In which Lambsie is dumping friends.

And I am serious about this. My whole life I have let my friends walk all over me and for what? out of desperation for acceptance? Well fuck all of them. I can live without friends. I did it all last year and I can do it again. Hell, I feel just as alone with them as I do without, so why not? Why emotionally invest myself in people who couldn't give a fucking damn about me? Now I'm the one doing the ditching. Bad friends, indeed. I'm giving up on all of you. Happy fucking Halloween.

In which Lambsie remixes Gaslight.

In which Lambsie is paralyzed by parethesias.

Not paralyzed in the literal sense. Or the figurative. Perhaps just the alliterative really.
But paresthesias bites.
At least its only in my left hand so I can still etch, but typing is a bother. I somehow fucked up my ulnar nerve (lord knows how) and it really freaked me the hell out last night when my pinkie fell asleep followed by my 4th finger and the entire half of the hand.
Apparently, it can last a while.
This bites.



Oh and btw, I find out about ghana/argentina tomorrow (supposedly). Wish me luck?

In which Lambsie youtubes the night away.

Would you like some balloons? I have no idea what this is but I guess it is pretty fucking awesome.

Who said bunnies weren't useful around the house?

And I'm sorry Ms. Jackson , but I miss the good folks in Charleston.

In which Lambsie posts song of the moment #4.

Lo and behold! An mp3 player to your right.
It plays..... Horse Feathers- "Finch on Saturday" and it seriously is my favorite song.

(And just to remind myself here, the next song will be Grizzly Bear's Lullaby or Easier)

In which Lambsie...well, read the picture.

Premature, I know. But a fairy princess need not wait, especially when she finally got around to buying a wig at St. Marks Pl.

(I'm bending over the wing if you were wondering how that worked...i just wanted you to see the glitter spirals)

(and that wig also makes me wonder whether I should get some form of bangs, though perhaps not quite so industrial- strength,I still have in my possession a particularly heinous yearbook photo from the 3rd grade)

In which Lambsie is Black Sheep.

Holy god, mighty lord, gracious father.
This movie is ridiculous/amazing.
And makes me slightly terrified of WWOOFing.

In which Lambsie needs a hug.

...A hug like swallowing sunshine.

Man. Wouldn't that be great right about now?

I can't remember the last time I got hugged that good. I had a best friend once who used to offer up hugs that could cure the world but I was too awkward and insecure to welcome them and now I would willingly throw myself into the arms of a stranger if it meant I would choke at the sunshiney greatness of it all.

I miss that friend and now I can't find her.

And I had a friend before that, when I was really young, but now we're too far gone from each other to ever be like that again.

But oh, I'm near crying now. Amazing, all the shit that has happened to me and I cry because I can't get a good hug.

Of course, everyone knows its more than that, but I like to think that a good hug... and I mean buttercreamfrostingsunshineylemoncakefreshpickedstrawberries good... would be enough to catapult me from this linoleum/cinderblock/flourescent hell and land me where the land is green and there is rain and sun enough that the entire earth is content to cast her arms open and embrace every sad little soul on this planet.

In which Lambsie thinks on veganism.

These days I cannot help but think that being moral is high maintenance. Am I truly that snobbish for being a vegetarian? I tell myself that I do not judge others for eating meat, but don't I? At least, when it ever comes to having a significant relationship with someone, could I overlook the carniverous habits of a partner? It isn't just about the cute little animals to me, its environmentalism.
And am I a hypocrite to be so inherently judgemental when I myself make a poor vegetarian? Were I vegan, then I would be justified. Then, however, I must also be completely alienated from the majority of the population. High. Maintenance. Self-Righteous. Bitch.
But why should I feel guilty about have qualms about meat consumption? Why should I care if I am disliked for being borderline militant in my environmentalism? The fact is that I am so alone and so insecure that I fear that I will die having always been insulated in my cocoon of my idealism.
I suppose that is the price of morality.
And on the topic of veganism, I plan on phasing out most of my dairy consumption. Go all out on amazing vegan cooking. I have nothing against dairy, just the cruel treatment of the animals who are kind enough to provide it (but no, I do not support PETA, and before you get all huffy, look up just how many of the animals they "save" get put to sleep).
So that's that, low-maintenance Lambsie is dead. Never mind that she can live without running water. Never mind that she can do farm labor. Never mind that she can live out of a backpack for four months.
Lambsie is a bleedingheartvegetarianenvironmentalistsocialistactivistIDEALIST and fucking high maintenance to boot. Think on that, lazy bums.

In which Lambsie reports NY celebrity sightings.

Few years...
got Denzel's autograph after his broadway performance in Julius Caesar
Last year...
Mario Cantone on University place, looking grouchy
This year...
Sam Waterson (aka Jack McCoy, law and order) DUMBO festival, open studios on Jay street (?)
Willem Dafoe (GREEN GOBLIN!), university place, looking rather grumpy as well
Today... Ed Westwick, the kid who plays the rich asshole/date rape guy Chuck on Gossip Girl, register next to me at Best Buy, wasn't sure until the cashier made him say his name and address (which i did not care to remember, thank you) and then I looked up the name and found out that, yes, he was on gossip girl... and yes, I watch gossip girl...I also watch Desperate Housewives. Soaps rock my world.
Everyday of my fucking life... Haley Joel Osment

In which Lambsie dreams of being an expat...

...in Slovenia?
Just listen to this quotation: "They are protective of their natural environment, and virgin forest covers half of the country; it is the greenest country in Europe besides Finland. Wild animals including boar, chamois, brown bears, deer, lynx and wolves live here in abundance."
(http://www.escapeartist.com/efam19/Slovenia.html)

In which Lambsie wants a bunny.

And cannot have one, since I plan on being out of the country off an on for the next ten years.
And I couldn't convince my parents to house one for me because my father is allergic.
But still, one can dream of a pastoral paradise with lambs and cows and bunnies and organic veggies...
I've decided I look like a rabbit. I've even got the teeth ha ha. And I seem to have taken after the Danish in my family (um, boobs) and if I had to assign them an animal I am sure it would be some cute, fluffy bunny.
But if we're going to talk spirit animals then wolves and bears are the way to go but my mind is water and my hands are earth and if that makes no sense to you then you are not alone.
Thats my Frank Zappa impression for the day. I've been doing that a lot lately.

In which Lambsie gets reckless woah

yes, I posted a pic of myself
because I'm sure my multitude of fans will manage to find me in a city of 8 million people
bon chance

but seriously, best picture taken of me EVER...not that decent-looking in the real life, sorry...

In which Lambsie assigns herself a writing excercise.

I only study when I assign the work.

ASSIGNMENT: Modern day Jane Austen movie or play adaptation.
SPECIFICATIONS: can NOT be Pride and Prejudice.
OBJECTIVE: To finish a fucking piece of work, even if it isn't a completely original idea. Then maybe I can move on to writing about my own experiences and then finally get around to writing down the copious amounts of novels and screenplays in my head.

My proposal: Emma, set in New Zealand and involving a cosmetology school.
OR Northanger Abbey, set yet unknown.

In which Lambsie is a mendhirani.

Ok, so this one I did with a pre-mixed tube I got in Jackson Heights because I am too lazy to mix the paste...of course that means it will come out shitty and weak because, duh, it came in a tube, but whatevs...
And btw this isn't where I meant when I said I wanted the Om Mani Padme Hung on my wrist...I'd want it horizontal under the base of my palm so it can be hidden by a watch band or chunky bracelets in times of necessity... I only put the henna one there because it wouldn't show up on the softer skin of my inner wrist.

I know, so not as glorious as seen in my mendhi phase of this summer:
OK
I really cannot be modest about that piece. The design on my hand ROCKED.

In which Lambsie attempts to brew a healing potion without the proper ngredients.

I have to remind myself to get eucalyptus oil.
And everything else I am too sick to go out and buy.
So instead of finding a good supplier in this pitiable state I offer myself only this remedy:
Black tea, soy milk, honey, and a little too much masala.

Chug it.

In which Lambsie feverishly contemplates maturity.

Older men and younger women.
And why.
I, the younger woman, can at least offer explanation from my end of the age and sex spectrum.
Men, if they are ever to mature, have something of a ten year delay (or more, depending on the case) in development compared to women. Though it is a horribly inaccurate generalization to say that women at the age of twenty are at all mature, I mean the idea to apply to women who go about seeking men around a decade or more older than they.

A brief aside that will probably turn into a seperate rant: I realize that I may not come off as very mature. I am silly and girly and I am sure I will still be just as batty when I am fifty. But I'm not sure mature is really acting like a grown-up. Take my hell-spawned roommate from last year, the Beast. Everytime she saw my Kwala (yes, there is a koala bear in my bed) she would go on and on about how she missed her stuffed rabbit. Her living in Connecticut (that glorious haven for racists) I asked, more than once, why she didn't bring it back to school with her one weekend. She scoffed as if the idea were preposterous. Well, of course, she had to grow up sometime. So the Beast wore her matronly clothes and strode off to business school or her internship every day, daydreaming only about the riches she would make off destroying her youth locked away in investment banking and how she would then manage to coerce some poor sod into marrying her and getting her pregnant with numerous Catholic babies and then how she would grow old as a non-working housewife in Connecticut, her years of education wasted, and then die and go to a pure and righteous heaven because she truly believed, all her pathetic life, that the pope was infallible. Too bad she didn't even have a soul to save in the first place.

How very mature and rational all this was.

Too bad she was still desperately in love with her high school boyfriend, who, as we found out later having thought for so long that her boyfriend was a real douche bag to her, was never actually her boyfriend. ((Can anyone say stalker?))

Too bad she emotionally stunted herself in high school by sacrificing fun for the highest grades possible so she could get into dream-school Princeton, only to end up here, at NYU, School of Ivy League Rejects.

Too bad she still thinks sex is something shameful (mark of a true Catholic) and heaven forbid any of us have same-sex tendencies...

Too bad she gets drunk every weekend and makes a complete fool of herself in an attempt to dupe herself into thinking she is having fun and that she is indeed popular.

I'm going to act a complete snob here and say, drinking until you barf is so high school.

So is relying on passive aggression as a mature tactic in getting what you want.

There you have it. The Beast. She may look well into her forties, but, trust the ex-roommate, she's pushing 12.

And, to somehow tie this in to the idea that started this post, too bad she thinks older men are "grody". I've seen her type--------------->






We're in college now, dear. We should, at the very least, have graduated to explicit sex dreams about these blokes:
And/or these ladies:

In which Lambsie becomes Lambsie.

No more Din Din. It's Lambsie Divey now.
Don't ask why (well, it's probably due to my feverish humming of "mersie dotes and dosie dotes and little lambsie divey..."). Anyway, its not as if anyone asked about Din Din either. Or even knew about Din Din.
I went back and changed a few recent posts to Lambsie instead of Din Din. Not as catchy I know, but let's just say that Din Din may be known to some. It's still one of my aliases, I guess, just not for this blog anymore.

In which Lambsie is feverously...feverous.

So be prepared for some form of fevered deliriousness.
His name's Bartleby. My new camcorder. He's shiny. I need to buy him a firewire because he was built to hate Betty. My mac, Betty. But I'm hoping it's a Pride and Prejudice deal, except with electronics. They misunderstand each other now, but soon they shall see the error of their ways and marry and be ridiculously rich together at Pemberley, where they make beautiful films.
I think I want to seduce one of my professors. Maybe because I actually have a chance to be a protégé. I love professor/protégé relationships. They're so possessive and destructive. Oh fuck it, he's probably married.
Why am I sick at the start of a long weekend? I plan on going in tomorrow to finish up some work. Not to run into my professor. What am I thinking? I'm plain, plain, plain Jane and I mean plain as in the euphemism for UGLY and not the in the generic-looking way. I don't even have my cute hair yet. I can't even wear it down anymore because it looks idiotic; it's still layered as if it should be short so it flips up funny and scraggly-like. I need my short hair now and I keep forgetting to book a hair appointment. I need it funky and artsy and notsoplainjane-y. I want it before I go to LEAF.

I am the ugly girl whose skill is (rarely) recognized over her unappealing appearance...though the last few days, several and I mean whoa a lot of (sketchy) men have said some version of "good morning, sweet" or "oi niña" to me on the street when I'm pretty sure I was some form of sweaty or exhausted. I think it has to do with my not-so-easily concealed heaving chest and immense posterior.
But hey, el profesor is impressed by something a lot more solid than looks and he's not hiding it. I feel approved of and, boy, that's quite enough to make my life right now, fever and ugliness and all.

I will not lower this to the level of misplaced desire. This is golden. This is intellectual approval and I am on level with the gods because of it.

Wow, my fever's gone up a bit more. Um...later I guess.

I'm totally gonna regret saying what was initially said about my professor. At least no one knows my name, my professor's name, or even what school or class he teaches at.

In which Lambsie hates that her mother can still make her cry, even if she doesn't have the satisfaction of knowing about it.

I don't really want to talk about it, but here's an email to my dad.

"Next time, I will be sure to record my end of the conversation.
My voice remained a relative monotone at a ridiculously low volume and I made damn sure to maintain it because my suitemates are home and these walls are super thin.
I made one tiny slip-up (after she began yelling, in my own defense) when she goaded at me about my "fusing out" every time I go to LEAF and I made quiet mention that it was only when she was there (which was an entirely true statement, albeit unnecessary).
I am getting a hell of a lot better at not taking her bait but sometimes I can't help but try to defend myself against her insults. Trust me, I meditate for a half hour before classes each morning; I'm learning to channel all of my negative energies into activism to bring about positive change. I do yoga and Qigong and have gone temporarily vegan and am finally coming into my independence and, honestly, I'm starting to think has a lot to do with a backlash to her constant belligerence and the strain it puts on me to have to tip-toe around her all the time. I will have no more personal set-backs because of her. But, heaven forbid, I am ego-centric enough to want to defend myself against completely false accusations. I'm used to how she reacts so I do my best not to gratify her nonsensical statements with provoked responses.
My mother mirrors her own irrationality, not mine.

Sorry about all of this.
I love you"

I hate that now, even after all these years, I cry like a stupid little girl when I get angry.

In which Lambsie thinks the whole world has Asperger's Syndrome.

Seriously. Maybe it's just in academia.
But that's where I am and I guess it makes sense that it would be more prevalent here.

In which Lambsie makes a stab at veganism for health purposes.

Since no one reads this I am going to record my current diet in this post out of convenience for myself.
October 1
breakfast- a Go Raw banana "bread" flax bar and a naturally-occurring-sugars-only smoothie...well, sucks to be sick but hey, this detox thing is a helluva lot easier when the thought of most foods makes me wanna puke.
lunch- feeling better so i got a little corn tortilla, put hummus and tahini in it folded in over and pretty much sauteed (is that the word???) it in some olive oil on the stove and ate it with salsa. I might squeeze some lemon or lime juice on it next time. It was so tasty I wondered if my mouth was tricking me and it was still small enough to not make me puke...and don't worry, it all adhered to the specifications of my "vegan detox."

Going to the doc this afternoon. Weird, but I actually want all this to be because of hypothyroidism, because then I know what it is and know I can be treated.

Later...

They stole my blood. I wait for results.

Totally had the same thing for dinner as I had for lunch, except, this time, TWO. My nausea is totally gone hurrah.