It seems that all of a sudden, everyone has become fascinated with my sex life. Yes, the one that doesn't exist. It's very odd to feel like a thirty-year-old virgin at the age of sixteen. (Yes, I'm an arrogant jerk who's never happy where I am. Get over it.) My dubious getting laid has dominated almost every conversation I've had in the last week.

If I had a covert affair with a married man, I'm sure this wouldn't happen. But then I'd be the other woman, and whatever interchangable, spoiled children he had would want me dead, plus I'm not crazy about hotel rooms. On the other hand, I'd wear really cool lingerie and get lots of expensive jewelry. Though come to think of it, I've always found expensive jewelry incredibly overrated.

I wish that I had more badass secrets.

I wish I could make up my mind.

I wish this high school thing would lapse into college. Now would be nice.

A few days ago, our basement flooded. Since my mother insists on having cats who live soley to eat, vomite, defecate, and urinate, and their shit box is down there, and after a number of years things just kind of get pushed in corners to multiply and grow bacteria, it was very disgusting and third-world-meets-a-bewildered-first-world. I spent 2 afternoons throwing things out and getting fifteen years of uncleaned basement all over me.

The basement is the haven for crap we never use, have forgotten about, could care less about. Jump ropes, excess dishware, 25 cent cookbooks, ugly dresses, cheap Chinese party favors that serve absolutely no purpose except to break, be forgotten about, then be stepped on with your bare feet three weeks later. What is also in the basement are the photo albums. These got wet like everthing else.

My mother has spent the last 4 days or so peeling them apart and leaving the photos out to dry. Our living room has become paved with all the different Sophies that every few years would show up and covertly wipe out the previous Sophie. So many of these Sophies have no idea what to do with curly hair. Most of them are chubby, at some point they seem to realize this. The very small ones are my favorite; if they scowl at the camera, they only become more appealing. The older ones that can't be bothered to smile I have a strong urge to smack. Joe shows up occassionally, but he has no sideburns and a chubby round little boy face that I don't remember, and he doesn't seem to be too fond of women. I remember almost every one of my outfits. I don't feel that I have anything in common with most of these Sophies. Some of them I want to hug, I want to make some of them cry. But they're all lost. They disappeared into the various stages of puberty. To be honest, I don't really miss the ones I lost to puberty. The ones I miss are mostly the ones I barely remember.


My parents are also featured in this. You can see my dad's hair fading and disappearing almost chronologically. My mom looks young and happy, and there are all these people drinking, laughing, and being silly who I've only seen much later, when they seemed much more tired and didn't smile so easily. I don't recognize the places or outfits. These pictures really create more questions than they answer.

Spent last night with a really strange combination of people, some of whom obviously weren't used to hanging out with girls. It was fun. And Tori's dad is getting married. Huzzah.

I came here and realized how neglected and half-assed this blog has been, but I'm just feeling so uninspired right now, and I'm sure you don't want to hear tedious, self-absorbed ranting about what an idiotic failure I am, so I'm taking a rain check. This is, essentially, a non-post.

Hooray for the dubious exodus from Egypt and a week of constipation!! (Me, abstain from baked goods for a week? Ha.)
And good hair days. Those too.

Gypsy punk and Gruyere.

Last night I saw Gogol Bordello for the second time. If you haven't seen them, do yourself the favor. I realized that there are very few situations in the world where you can do the above.

Also, Krissy and I have developed a game where we compare people to cheeses. Like a very forward, aggressive cheese would be a very forward, aggressive person, while a soft and feminine cheese would be a soft, feminine individual, and really bland cheese would be a really boring person. If any of you can think of a cheese for me, I would be delighted, and I will have you all in mind next time I am eating cheese. The only one that Krissy and I were able to come up with is an unexpectedly sharp cheddar for Asian Tori. I think that I will keep a log of this on this blog, everybody is welcome to contribute

When thinking of France, the following kind of chase each other around in my head, making for a kind of fragmented confusion that anyone who has glanced over my blog should be somewhat familiar with; some combination of sex, death, existentialism, slenderness, delicious food with lots of duck fat, the word "stroll", very stylish outfits that when evaluated carefully are really very silly, tastefully shabby clothing stinking of nicotine and inferior deoderant, wine and mustard, cafes, and arrogance. Enter an occasional maligned Algerian. And that slutty dead singer who my 56-year-old gay cousin is obsessed with. And Thibault ::sighs involuntarily:: I am not ignorant of the gaps or oversimplifications, but this is is what it is.

Maybe an academic program headquartered in Minnesota with an anti-alchohol policy isn't the best way to do France when you're sixteen. (You should have heard the woman's accent on the phone, she sounded like something out of Fargo.) (Wait, I've still never seen Fargo.) Having not been to France since I was too young to appreciate much beyond the ubiquitous chocolate and dogs, I really have no idea what I'm getting myself into. I hope I don't fall in love. I hope I do.

My little sister is a quarter inch taller than me. It can only go downhill from here. Or should I say, in two opposite directions at an alarming rate.

Another disturbing piece of news: the Brokeback Mountain remixes. What did Gustavo Santolalla and Wyoming and all those sheep do to deserve this? Is music only acceptable if you can dance shirtless (or get sodomized) to it while high on crystal meth? Sorry, mainstream gay yuppie community, you're on my shitlist.