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1. ___________________________ of legs. ______ ,practically. In ribbons______

2. Update Conversation?

3. Google wagers You Can Sleep Less!

4. Epicaricacy. I peeled back your misfortunes (as whole fingernails removed smoothly with a paring knife: orange and to the bed) and they tasted like honey.

5. The Moment: Boots with Room for Calves.

6. Maybe I was a lil too, um forward?

7. The famous MORMON masturbation factory of boys.

5. “In traumatic and war neuroses the human ego is defending itself from a danger which threatens it from without or which is embodied in a shape assumed by the ego itself. In the transference neuroses of peace the enemy from which the ego is defending itself is actually the libido, whose demands seem to it to be menacing. In both cases the ego is afraid of being damaged – in the latter case by the libido and in the former by external violence. It might, indeed, be said that in the case of the war neuroses, in contrast to the pure traumatic neuroses and in approximation to the transference neuroses, what is feared is nevertheless an internal enemy. The theoretical difficulties standing in the way of a unifying hypothesis of this kind do not seem insuperable: after all, we have a perfect right to describe repression, which lies at the basis of every neurosis, as a reaction to a trauma- as an elementary traumatic neurosis.”

-Freud on War Neuroses

Below is a summary of my feelings about the election. I will never again talk about them on blag.

1. 7am this morning, Porter Square T Station: woman with pearls over turtleneck with helmet-hair half ponytail and teeth so white they were almost blue smiles holding VOTE HILARY sign.

2. As a practical joke: My ladywife hacked my archaic Friendster account and befriended Barack Obama. Who knows how long my friendster account bragged OBAMA!!! ? Who knew Friendster was still an apt place to make jokes. Is that its new purpose? One thing is certain: there will be vengeance. And the kind of vengeance that would make Leonard Nimoy proud!

I. I received another letter to the parents of femmephane from University yesterday. This one kindly numbered three reasons why families should bring a ($400) diploma frame with them on graduation day. They went something like this: to show your kid you’re proud, to show the extended family it’s really true, because otherwise it’ll get wrinkled. My shrink asked me if I was going to walk despite the fact that it will be a completely fucked up distressing day and mostly stupid. I appreciate her more.

II. Brown University’s grading system has only A’s, B’s, and C’s. That’s it. Three grades! D’s and F’s are dropped from transcripts and there are no pluses or minuses. That means that anyone who gets anything between a B+ and an A+ gets an A. And since C’s are treated like F’s almost no one gets them. 60% of the grades given at Brown are A’s. And then those students and their money apply to grad schools with those GPAs! Oh boy.

III. Okay, so it was me who pulled up the anti-abortion (anti-choice/anti-life) signs from the University lawn. But it was really to save the Republicans from their own shoddy workmanship. You can’t put down one (1) flag to represent every fifty-thousand (50,000) abortions! That doesn’t make a statement at all. Who can visualize 50,000 babies? Five, maybe. Especially because they were those cheerful little Tyvek numbers that contractors use to partition space. Maybe if they had used human fingernails (a la Juno) I would have been able to really conceptualize it. Bad work GOPs. Worst protest on campus since Pangaea’s Simulation Refugee Camp got canceled because of the rain.

d. I dreamt you sent me a card with red flowers that said: “Instead of Montreal, come to my show a week from Thursday.” The letters were large and gray, more circular than yours. Maybe your mother wrote it, I guessed but knew it couldn’t true. When I woke up I thought it might have been an old invitation, meant for someone else. You never work on Thursdays. I reviewed my unsent emails and realized I should have delivered them in red bows.

b. I was relieved to find that your captioned stills terrify me.

k. Over and over you coo “hellooo” into my voicemail as if I can hear you leaving the message. When I return the calls it’s too noisy to hear you and as soon as you pick up I lose my voice against the train anyway.

o. I part and fall into two cold blocks. I am proof of how neatly soft water can be sliced. I wished it had been different last night.

a. I weaken in four places and accordion dramatically when I’m with you. Finding the floor with my hands I tell you, again, the story about how I asked my mother How many years you get for adultery. She told me No Years because It Isn’t Illegal and I realized how much simpler my life would be. I was eight. After that I smeared my makeup and poured a whiskey for you.

b. We talked about the faces we wear in the world and who would roll the heater in. You sauteed the garlic and I poured the gin heavy with my socks pulled up high over my running tights. It was only ten but we acted like we had been talking all night.

I implore you to stop thoughtlessly using expressions like:

“…which is exactly what the Judeo-Christian faith, at least, promotes…”(names have been changed to protect the person in my Lit Theory class)

What do you mean by Judeo-Christian faith? In this case she actually means the major monotheistic theological beliefs which she feels comfortable talking about. But how about using “religion” instead of faith. Or how about saying Jewish and Christian instead of Judeo-Christian. Judeo-Christian has become nothing but a handy hyphenation to throw around when we want to swiftly reference the moral and legal structures that we feel are implicated in something mysteriously related to religion.

While we’re at it can we please refrain from referencing the following TERMS as if they are the PRINCIPLES ON WHICH PRACTICE IS FOUNDED:

Virgin/Whore Dichotomy – your way of referencing why life is hard for women

Honor/Shame Society – your way of explaining why MENA has those familial                                     structures. Oh! Those!

I’ve been maniacally humming a lot of David Bowie for the last few days. Which is pretty cool, if you ask me. Maybe less cool for the Y trainer who came over to ask me to turn down the ipod to so I could hear myself singing. Or–rather–hear myself start to not sing, as he would have it.

I attribute my elation to the heralded return of my very dearest friend from the bowels of America. By which I mean…. the twisty center and not the shittiest place. He has known me since I was studying econ and wearing my mother’s jean jacket embroidered with Eustace Tilley. I wouldn’t want to belittle the care the rest of you have delivered. Still, the return of Ken has seen a record low for anxiety. My fake allergies have subsided, considerably. Perhaps it’s because K has a spotless record of emergency room behavior.

Had HE been at the gym, he probably would have hummed along. I didn’t tell the trainer that my ipod was off. My whole face had already exploded with adrenaline. Then I consider how Ken calls our joint singing race-to-the-bad note and think we might, perhaps, confine our music to home. And maybe a cruise or two.

In other news:

1. gin and tonics– wow, what an oversight?

2. we’ve brought in a cat, temporarily, as radical measure to take care of mice. I have forgotten so many cats in my life. I called Nico recently to ask her where we met a cat I used to know. I’ve probably convened with yours.

3. there is a second hole in my nostril. really, a third if you count the nostril itself. this time I did not do it because I was feeling impulsive but because I had some time to kill.

4. I have almost finished the first chapter of my thesis. I am going to make a new page for it on my blag. I entreat you to read it and to say scathing, critical things. I don’t have an adviser and trust you more anyway.

(see photo in previous post)

Ingredients

2.5 lbs large beets (or about three beets the size odf large apples)

2 lbs of baby carrots

2 t sugar

1/2 cup+ olive oil

salt/pepper

1 lb of split peas

6 c water

1 med yellow onion, halved

1 bay leaf

4 garlic cloves, 2 minced

zest of one lemon

juice of one lemon

1/2 c chopped mint leaves (although I’ll leave them out when I make the salad again. It would probably be better with basil or at least use less mint)

1 large shallot, minced

1 T balsamic

1. Preheat the oven to 400. Wrap each beet in foil and bake them directly on the middle oven rack for 1 1/2 hours. When the beets are tender, let them cool, peel, and cut into 1/2 inch wedges. Slice the beets horizontally so they’re about the same size as the baby carrots.

2. At the same time, toss carrots, sugar, and 2 T of olive oil in a large baking dish. Season with salt and pepper and roast for 45 minutes or until they are tender but not mushy.

3. And at the same time!! put water, peas, two whole cloves garlic, onion, and bay leaf in a large soup pot. Bring to a boil and the reduce to a simmer until the peas are a slightly tender (about 20 minutes). Add 2 t of salt and cook five more minutes or until the peas are tender. Drain and discard the onion, garlic, and leaf.

4. In a large bowl, combine the drained lentils, lemon zest, lemon juice, shallot, and mint(if you want) and 1/2 cup of olive oil. Season, if it needs it, with salt and pepper.

5 . In another bowl combine the beets and carrots with the balsamic. Arrange the beets and carrots over the peas. Serve warm or at room temperature.

The salad is especially good reheated the next day. I put some big chunks of feta all over the top, broiled it, and ate it with the left-over homemade bread turned toast.

I’m operating at this special work, eat, work, nightmare, work– level. Okay, occasionally I watch fragmented episodes of Project Runway Canada on Youtube. It’s hosted by Iman who, instead of ominously announcing “as you know in fashion, one day you’re in, the next day you’re OUT,” throws up her hands and says “sometimes you just don’t measure up.” I never predicted Iman could seem so much like a yente. Really, Lazar Wolf would be proud. There’s also a really charmingly schlumpy Tim Gunn knock-off who looks like he would be a little more comfortable on Fawlty Towers. They all kindly offer each other help and make casual references to the celebrity phenomenon, Avril Lavigne.

I’m also accepting friend counsel toward organizing my alcohol collection into a more presentable array. SOMEHOW (Manhattans with Nora, J’s sweet drink habits, a plan to bourbon balls) I have about 25 different bottles. When I cleaned my apartment I discovered the sheer volume as I consolidated them on my windowsill from their spots in cupboards, counters, and the freezer.

“You could move them around the apartment so they’re more spread out,” Ken suggested.

“But then it would look like you were hiding them,” he realized.

Maybe I could give them decorative platforms throughout the apartment. Develop elaborate personas for each of them and then respect their domain. Then! it would be clear I wasn’t hiding them.

“I could crochet them all different outfits!” I told him.

He insisted we photographed our scrabble game in progress so that we could recreate it later and then strategized about how to write scrabble in java.

Some worried onlooker interrupted, “You know they already have Scrabble online!”

Oh, we know. But thanks.

I haven’t yet found anything valuable to “contribute” to my Literary Theory class and so I am relying on coy, pretentious jokes to get me by. I give myself extra points if I think the jokes betray an intimacy between the professor and me. And he’s just the right kind of smug for it. I ran out for a moment just before class started today and the professor thought I was chasing him down, impatient for his wisdom.

“Were you looking for me?” his retinue of graduate students stop watching him expectantly and made silly conversation as if watching our exchange might be degrading to their genius.

“No. Just the water fountain. Or– whatever that signifies…” He laughed* and told me not to go down stairs, that he was, in fact, standing right in front of one! Please crouch down here! Please engage yourself in water pressure so weak that you have to practically lick the spout in the center of these congregated candidates. Yes! Please! I flashed back to public school. Was someone going to hit me on the back of the head? Were they looking at my butt? Did the rich kids have to do this too or did they all have water bottles?

One of them, self-important, self-mythic, had to move aside. I haven’t seen her for a while. She must have relocated her work once she finished her Masters. But I am surprised she isn’t around more– collecting hetero-undergrad crushes in her white leather blazer, her bleach-white hair, her square white teeth.

She is moderately gifted at regurgitating anything my lit-theory prof has written but seemingly incapable of parsing theoretical conversation and responding with any grace. I once had the pleasure of seeing her argue with Nico– and with Nico’s dark hair, dark suit, dark eyes the looked like nemeses. Later I saw her-highness-Billy-Idol run across the street and her limbs splayed silently at awkward angles. She ruined herself — a liquid marionette— and grinned.

I realized how clever and handsome I might seem if I grow more willing to strike poses.

A straight woman who has previously expressed discomfort about my gayness complimented me today. “Can I say something personal?” I blushed and we had an audience. “Is that your natural eye-color?” I assured her it was. “I think you have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen!” She was downright enthusiastic about it. She has large, blocky hands and keeps her fingers pressed tightly into two flat planes as she talks, making circles in the air.

I so rarely receive straightforward compliments from people I am not sleeping with that they catch me off guard. I terrified of being perceived as an unwelcome and desirous presence around women (like so many gay women) and stay as far as I can from normal homosocial discourse. So when that happens you can see why I immediately want to make a new friend, to cultivate sleepovers, to be able to access some non-sexual nudity. I telescope almost as quickly.

*I was shopping for yarn recently and a woman working at the store laughed loudly at seemingly nothing. It sounded like the kind of laugh a geeky student issues while trying to impress a punning professor, despite the fact that she does not understand the pun. Finally someone asked her, “what is it?” And, “Oh I was just laughing about this avatar I made for this one forum. It’s a joke with myself.”

Someone accused me of being busy and I want to elaborate.

This is my final semester and I am taking four (4) classes:

0. Tantra, 1. C++, 2. Literary Theory, and 3. Religion in Contemporary American Film.

The professors of the first three specified that their courses had a heavy work load. They informed us that we would spend (respectively: 10, 15, and 20) hours, weekly, on course work.

I am also producing one (1) Senior Honors Thesis, of indeterminate length, without the benefit of a thesis adviser! I am also producing one (1) Senior Women’s Studies Project, which will dutifully enjoy NO material overlap with my Senior Honors Thesis!

I am also revising two (2) stories for publication.

I will be accepting food, alcohol, and in-depth critiques of my work until May, 19th (5/19/08) on which date I will no longer be matriculating in the Jumbomain of University.