There's too much stuff here. It took me a while just to figure out how to do a new post.

I haven't filled my moleskine journal yet, and here I go typing away, embroiled in betrayal.

That familiar blankness is here again; I don't know what to say and my head feels pretty empty. I had more creativity when I spent most of my nights drunk, wandering up and down Landfair or Gayley.

Testing, testing.

And there was bri’s white tundra in the lot and he was there next to it in his designer clothes waiting because he had seen them.  And he talked of his mentally unstable Japanese women again, and she could never decide whether Bri was himself mental enough to attract them or if they just did not exist.  and she thought to herself tiredly heart beating loudly that in regards to old coffee shoppe men she really preferred the short company of Hugh the Vietnamese nuclear physicist with the little moustache.  He gives her menthol cigarettes (Bri has Marlboros) and says that inevitably parents always have a favorite child.  He was only there when they had stayed up all night, and crawled to Diedrich’s at 6 in the morning.  Sleep deprivation felt like some sort of conquest then, and so smoking cigarettes was ok. 

She hasn’t the tolerance for Bri’s vanity, smugness when she is this fast, thoughts racing in angry circles around him.  Once, she tricked Helen into believing she was attracted to this old man, but only for half a second.  It was enough, the brief, open mouthed look of repulsion on her face, to elicit her own rippling laughter for 100 times as long. 

Starbucks is officially buying out Diedrich’s, so there will be no more free refills of caffeine in a logo cup.  She thought it was the most tragic event of the century because surely Starbucks could not carry her through an insanity such as this.

there wasn't a great degree of clarity in high school, only blurs and messes. most of which i had created proudly on my own. we were under the bridge after school and she was reading a newspaper that had blown our way, hre red fingernails poking out of bum-style fingerless gloves. *S* was there too, ironically resulting from her persuasion rathre than mine. i sat plucking at the grass, frowning at the cigarette smoke billowing from her left hand, rising from the mess of papers. maybe i glanced at him. i knew it; he always thought we were strange.

we were at UCLA when we were 15 or so, getting lost in side streets off of strathmore. we lost dev's apartment somehow, forgot that we had consumed some bacardi limon and orange juice which we had forcibly wrenched from his hands, wandered these jungles of concrete. finally, we spotted him from across the street, and remembered that we were supposed to burn BUSH '00 signs in my backyard but had forgotten the lighter fluid. by the time her mother was screaming at the television and throwing things when chen shui bian was re-elected, i myself had calmed down a bit.