The moments that make it worth it.

Najva:

I gave up on a real job.

I'm just teaching tae kwon do and nude modeling and dancing.

Alanna:

HAAHAHA

that is SUCH a najva answer.

Nice. like, if i said do you like the color blue? You'd be like well i guess, once i go go danced 'underwater' in a tub of blue jello on acid, it was fun.

Love it.

Secrets for the day

my lotion has a mild self tanner in it.

Teaching Tae Kwon Do to little kids is more satisfying than reading a book, sometimes.

I like people who remind me of me, and that's vain. and I don't mind.

digging my heel into your chest makes me hot.

I am always afraid of liking you too much. the you in this equation changes often.

The shocker isn't shocking, it's pleasant.

I have no idea how to set up a gallery show, but I'm doing my tip-top best.

My parents think I don't love them enough because I don't call back. I just keep shitty hours. But I feel bad for calling so few and far between.

I think my brother is the better child.

My body of work is my body of flaws.

The truth about blog writing is this: People read it. It's like a diary that your children have already found, a time capsule already dug from the ground. The future of the words is immediate. 

People come up to you and tell you they miss reading about your life and you wonder who else is out there, checking your updates- confirming their curiosities. You wonder why you write- for you or for them? Then there is too much pressure and you are busy and life happens and you forget to post something about that beautiful comment a girl made to you on a night last week and all of a sudden its too late. 

Time and attention is already one week ahead.

I'm hosting my first party saturday night. It promises to be epic. Last time it was practically a rave in a dim sum resuraunt in china town. This time will be even better. 

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What I was thinking while she was reading her poem at the open mic last night:

Shut up.

Stop talking about what you want your poem to do and just DO it.

You're wasting your words. my time. 

telling me all the dirty things you want to do to me while I'm naked in front of you and never laying a finger on me.

Useless.

Like your metaphors. 

Your two-bit thesaurus flowery language as though

being vague was a prerequisite of becoming a poet

as though real meaning is too heavy.

I don't care for abstract art.

16 black squiggly  lines are not the travels of odysseus and 

that intergalactic constellation of fascinating cohabitation with sweet relations like the roots of the african nation means only this:

you need to learn how to think outside the rhyme. 

there is more to a word than the sound that lingers at the end of it. 

Shut up.

Don't speak another language.

I'm just going to spend the rest of this uncomfortable sticky plastic couch experience thinking about what those awkward foreign sounds meant. 

I cling to my stella like a lifeboat. Not done yet.

worse, you're mentioning politics.

blah blah blah broken heart dog cat obama

every time you put in a dollar you get a soda

every time you say fuck the police you get a cheer

You make me want to apologize for calling myself a poet.

I'm sorry I was never raped 

abused, black or hispanic in america, dirt poor

sorry I can't memorize three poems and recite them

for years sorry

I don't want to preach politics to the converted sorry

I never lost a best friend or had a sex change operation

I am sorry I hate rhymes and  I am sorry I hate long poems and 

Sorry I didn't name drop ghandi or the baby I had from when I was 16 who is surprisingly well-adjusted.

My bad.

I guess, I'll shut up.

No really, that rasta guy over there has some important things to say.

Poetry,

I love you- but I think we need some time apart.

You're seeing other people, I hear stories 

and I know I shouldn't compare 

like that time my boyfriend cheated on me with a maxim magazine blonde

but I can't help thinking sometimes:

Poetry, when I witness you in your new lovers mouths-

I feel like maybe my words could use some plastic surgery 

become sharper, lifted, perked, more fit for slam consumption

I can't sit here and listen to you be stripped naked of your worth and dumbed down by the fumbling pens and lips of these strangers.

I'm drunk. I am going to pee.

apologies.

I am sorry. Because my life has been blogworthy and yet, I've neglected to write anything.

I am eating candy floss and chocolate dipped chile rubbed mango, sending out emails to artists for an art show I'm curating NOV 6th. I bartended tonight and came up with a drink called a white gummybear. Gin/vanilla stoli/peach schnapps/sprite/ginger ale.

I've been reading nice books and eating vegan curry and sweet potato chili while writing application essays in my friends studio. I did my first burlesque show, to "toucha toucha touch me" from the rocky horror picture show. I broke it off with a girl I was seeing. I remembered to stay all grown up when I just want to be young and immature.

Freelancing means eternal job searching. It's brilliant and exhausting.

My birthday went smoothly except for an incident with a girl on mushrooms with inappropriate ideas who wanted the one thing we couldn't do: to be casual.
s
Friday was a riot, as was saturday. and sunday.

Tonight I went to a poetry reading that is inspiring a whole why I hate poetry rant. Watch out.

I have to be a fancy model in 3 hours. I need rest. I love you, recorded world.

I promise not to neglect you again.

21 Years Old.

I can now legally buy alcohol and not much has changed.

More things to say, really soon. Gimme a break, it's my birthday.

Old Things. Pretty Things. Bike stealing. Spray Painting.

So a few days ago my bike was stolen from next to me by some guy in a series of unfortunate events. Turns out he biked it home drunkenly and called someone the next morning (and word got back to me) that he woke up in queens curled next to a bike- and had no idea where it came from.

Fingers crossed and all that jazz, my baby bike  is coming home.

Learning to bartend, learning how to pretend to make a long island ice tea. Learning how to spill things on yourself and smell like a sewer.

Watched the two hardcore straight edge adorable boys from work tag up a building last night. Met a friend of a friend, sonia- who told me about go-go dancing in Madrid and Barcelona, studying photo, and her 5 jobs.

Dude, I'm 21 in 3 days. 

4 random things

1. why did it take me this long to discover that my two biggest celebrity crushes (katherine moenning and Ian somerholder) were not only in a TV show together (Young Americans) but they were also involved on screen?

2. My friend dennis, who is now biking along the south coast of spain, advised me to take a mediation retreat. I signed up for one in january, and if all goes well- I will spend ten days not speaking, writing, dancing, or eating meat. sounds terrifying, which is why I have to do it.

3. my little brother had sex for the first time. he's 16 and for the past few months he's been asking my friends (and me) for advice (a sense of humor was the most popular response). anywhoo, it seemed he was a little quick on the draw but with trusty advice from sex-positive big sis (the only person he asked, aww) he figured out the jumpstart and stayed in the game for the long run and the (mutually) satisfying blastoff.

3. I cooked my first persian dish today. One of my favorites- apple and plum stew over rice. Grandma helped. It was totally delicious. we had a birthday dinner complete with cash money birthday presents, sweet white wine, vintage dress, and questions about how long till I get married.