Tonight I had Mexican food made by real Mexicans. Life is good. Without Mexico, the world would be a much sadder place. I am also totally fascinated by Rasputin, despite how exorbitantly creepy he was. I hope Anastasia escaped, and I hope she was happy wherever she ended up. I wish I was a Romanov. I think I'm taking AP Euro a bit too personally.

My parents really should have anticipated panic attacks and not entirely unvain self-loathing when they had me. Two shrinks having a child. What a thoroughly shitty idea. Look what happened to Brenda Chenowith.

From J-Pan to the Yucatan

Bulgarian choral music is so cool it makes my brain hurt, a bit like what I imagine the polar opposite of a seizure would be. It has this eerie dullness, this impending doom, like the women with unpronouncable names standing nonchalantly in the face of hell. It has the sneer of the "I dare you", the cyclical sadness and superhuman strength that comes out of rape, oppression and the heartbreaking quagmire that is the Balkans. I think in the technological bath that we are submerged in, we don't get enough that is really creepy, dark, and fascinating, not enough attractive strangers who truly look like strangers in dark clothing, the magic and the unexplainable left when we killed the Indians, all we are left with is the confusing, and the noisy dissonance of the electrically powered things that never ever goes away.

I've realized that the whatthefuckisthis genre of music is quickly becoming my favorite. Everything else sounds exactly like something else I've heard, that I'm sick of hearing. The way that music is marketed to Americans is so narrow and provincial, white people for white people, black people for black people, uhh, oh yeah, Asians, you'll be with the whites, Latinos, you're with the blacks. I guess at this point I'm not really talking about music anymore. But I have more to say than that racism in its various subtle forms generally sucks. It just seems like all of what is supposed to be our art (in terms of music, film, television, books,etc.) is so processed and insincere, like they know whatever they churn out will be eaten up if they make it more and more decadent and slim down and fatten up where they know we want it slimmed down and fattened up. In short, I am glad to be leaving the country relatively soon, and Eugene Hutz basically saved my life.

Has it occured to many of you that I often make no sense? Is it annoying?

Do you ever have days where your life feels like Africa?

I mean, in the sense of being incomprehensively complex, absolutely crawling with problems, and whenever anyone tries to help they make the difficult problems completely hopeless? Also, at any given time you might be ethnically cleansed, mutilated or forcibly infected with an incurable virus?

Well, I can't really say that's been me lately.

But something tells me I really need a man. My feminist guardian angels might be shaking their heads in dissappointment, but I do need one. God knows where he's going to come from, and I'm not expecting perfection, love, or even similar taste in movies. Just someone with decent arm muscles who for some reason, opts to like me.

Does my mom not realize how her voice echoes throughout our house, and that I can hear every unflattering thing she says about me, every catty remark on the phone, that she mangles the details of every story she tells? Why do moms never catch on to things? I hope I never become one.