Why is it that for me, desire (which is probably the basic element of love) must be intrinsically connected with pain?

I feel somehow that this is a cruel joke of my nature that is self-created (or self-fulfilling?).

As it is I can't stop myself from chasing a whirling procession of shadows.

Tonight I am stopping for some much-needed Starbucks with Adrian and Saira, then moving on to the Cobb Energy Center to see the verbose, multi-talented and undeniably easy-on-the-eyes Andrew Bird.

Books I'm reading currently:

- The Kid, Dan Savage
- Wonderful Tonight, Pattie Boyd
- The Year of Magical Thinking, Joan Didion
- The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, Jean-Dominique Bauby
- A Cook's Tour: In Search of the Perfect Meal, Anthony Bourdain
- I'm a Stranger Here Myself, Bill Bryson
- Fun Home, Alison Bechdel.

I alternate between them, sometimes landing on one and finding myself sufficiently absorbed so that the rest retreat from my interest. I'm fickle, though, and after devouring one for several days in a row, I abandon it - seemingly for no reason - and dive into another. Pattie Boyd's fun little autobiography is dog-eared at page 295 (out of 307) and has been since Monday or Tuesday, when I started The Kid with the same immediate enthusiasm I'd had for the former. Meanwhile, others have barely been opened, and their pages remain as crisp as the day I bought them (except the ones from the library, which are of course pre-broken-in). It's not that I'm not eager to read these, too, though. I'm just waiting until I'm in the right frame of mind for their respective atmospheres.

This cool chick I've been chilling with lately is insisting that I'll like Ayn Rand and promises me that Atlas Shrugged is not the worst book ever written. Maybe I'll choose that for my light summer reading. I hope my poor atrophied brain can handle it.

Speaking of which, being 21 has been consistently as delightful as I'd expected, and as merciless to my bank account. Atlanta is brimming with excellent bars/pubs and I've still only been to a few. My favorites are MacCracken's, in Marietta Square and conveniently located within walking distance of my buddy's apartment, and the Brick Store, which is allllll the way in Decatur, but worth the trip for their super-nice bartenders and awesome beer selection.
Today, on the way to my car after a particularly shitty day at work, I stopped in a little wine shop and stumbled into a wine tasting. WHICH WAS GREAT. God knows what all I sipped at. Some tasty South African things. I got a rosé and, at the counter, tried a chocolate/red wine concoction that tasted more like Bailey's than anything else. ... I'll probably go back and buy that sometime in the not-too-distant future.

So, I'm using the last paragraph as a segway to my current work situation. (I did mention my shitty day at work.) I'm at the bank Monday through Friday, and I've moved to a location in Midtown, a couple blocks away from SCAD. Yeah, driving there is total balls. On the weekends I'm at the Australian Bakery Cafe in Marietta. This I'm having trouble with right now. If it were circa-2006 Laura working there, I'd have busted out already. Circa-2009 Laura has reservations. I guess I'll have come to some form of a conclusion at least by the end of the weekend. It's tempting to follow a certain historical habit of mine and give this thing up somewhat prematurely. This option has its downsides - mainly that the guilt and regret inevitably will come back to haunt me in a couple of months, or sooner.

Well, on a cheerier note, I'm going to make for myself a fabulous night tonight by drinking my rosé and smoking my beloved Kamel Reds with Holly at her new apartment. (This is the same one close to MacCracken's.) I love the building she lives in now - it's old, filled with mysterious nooks and crannies, dusty and smelling of lacquer and trees. We've heard rumors that you can somehow get up on the roof, which I imagine would be a lovely place to sit and smoke and talk and take pictures. We'll see if that happens.

I felt like ending this with a bunch of macros and gifs that I've accumulated in my internet travels, but that will have to wait as I am lazy. Anyway, I hope everyone is well. Enjoy your Saturday night.

My cat has Feline Leukemia - I understand this to be less like human cancer and more like kitty AIDS. He limps around the house in what looks like a haze of pain, and barely eats a fraction of his former diet. This morning while I was in the shower he rested, almost completely still, against the bathtub, nestled in the rug and totally unbothered by any water sprinkled on him or the loud rushing sound. I think anyone who owns a cat would understand why that's strange - cats hate water, of course, and Socks seems to hate it even more than the average cat. Usually I'd expect him to stroll into the bathroom, prissily survey it as another compartment of his domain, and give me a stern look while dashing away when I'd turn the water on.
I don't know how much longer he has to live. I already miss his famously bitchy personality. That cat has tolerated a lot over the course of his existence. He's spunky and regal all at once, and his pouffy black coat and constantly narrowed eyes give him the appearance of a rotund, long-suffering butler.

Also it's rainy today. Poo.

Maybe it's really dumb to, as self-medication for a sudden sickness, eat marshmallows in bed while reading an old Judy Blume novel. Right now I do not care. Guilty pleasures for the win.

Also: I have jury duty March 23 and an embarrassingly large part of me hopes for an intriguing murder mystery case. In all honesty, though, I'm not looking forward to it at all.

Soooo last night I made spaghetti bolognese. From scratch, bitch!
There were a couple of hiccups throughout the quest ("quest" in this instance meaning duration of my cooking experience, I guess). For instance, after enjoying a couple glasses of Chianti, I shook clouds of what I thought was Parmesan cheese into the sauce, only to realize with a burst of panic that it was actually garlic powder. (Thankfully, after a taste test, all turned out to be fine.) I also had issues with the noodles - this I blame on the wine - and I may have also burnt the garlic toast just a teeny bit. Only around the edges, though. The rest was great.
For dessert it was strawberries dipped in chocolate. These I cannot claim to have prepared. Publix must take all credit.

I made Trevor dress up for dinner. I want to say that's only fair, but it's not - he's made me dinner before with no dress codes to speak of. To be completely honest, I somewhat selfishly enjoy seeing him in a tie. He complied with no complaints despite having been through a crappy, tiring day and also enduring a bad cold. Chivalry of the highest order, I must say.

So anyway, I want to cook something else now. Not a pasta, though. I'll probably call Ann to ask for her advice on this subject. Or Bev. Both seem to know a fair amount of cookery.

BEING A GIANT FLAMING DICKFACE

EDIT: This is what is generally known as a "Drunken Livejournal Post". Please excuse my lack of refined wording in this entry, and instead try to appreciate the colorful language of my previously inebriated self.

The more I think about it, the more I realize that my life thus far has been really fucking weird, and the true extent of this weirdness is known only by me. And I have sort of a spotty memory. So there's a lot more weirdness out there that no one could piece together. It's just a giant pile of fucking weird shit. I kind of like this.

The ad next to my little updatey box is for new episodes of Anthony Bourdain. I do not mind seeing him in my peripheral vision as I write.

So I kind of almost want to retake the SAT. Why? Well, I got a 790 in Writing last time. I KNOW I could get an 800 this time. IMAGINE A PERFECT SCORE. The bragging rights would be so much sweeter. Is that lame? ... Yeah, okay, that's lame. Fine. Admitted. Whatever, there was no chance my lazy butt was actually going to retake the SAT.

This subject comes up because I'm looking at a school to apply to. Sure, it ain't no Yale, SCAD, Chapel Hill, what have you. But it is a) cheap and b) close. After all, I could go to SCAD for a master's degree. Hopefully.

ps. i want to create this in my front yard.

Something to be thankful for: a cop was REALLY nice to me today.

I went to Charlotte for a Thanksgiving - stayed one day, had an awesome time, came back on a train at 2:45 this morning. Got about two hours of sleep in total. Thus, am feeling delightful, of course. Work until 6:30 and, after some quick errands/chores, I go home and take a perfectly self-indulgent, luxurious bubble bath. Candles, the whole deal. The whole house to myself. Maybe I'll go see Milk later tonight with my gay. Who knows.

The bank is a bit dull today, despite so few of us being here to work, and it's cold in my little drive-through corner. I'm going to hit up Starbucks for real during my lunch break. Or Caribou. Whichever. Either way, it will not be a laughing matter. Me plus a sugary warm caffeiney beverage right now? Yeah. Sounds like a party. Or life support, to be more accurate. Thank God (or whatever) for my direct deposit, which gives me the ability to purchase such items. Some might label my coffee purchases "frivolous." As far as I'm concerned, however, regular cups of coffee are as necessary to include in my budget as gas or my phone bill.

Revisiting the train station. Places like this always leave a bitter taste of dread and sadness in my mouth and stamp a lightly pulsating headache into my brain. There's not much more I hate than saying goodbye at a train station or airport. Whether I'm staying or leaving, even if I'll be seeing the person to whom I am saying goodbye within the next few days, my heart sinks as if preparing itself for a world of permanent solitude.
Despite this automatic vulnerability I encounter every time I enter an Amtrak station, there is something to be said about the quiet cadence of a late night train trip. It's the same every time: you say your goodbyes. You take a seat, dig out your music, shuffle your feet a little, glance at the clock from time to time. Stumble zombie-like through the florescent lights toward the train when the doors open. Take your cigarette amongst the other freezing smokers, who are all invariably flannel-wearing redneck types who start up brief conversations with you before you're all ushered onto the train. Find a seat, settle down, wonder again why the pillows are so tiny, plug in your phone charger, start up the audiobook (this time: Fraud by David Rakoff). And then you go.

I am irrationally grumpy right now.

Frustrating, but almost satisfying in some small way - to allow things that I normally succeed at dismissing to rise to the surface of my thoughts. My bitter, bitter thoughts.

Well, at least I got stylish witch shoes - as Marshall referred to them - on sale for some ridiculously low price. (Obviously not from that website.)

I frequently have dreams in which, inexplicably, I get giant tattoos that sweep across large areas of my body, and then immediately regret them because I can't afford to get them covered up or taken off. (Although somehow my dream self always has enough money for a full sleeve or whatever).

Last night I dreamed that my right leg was covered with a bunch of Helvetica text, surrounded by leaves. DreamLaura before getting the tattoo done thought it was a great statement about the almost Godlike purity of Helvetica. DreamLaura after getting it done sobbed and sobbed because her leg was covered in a bunch of crap and she could never wear skirts (without opaque black tights) to work again.

All of this is weird because I don't feel any regrets about the small, subtle tattoo that I actually have, and I don't think I'll ever get something bigger than it. So why is my subconscious so worried that I will? Haha.

Not to be sanctimonious, but voting gave me this great rush of happiness, and it wasn't even because of the free coffee from Starbucks. I just ... feel good, now. It's nice.

This was a good weekend for food and drink. Yuengling ale, various varieties of white wine, a nighttime picnic with spinach salad and more than one Cape Cod, just about everything the Flying Biscuit Cafe has to offer, plus some treats from Trader Joe's (sparkling pink lemonade ... oh yes. It is mine, prettily packaged bottle and all.)

Of course, it being a fabulous weekend for drinking, I managed a very impressive hangover on Saturday. But I soldiered on! By which I mean I drank more later that evening.

I promise I don't usually consume this much alcohol in the space of three days. But it was Halloween! And I'm excited about certain events to come. Or one event in particular. I shall leave the specifics of this event behind a curtain of mystery.

Mary Kay, your eyeshadow samples are amazing. The little diagram of how to put the three shades on in a flattering and attractive manner was helpful, and the colors themselves - variations on a soft goldish brown - are quite pretty. BUT I have to ask, what the hell is the point of including a lipstick sample? First of all, applying lipstick with your finger is really hard to do (for me, anyway). Second, it's not really enough to look good. Third, now my finger is all gross. Fourth, that is the most common shade of lipstick in the history of cosmetics and most people who own lipstick already have it. THANKS A LOT, MARY KAY.

At least my face is looking a few degrees snazzier than it was a few minutes ago.

I hate mornings where you could sleep in if you wanted to, but instead something forces you to stay up and piddle around doing nothing until your more reasonable start-to-do-stuff time.

The bank gives out lollipops. You'd be surprised how often the clear plastic containers filled with primary-colored candy empty themselves throughout the day. Even older business owners with permanent grimaces and important-looking eyebrows stuff a handful into their pockets as they leave the building.
Blue lollipops are the least popular. Their demographic mostly consists of three-year-old boys and the unappetizing color leaves most everyone else in search of brighter, juicier hues. I like these outcast lollipops, but my favorites are the mutants - every once in a while when refilling the supplies from a giant box held in the back room, I'll come across a lollipop fringed in pink with a warm yellow center, permeated by thin orange swirls like veins. They're like sunsets or lava lamps and even if the actual taste of the candy doesn't differ too much from the plain ones, I feel like they're just a little bit better, and I steal them all for myself.