additionally, i'm made reference to which lifts my awkward spirits.

i really need to commit to making a mixtape and convincing mum that i need a trip to "look at schools" in san fran. problems: money is tighter than tight (and not "tight" in that newfound-hipster colloquial sense, but "tight" as in "we pick up every penny we see on the ground regardless if it's tails-side up."), i will have secured the open position for weekend baker/co-head cook at the co-op, i want the new album finished before i venture into anything that could give me hope or a sense of "this is where i should be." i mean, i see the lighthouse but i've temporarily set anchor down in the turbulent, churning sea (and this metaphor will only work if you imagine that i have an unbelievably long rope attached to the anchor.)

why does everything i hold turn to sand, slip through my fingers and leave me empty-handed?

(just thought i'd through that in for maximum effectiveness.)

oh. by the way. the weekend! ambryn and bethany moved out and away of st peter (and then there was one). in order to evade emotion and 'moments,' i bravely stick-shifted it minneapolis to have a proper gay-night out. andymonkey and his boyfriend ben and i went to urban outfitters cos i desperately needed jeans. mission accomplished. ben went home. andymonkey and i went to lara croft film. (damn us for not paying matinee price for so-so film!) then, andymonkey and i went to jetset (non-smoking, minimalist gay martini bar... despite non-smoking, one of my favourites). we meet up with casey and li'l matt. i drink much. we go to the saloon... haven't been in ages... the saloon: meat-market danceclub for "boi"s and predators. i've never truly enjoyed it, but since it had been ages, i wanted to go. and like before... it's a meat-market and there i was, the sole head of romaine lettuce. no one wants whats crisp, delicious and good for them... bastards. li'l matt, the monkey and i drive to suburbs to nearest perkins. blah blah blah. wake up hungover slightly (a job well done says i). ate at little tijuanas. homemade fried tortilla chips and guacamole and a burrito the size of rhode island. and i felt amazingly better. until i got home and threw an amazing pity party. dressed in black, chainsmoked whitetipped cigarettes out of a glass filter and drank elitist beer in sparkling blue bottles whilst performing some new songs to a garage full of orphaned stuffed animals and aggressive mosquitoes. (could've done without the latter since i've most likely acquired west nile virus.)

and then gene called me. unexpected. we only met once, over two and a half years ago. and i've always had somewhat of a schoolgirl crush on him. seems he's back at home. we will attempt to go to a movie. i hope he'll try something (cos frankly, i need a little bit of (shall we say, for lack of a better term,) "validation.") but alas, my dashed hopes are set upon other things besides schoolgirl crushes.

so, mr. berkeley... i've a broom, but these socks of mine need a-knockin' off. (if you'd be so kind.)