my way back from the gym, I run into someone from my floor. I plan for the future. I pay for my future, everything is on a tab. The fashion magazines never arrive on time. When they finally get here, everyone is already wearing the tights and the platforms and the Ray Bans. I go to sleep smiling sometimes. I go to sleep frustrated. I go to sleep, wondering what I should have done, why I didn't. There is a comedy club where I once saw Will Arnett and a pregnant woman who made me want to have children one day. I fear my words have become speeches. And, yet, somehow, I feel like there might actually be something for me here. Despite the juxtapositions. Despite the things that are so glaringly missing. And I only have a month and a half to convince myself it's all worth coming back to.

where are you from? ask yourself, ask anyone.

In reference to my last post: The reason I cannot have any guy that I want is that I am too afraid to open my mouth and spit a few witty words out every so often.

I'm terrible at flirting. Mostly because I'm afraid of strangers. Especially cute ones. And I hate sleeping in my room alone when my roommate isn't here. It makes no sense.

Ugh. Whiny whiny college student.

it's a siren barely audible.

People say to me:

"Carrie, you're so cute, you could have any guy you wanted." And I laugh it off. Because it isn't true. And even if it were, I wouldn't want it to be. I don't want any guy I can have. I only want the ones who don't want me. There must be something inherently wrong with me.

Or maybe it's just a ridiculous notion to think that anyone could convince anyone else to be with them. That's not how it should be. It's so hard to find anyone I'd actually care about enough to want to spend all that time getting to know their flaws and then reconciling myself to them. So while I want the stability and comfort a relationship offers, I also want the freedom to say "Eff off. You're annoying me. I'm going to go off and find myself again." Basically, I'm back at the part where I said there was something inherently wrong with me.

meditation 14.

So I was watching a show that I refuse to name out of personally inflicted shame, and the "narrator" said something really pseudo-deep like: "It may be frustrating to not get what you want, but the saddest people are those who don't know what it is they are chasing after."

And, okay, that's really stupid and Dawson's Creek sounding, but I hate how true it is. Right now, I am very much in a transitional stage in my life: I am between jobs, between relationships, between school years, between living situations, between the two and a half-week span I give myself before I am allowed to do laundry again.

It's hard to decide which things are worth moving forward on and which things are better left untainted. Take, for example, my job at the Daily Bruin. Do I let it all go and pursue something wildly different, or do I stick around, gaining more comfortable and valuable experience? And I will tell you that, despite my youthful and free-thinking vibes, I am starting to re-think the philosophy that it's always better to move on and broaden your experiences. Sometimes its better to stay where you are and let things ebb and branch across your memory like water dropped, pinpointed - and then refuses to stay put- as it creeps across a paper napkin. Sometimes, this allows you to reaccess the damage you've done. And while you may not be able to fix all the stupid shit you did when you started, at least you can apologize for it.

I guess my point is that I don't know what I'm chasing after right now. I just know that I'm chasing. Seeing this in myself, I know I need to stop and breathe for a moment; I know I need to take the time to figure out where that stupid yellow tape is that's marked with "Finish," that's marked with, "Okay, Carrie, you can be happy now."

that's just ridiculous.

I think I'm going to stop buying new clothes.

No, that doesn't mean I'm going to stop shopping (who do you think I am?). Aside from all the articles and columns and reminders that recycling clothes is so much better for the environment, I want to start exclusively thrift shopping because it's effing cheap. And in L.A. (and, as I'm sure, in other large cities), you can get amazingly cute stuff, that's better made/more unique than anything you can find at H&M and Forever 21 at the Beverly Center.

Here is where my argument is supposed to turn from Aristotle's pathos into logos, as my retarded Speech teacher would say. So I offer to you my receipt from my last thrifting binge:
Striped Mini Dress - $5
3 Belts - $3 ($1 each)
Cute Mocassins- $2
Electric Blue Insanely Soft Sweater- $4
Slip Dress- $3.50
T-Shirt that I am currently Wearing- $3
Really Cute Top- $4

Total: $24.50
Amazing.

Okay, I'm done being shallow now.