I’m dreaming of cheesecake

This Cleanse is disgusting– I want to skewer my eyeballs out. I’m just going to compulsively weigh myself for motivation, even though what I really want to do is eat 2 dozen Italian cookies and all of my Nana’s lemon bar cheesecake stash.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

old haikus and a new book

I’m going to write a book… I don’t know specifics, but it’s going to be about life– my life specifically and my family tales of old. I figure, why not? It dawned on me that I have A LOT of old journal entries, saved conversations from AIM, tons of fucked up family dramas to exploit and sappy stuff that’s bound to amuse. If people don’t like it, screw them. I know it’ll be entertaining.

It’s all a matter of compiling it in an understandable way. I’m thinking it’ll be separated in themed sections, or it will go chronologically. Maybe I’ll just throw everything together for a big life collage. I want it to have photos, conversations, memoirs, poetry and stories. eew. It kind of sounds like a nasty soccer-mom scrapbook…

I need to think this through some more…

Anyhow, during the height of my hormonal teen years (wait–I’m still in them technically) custody battles and family warfare, I wrote these haikus. I think they are fucking brilliant for lost-and-found haikus. They sort of summarize my life experience from age 13-16.

DMV nightmare
waiting in bleak endless line
for “come back later”

Parents armed for war,
in child support battlefield-
with greasy lawyers…
Californian dreams!
Look! big time hollywood stars-
and overpriced rent.

Taco truck business
not producing needed cash.
Where are the tacos?

Permit sinks in sky
as mom says the dreaded “no…
“I can’t afford it”

Time, clicks by slowly
monotonous Mr. Guy
thinks his goatee’s cool

Mustang fantasies,
red and black within my dreams-
heat, in the back seat?

does anyone else think maggie needs some reconstructive surgery?

I hate to be mean because I love her acting; but after seeing her in “Dark Night” I couldn’t help wishing that Maggie’s face wasn’t so… saggy. She’s looking an awful lot like a St. Bernard these days.

Tomorrow I head out to the beach with my brother and his two friends. I don’t know how I got conned into being nanny Danielle, but it happened. Hopefully Leah comes so when I’m declared “uncool” by my brother and consequently ditched for the day, I won’t be sitting alone, frying on the beach for 8 hours.

I watched Bachelor and the Bobbysoxer yesterday with Nana and decided that it’s time to start watching more old movies. I’m never dissapointed with a classic film, and especially ones with Carrey Grant. That is this week’s new goal: to watch three old movies each week (along with losing 2 pounds.)

Speaking of blubber, weight loss is so laughably hard I could cry (or start a meth habit). I’ve been working out an hour a day and until today I had been eating well until I binged on three slices of bread with tuna and some chocolate chips. Story of my life. Tomorrow is NOT going to be a weigh-in day. The scale can screw itself.

Meanwhile, I’ve been working on my photography, trying to put together an ad campaign to gain more interest in headshots and the like. My goal is to set up an interesting looking Myspace (eventually a website), get thousands of friends, develop new flyers for the school-year and organize some more photoshoots. Here’s one ad I did… I’m still debating over the font.

Since Scott lost my iPod, my birtday present in September is bound to be a new one, though I’m thinking of manipulating my way into getting a new lens or some equipment. Sadly, photography is not a cheap hobby: the lens I want is $600, and so I’m thinking of having my family start a fund for holidays where all I receive is money for photography stuff….

Geez, I need to stop thinking about “stuff” so much. My life is becoming so shallow and Bravo-ized. I need direction, focus, a job, a respectable lover, cash flow, good grades, clear skin, better morale, motivation, self-pride, and of course, as my dad told me in a letter, “soul.”

I figure that will come with a new lens and flash gear.

serial killers & fudgescicles: random musings

No one cares if you lose 5lbs… not even 10. When you tell someone that you’ve “lost 10 lbs” they just sort of look at you, apologetically, thinking about all the times you’ve lost ten pounds. Even 20 pounds for me is ridiculously subtle because I’m an Amazon woman. Only other weight-obsessed people notice and are pissed off.

I had a great “photo shoot” with this gorgeous girl, Elaine from high school. I’m pleased with the outcome, even though the only people who commented on my Facebook album were Dr. Taylor and my mom… Edwin Serrano (the stereotypical short, angry kid who rides around on a scooter and relies on his artistic abilities to gain fame) complimented me on my lighting though, which must count for something. Now I KNOW I’m legit!

I dog-sat this weekend and came to the realization that I’m secretly afraid of animals. I mean, I love pets but there’s always an underlying fear that a dog is going to turn on me and bite my face off while I’m petting it. My mom is to blame for this, of course. I remember as a kid, having her scream at me while petting animals and freaking out. It’s now deeply embedded in my psyche like my fear of serial killers… (my mom used to tell me stories about the Night Stalker, Richard Ramirez who ripped out little old ladies’ eye balls when I was around 8. She claimed to have seen him outside her window and she told me that he killed people in yellow and blue houses… our house is bright blue.)

I had this CRAZY dream last night that I was a stand-up comedian, and I sucked. I also had a dream that I was grocery shopping in Russia with these two guys who were both madly in love with me. I was a midget in this last dream, and really, really hideous. (I watched this show on this midget who was getting married to the man of her dreams– maybe that’s why).

*section taken out* (secretive, eh?)

Jesus Christ, I need a fudgescicle.

You know what I hate?

Eggs. I’m so sick of eggs I want to vomit. This “healthy eating plan” (crash diet) I’ve adopted requires you to omit all: starches, fruit, sugars from your diet for the first two weeks, resulting in a vegetable-lean-protein orgy from hell. I’m looking forward to biting in an apple so much that I could pee my pants.

Don’t get me wrong… I LOVE losing weight– it’s one of my passions in life, though I rarely get to practice it since one of my even bigger passions is food. So, I’ll just suck it up and make another fri-ta-ta.

My family is hilariously awful at supporting me during these rare moments of motivation… my grandma is currently baking molasses cookies for example, approximately 6 batches of them. The ironic part is that two weeks ago, when I was at the height of my summer gluttony and Judge Judy marathons, I had asked her to bake some cookies and she said, “Why don’t you get off your ass and jog… you just don’t CARE about yourself anymore.”

Another great part is that suddenly, I’m becoming a financial burden to my family because I toss out 1/2 of my egg yolks and am eating vegetables. I tried making a very poignant analogy between cutting off the fat on a piece of meat to throwing out the fatty part of the egg, but Nana just slammed down the spatula and told me to “buy my own fucking egg yolks to throw away!” That and, “Diet food (vegetables) are so expensive! Why don’t you just not eat?” (My grandma allegedly lost 30lbs in the 70s from dexatrin and “only eating lettuce.”)

So here I am, unveganized, about to eat another serving of Jell-O and trying, unsuccessfully to stay off my family’s shit list. Though, I kind of got myself into a hole last night while defending my eating habits by commenting that both my Nana and Papa have pregnant bellies and could stand to lose a few too.

They were upset with this comment.

Miles- for a friend

It’s warm, like the
Charlie Brown Christmas song–
shakers and snowflakes
resembling the sensation of
you and long hours of
front seat conversations,
trying to hide dog breath
and pimples while you lean in
close and tell me
about spirals and atoms.
And there’s so much there
to play with—tones and words
and tangible snowflakes, that
it’s overwhelming: the spiral
and your voice. I want to
hold it, traveling through
tunnels and the quantum abyss
together. (But it gets complex
when you’re channeling Miles Davis.)

Cutting through static night

Cutting through static night, a plane flies

while you mumble breaths and

think of scenes with someone else.

In solitary sleep, bareness engulfs me

and you too are soft; unaided and striking;

on your own, and yet how ironic it all seems!

This fleshy arm spun around a tired, frumpy

clump of nothing really, save some

weathered down that seeps through little

holes you meddle with mechanically.

Who am I tonight? It’s your pick between

characters who beat and touch–

the ones who ignored you and the others

who never said much. I’ll just let you

do the talking and help you forget

those doors that quietly unhinge in tip-toed

stillness– the 5-o-clock get-always and

sad hours when we wake at once together again,

empty. You’re mine, and despite gentlemen

who gruffly grab and push us to

the side, tomorrow evening, alas,

it’s me with whom you’ll sigh, and say

“good night.”