Monthly Archives: November 2013

roses are red, violets are blue.

Aw, shit, you guys. I just-today remembered that it’s NaNoWriMo. If you’re not a fan of link clicking, it stands for National Novel Writing Month and it challenges poor schmucks like myself to write a novel during the month of November. The focus is on making a habit of putting pen to paper / fingers to keyboard and just. writing. every. day. The finished product don’t necessarily hafta be Pulitzer material, but the concept is fantastic and I’ve said I was going to participate, like, a kadrillion times.

Except today is November 24th.

Hell, if I lived in Atlanta it’s be November 25th right now.* So for all intents and purposes, there’s five days left in the month.

That doesn’t give me a lot of time.

Sooooo…. who wants to read some motherfucking poetry instead?


These dice have too many sides.
Not to sound like your Great-Aunt Gloria but
how the hell do I play Yahtzee
with these things?
Lord of the Rings
is one of your favorite films.
Tried to watch it a few nights back but
I had no clue what was happening
the whole time.
Which is fine-
I respect that you’ve got your tastes and
I most definitely have mine
But you see,
‘least to me:
These dice have too many sides.


*Why the shit would I live in Atlanta? (apologies to BK, but the only times I’ve been there was because I had a delayed /missed flight and ended up staying in a hotel overnight… Although, now that I think about it, that ended up being quite the adventure both times).

Say yes

Aw, man, Youtube! You’ve shattered any semblance of computer-related productivity I ever created for myself. Take this, for instance: one of my top ten favorite artists covering my numero uno favorite artist, as part of series from one of my top ten favorite websites. My brain can’t handle the awesome and is essentially jelly right now.

And now, for your listening pleasure, the original as featured on Either/Or:

It’s short, sweet, and to the point. Not my favorite Elliott Smith song but might number in the top ten if I was forced to make such a list.

“slurry” and “chicken” shouldn’t be used together. Ever.

I made chicken nuggets. They weren’t terrible. I texted Brother a picture. It looked something like this:


And then he texted me back. It went something like this:

JULIE: Homemade chicken nuggets!
BROTHER: Mechanically separated chicken
J: I bought a machine.
B: A sieve
J: Gotta make sure enough tendon gets through to make it interesting.
B: Oh good
B: Slurry
J: Vomit

Where is my mind

omg, you guys. Another SOTD?

I’ve only seen Fight Club once, so I don’t have a real clear memory of this song used in the soundtrack. Instead, this one came across my radar when it popped up on a Pandora or Yahoo station I created many moons ago. Either way, I liked it the instant I heard it – do you know the feeling? You listen to it once and immediately must hear it again. Like maaaaaybe five times in a row. That kind of thing. Anyway, here it is:

And, because I’m feelin’ generous, here’s a quick little cover:

I never really dug my heels into Warehouse 13, but it’s by no means a bad show. Actually, I’m almost certain that if I were to revisit it today, I’d dig it. This is kind of my MO: watch a few episodes of a series (cough cough Dr. Who cough cough), not be entirely hooked, and leave it be, only to discover it again by accident months or even years later, becoming completely enamored with it the second time around.

Oh, and if you’re all like “what the fuck is she talking about?” this second vid is from Warehouse 13. The character is doing an open-mic thing. And it’s pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.

Party & Bullshit

If you’re new here, you might not know that I used to do a “song of the day” post. Sometimes I’d have a theme for the week but most of the time I just picked whatever song was in my head that day. For awhile, I even spun off a blog dedicated solely to the SOTD. And then I decided it was all dumb and deleted the spinoff and that was that.

I’m not saying that I’m bringing it back… but this is a SOTD post. So…whatever. I like musics a whole lot. I like hearing new musics. I like talking about it. I like telling people about musics I like. I love suggesting songs for people to listen to and I love it even more when I get suggestions back.

Tonight I was reading this (The Top 50 Debut Singles in US Music History) and my inner music nerd got all hot and bothered. Number 31 on the list is this, a product of the legendary Notorious B.I.G:

It’s not omg I love this song! – it’s more omg! memories! See, I hear Biggie and I’m transported back – not to 1993 when the single was released – but roughly six or seven years later when I first came across this entire genre. The timeline is really pretty muddled, though. I hear this song now and I can easily convince myself that I totally lived through that era completely conscious of the East Coast / West Coast hip hop feuds (not true). And then I jump ahead and think about the fucking paper I wrote about this for my freshman English comp class in college (true).* And then, more importantly (because I’m getting to the point here, I promise), I think about how one little song can bring up so much.

Here’s to you, Big Poppa. Here’s to you making me think about sitting at a laminate-covered desk cubby in our college’s library writing an essay on looseleaf paper and trying to figure out how the hell one cites liner notes in APA Style. Here’s to this song bringing me to the present, and a drunken Cards Against Humanity night at The Barrister’s place; a Cypress Hill Pandora station serenading us all the way, and me quite sloppily proclaiming that THEY NEED TO MAKE MORE OF THIS MUSIC.

Cheers, motherfucker.



*No, for real. I think my topic had something to do with violence in music, because I also remember referencing Nine Inch Nails, too. What the–?





send in the clowns.

Have you ever had a Crush of Fascination? Something – or a combination of Somethings – about another person sucks you in. They say interesting things about interesting things. They are funny. They are physically attractive. They like things you like. They are nice. They juggle well and ride the hell out of that unicycle.

Anyway, for any number of reasons, you want to know more about this person. You want to know what makes them tick. You want to spend time with them. You want to see them in action. You are drawn to them, maybe inexplicably, and want more – though you’re not quite sure what “more” entails.

But maybe the “more” might take the form of some sort of intimate relationship. In this case, the person will be one of two types of people: The Possibles and the Not Possibles. The Not Possibles can be easy to spot: they’re already firmly attached to another. They are unaware of your existence. They’re straight. They’re gay. Their traveling circus is leaving for Waukegan in three days and you’ll never see them again.

Other times, the Not Possibles reveal themselves in other ways. It usually happens when you begin to spend more time with them – hear more of what they have to say, see more of them in action – and you just lose interest. The Crush of Fascination is simply no longer fascinating.

The Possibles, though? That’s the fun part. If you’re willing to set aside expectations, hold your goddamn horses and just let things play out naturally,  you’ll almost never be steered wrong. You might end up with another Not Possible, but you very well could end up with a great fucking ending of your unique imagining.

And possibly a bff with a pet elephant.


crazy loves company.

This week I had a goddamn revelation and it made me so happy I almost hopped up and down.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to explain what I realized – because I think it’s important and worth explaining – without making myself sound like a weird, awkward, possibly diagnose-able nutbar.

And then I was all like “fuck it.”

I’ve had this thing for awhile now where I can’t talk to people. Not, you know, all of the time. But some of the times. This happens (usually) to people I don’t know real well. Like work colleagues, or friends of friends you only see sometimes in large group settings. I am physically incapable of making small talk. My brain tenses up, and I just cannot contribute to any conversation. This blows.* Because I’m pretty sure there are things that I could say, and I know that, uh,  sometimes I do say things that people listen to so what the fuck is going on now? 

So I worried for quite awhile that when this happened people thought a) something was wrong with me or b) I was actually just an uninteresting blob of a person.

To me, option b) is far, far worse.

But then – THEN, people! THEN! – it dawned on me that the street goes two fucking ways. If people are unable to make conversation with me, maybe they think they’re the weird ones! Holy shit, guys! This means I’m not alone!

For some reason, this was a possibility I’d completely blown past before. But then, after talking with someone about a Mutual Friend and his sometimes-struggles with social anxiety it hit me. Hard. This guy is a very cool, incredibly interesting person. But sometimes when I try to talk to him, it’s like we’re speaking two different languages. Never once did I consider the possibility that this was the product of two very similar personalities butting heads in some sort of anxiety-ridden mental shit show. I had no idea that he experienced this sort of anxiety.

And as unsympathetic as it might sound, oh lawdy did I feel better once I realized it’s not always me. Sometimes it’s the other guy, sometimes it’s the two of us, but either way:

I ain’t the only weirdo in the bunch.



* I almost typed “This blows goats” but I honestly can’t remember if that’s an actual saying that people use or something that me and my bff made up together. Enlighten me, please.

freedom isn’t free.

Saying “Happy Veterans Day!” seems weird to me. The “Happy” part, that is. I mean, I’m quite happy that these folks came back. I’m happy that I have my freedom. But this sort of holiday seems like more of a remembrance-type occasion and less of a celebration, no? I’m not saying it’s a completely solemn day. Veterans Day parades are great. But tacking the word “Happy” onto the name of a holiday doesn’t always work for me.

Last night I found a scanned photo of Dad in his Marine Corps uniform. He is certainly no older than 18, but he looks about 15. He claims he enlisted because his recruiter promised him and his friend they wouldn’t even see any action. Dad is not a gullible man; this recruiter must have been something else. Perhaps he told him that the war was almost over; by the time he left boot camp there’d be nowhere to send him. Who knows?

When I was 18, I made cherry limeades at the Sonic for a living. My biggest worry was moving away to college in the fall. I remember panicking when I realized the amount of crap I’d have to bring with me. Little stuff, like staples. I’d have to pack my own staples. God forbid if I ran out of paper clips. How many paper clips should I pack?

I knew a guy my age who went to Iraq and came back an absolute mess. He was completely bonkers. His mind was terribly damaged, and it was heartbreaking. This is the same story my parents tell about friends they knew. Just sad, sad stuff. It’s strange to share that kind of experience with them, but my children surely will share these experiences with me. Also sad stuff.

So maybe not a happy Veterans Day, but a meaningful one, to those who have not served.

And a peaceful one to those who have.



Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, so I climbed a tree instead.

When I was a kid it bugged me when Mom or Dad or Other Responsible Adult would drive the same route over and over and over again. I became downright giddy when we took the highway instead of back roads, or back roads instead of the highway, or a completely new way I’d never seen before. To my mind, there were no fewer than 25 ways to get to the grocery store and I wanted to see them all.*

So imagine my surprise when I realized this morning – literally, 3 minutes ago – that I’d been approaching a particular long-standing goal of mine in a very linear, uncompromising, it can only be done this one way, damnit! fashion. Without being too specific, I’ve just been assuming that I’d have to go back to school in order to get any kind of measurable shit done with my life.

This has been my attack plan for years. YEARS! And instead of taking the literally 10 seconds to consider the alternatives, I wasted my energy on figuring out how the hell I was going to basically rearrange my life around more fucking education, dreading the entire thing, and resigning myself to selling a kidney on Craigslist to finance it all. Ugh. Talk about a downer, bro. No wonder I’d made zero progress.

I very briefly considered if there was a mental roadblock at play here: Oooh! For complicated Reasons, you’ve subconsciously set yourself up to fail! Oooh! The plot thickens, and — nope. Fuck that. I just let my brain become – what’s the opposite of distracted?

Hey! There’s a first time for everything.



*This is not an exaggeration. This girl used to take the Wunnenberg Street Guide to Saint Louis County into her room and lay on her bed studying it for hours. I wish I could say I was kidding.

map porn. Talk cartography to me, baby.

map porn. Talk cartography to me, baby.


Today I woke up and realized that, really, I have the freedom to do whatever the hell I want. Go for a run. Make some pancakes. Drink my coffee by the lake. Hell, even sleep in for another hour. My life is great; my responsibilities are not overwhelming.

So I put on this song and danced in my living room.