You Put the Rue in Ruin

If you and I made ravioli, they would sucker punch the stuffing out of Big Bird and his league of cohorts.
We synergize like cosmic Velcro.
Every shared thought another link in the chain link Zoot suit that balloons out with a gas so toxic it turns Teflon into silken lace.
We zip-line from aerated prawns over to mandolin-playing carnies who speak fluent Portuguese without missing a beat.
Moonbouncing upward like an adolescent hero scaling video game chair lifts toward a giant provolone cheese wheel.
If I had a penny for every time I beat you to your own punchline, I would have many pennies.

I can only partially rue the day I met you.
You lured me in like an angler fish playing mariachi music.
My face veiled by sunglasses the first time, mathematical face paint the second time.
The probability you came to the party to check me out: 1
Your slow motion dance moves were surprisingly effective. You even serenaded a plastic bag coyly perched on the dance floor.
I thought I had the upper hand, but the tables mesmerize me with how they have turned in on themselves like whole wheat pasta dough that needs more water.
Crumbled and flaky on the heirloom place mat that never seems to be big enough to contain the mess.

The thing about being brain twins is that you should know what I’m thinking.
You should know how trapped I feel, trying to rationalize a situation over which I have no control.
Pros and cons might as well be dead leaves on the sidewalk.
Some prettier than others but all nonetheless expired
Like moths in a vat of honey.

Summer

So this afternoon, I'm going to an interview at a company that I really have no interest in working for. Is this what adult life is all about? Feigning interest in order to reap unfulfilling employment? I'm being melodramatic, but it seems scary to think that what I want isn't out there so I have to shrink my expectations and accept what's available. I was hoping to gain some meaningful real-world internship experience this summer so I could start to think about how my BFA can translate into something worthwhile. I don't see myself as a studio artist and I think I'm too snarky for teaching in the arts. Then, there's another opportunity that would involve expense-paid world travel to do fun activities with small military children, which seems more fun. However, I just don't know if I'm considering it because it would provide a delay in my entering the real world as an adult or because I am really into it. I'm sure it would be a blast.

Hmmmm...I think I just need to go to the City Museum asap. That will surely solve everything.

Covenant?

Two days ago I accidentally semi-circumcised one of my fingers thanks to an overzealous x-acto knife. The injury is not that inhibiting except that typing without typos is harder than keeping allusions to "the Office" under 5 a day for some people...

This episode of self-hackery is just the latest addition to my accident-prone lifestyle. I'm currently enrolled in a glass class (I've wanted to work with molten glass for a long time. This is the step before that bundle of safety) and recently lodged a tiny shard of glass into the fleshy tip of another one of my fingers. I use my hands for everything yet I seem so careless when it comes to their well-being. I suppose if I was a math major (ha!) I wouldn't have to worry as much about sharp objects (besides pencil tips, that is). But alas, my hands-on approach to the world leaves me with scratches, burns, cuts, and bruises. I'm used to it by now, which is what scares me.

My current primary wound is on my left index finger, which I keep out of the way while typing, washing hands, etc. I'm reminded of one of my most favorite books of all time: A Prayer for Owen Meany because of a major character's loss of a particular digit in order to circumnavigate the draft. Although, the romanticized similarity is slightly glamorous (well, I guess I'm not even left-handed and there is no need to fear being drafted...), I would prefer to keep all my phalanges intact. I hereby make a pact with myself to be less careless and clumsy. My goal is to reduce clutziness by 15% in the current fiscal year.

existential crisis

The internet is so strange. In terms of printmaking, it is the most democratic form of spreading ideas (and art). Take any conglomeration of typeface and imagery. Post it (with or without instructions for printing and distribution). And voila'! The conceptual framework for a democratic revolution.

What makes blogging better than keeping an old-fashioned diary? The former lacks the therapeutic release of handwritten curvilinear scrawls. There is no need for editing when pouring out your unapologetic intestinal ramblings!! Keeping a diary is like spinning a spider web. Have you ever tried it?? Not the easiest thing in the world. But think about it. Individual handwriting says a lot about someone (for instance, how often said person takes pen to paper in lieu of typewritten thought transcriptions). Diaries are sacred. They are locked and swathed in a veil of intimacy that the voyeuristic internet rips apart. So the point then is to share information with others. To share good news, exciting travel updates, post pictures, spread ideas, remove personalization and increase efficiency. Well, I guess it's still personal for the author, but not for the readers.

I know this is a super unradical thought, but I'm still struggling with it. Who am I blogging for now that I'm not traveling? For myself? To feign connections with others? Should I really just keep my incessant cerebral oscillations to myself? Does posting it to the world wide web make me an e-spider? (My secret Greek superhero name is Ariadne) What do old posts collecting e-dust reveal about me that I might not want a stranger to know? Do I care what strangers or people I used to know know about me?

Maybe just purging myself of these toxic hang-ups will help somehow. Here's hoping