I accidentally got drunk

during my lunch break from class today. That was pretty cool up until I had to go back to class and cut straight lines with my Xacto knife.

In other news, J's birthday is about a week away and I haven't really decided what I'm doing about that. I know for sure we're have some people over for a Make Your Own Pizza party. Also, he's requested a birthday cake that his mother used to make him when he was very little. It's an orange cake. With orange filling. And orange frosting.

Hi.

Now,I know you think this cake sounds disgusting, but I'm here to tell you that you can't even begin to imagine how disgusting it is. I know because I made a test cake last week. He thought it was wonderful though, so I'm going to have to make him another one because it's his birthday and I'm, like, supposed to do what he wants or something. Naturally, I will have to make a different, more palatable dessert for myself and our guests.

Also also, I've decided that it would be stupid for me not to use far too much food coloring and make the cake, filling, and frosting garishly orange.

I'm almost always out of the loop.

Like, way out of the loop. For those of you who might find yourself in the same place I submit that Fiona Apple's new (if you consider nearly two months old "new") album is a must.

Thanksgiving is gone,

much unlike the turkey carcass sitting in my refrigerator. I'm pretty sure that we've cut all of the meat off of it, but J is not. I'm basically just waiting to walk in on him with the thing clutched in both hands, teeth to the bone. He can be like that sometimes.

This was actually the first Thanksgiving for which I cooked a real turkey. Last year (my first year cooking for the whole holiday by myself) I cooked a breast only. That was, in and of itself, an experience involving tears, dry heaves, and an email addressed to Mother containing a photo of the raw, dead bird.

This year I cooked a "young turkey." It looked very much like an old turkey (I suppose), but much smaller. I thought I was going to be okay, but started to tear up the moment I tore open the plastic. And then the tears started to fall. And then I went into the ugly cry. And then I whipped around from the kitchen sink, look at J from across the room and shouted Why am I crying? He came over to hug me and then I whimpered He was only a young turkey! Just a young turkey! and cried some more.

And then I got over it and we ate him.

It's Thanksgiving, people.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Also, Whitney Houston is a crazy bitch.

That's all.

J's birthday and Christmas are dangerously close to each other.

I know that people with birthday's close to Christmas generally dislike combining the days. He knows that I'm po'. Last night he told me that all he wants for his birthday is for me to take a self portrait. This is not going to happen for two reason: a) I've already purchased his birthday present and b) I have a better chance of taking a photograph of Big Foot, The Loch Ness Monster and a sober, respectably dressed Tara Reid having tea together than I have of taking a good photograph of myself.

It's a sad day.

My favorite black messenger bag broke today. It wasn't very fancy, just some old number from the Gap, but I'd had it since high school. The strap ripped completely off of the side (which, I might add, speaks volumes about the amount of shit I've been forced to carry to class with me this semester) and is definitely irreparable. This, of course, means I must now head out and find a replacement. My friend Andy insists that this does not mean I have to go and find a replacement but that I should actually just use one of the other two perfectly put together black messenger bags I own. I know, the audacity. He clearly doesn't know that every man should have at least three working black messenger bags at his disposal at all times.

I believe he also said something to the effect of dismantling my messenger bag collection and using the fabric to clothe some third world country or something, but I stopped listening.

I once went to school with a girl named Heather.

Heather had inordinately large elbows. Thus, we called her Heather McElbows.

Dear Lindsay Lohan,

Why am I just now for the very first time hearing your song Rumors? Why do I love it so? Why does this whole thing make me want to bludgeon myself like a baby harp seal?

Love,
Taylor-

ROME

I make, like, really good microwaved popcorn. Also, I'm drunk.

J went on a field trip today.

He went to look at donors. That's what the field trip instruction sheet said to call them. You can call them donors all you want, but they were really just cut up dead bodies. It was a trip for his Anatomy for Artists class. He'd been excited about it for weeks. I'd been dreading it. I just knew he'd come home and want to talk about how cool the dead people parts were. That's why I was surprised when he walked in the house drained of color. I think seeing something that graphic and that real has the power to change a person. He said he'll never forget the smell of the formaldehyde. He's been talking about it all night. Despite having shed the offending clothes and showering, he was convinced he could still smell it. I'm sure that'll pass.

None of this explains why I'm the one who can't sleep and he's the one snoring like a grizzly bear in the bedroom.

Maybe it's because he's snoring like a grizzly bear in the bedroom.

This reminds me of when I first moved in with him. I ended up on the couch almost every night. I hadn't yet gotten used to sleeping with another person. Every sound and move he made upset my sleep. I would move to the couch and resent every second of it. Then, when he woke up and realized I wasn't in bed, he'd come out and get me. Every night I would wonder if he'd come or if he'd leave me there. I think that pretty much sums up the entire first incarnation of our relationship. There was so much resentment and so much uncertainty. Things are so different now. I will gladly fall asleep out here on the couch because I know that he'll come and get me when he realizes I'm not there.

I saw a guy on the train today.

He was wearing a belt that must have been a good six or eight inches too big for his waist, but it was not fed through any of the belt loops on his pants, so the only way he could keep it from falling to the ground was to stand with his legs spread apart. I've never seen anyone put so much work into looking so stupid.

Today is Leanne's birthday.

Leanne is one of my very best friends. Fortunately, Leanne and I operate under the understanding that we don't have to talk every week to know that we'll always be friends. This is fortunate because I'm a horrible person and very rarely call the people I love.

Leanne and I met the first time I went to college. I used my medical history to score a single room in one of the better dorms at the school. Leanne probably got her room because she's hot. She had a roommate though. I was actually friends with the roommate first. Leanne scared me. She was blonde, pretty, and smart and, therefore, represented everything I'd learned to hate in high school. After spending some time in her room, though, I learned that she was blonde, pretty, smart, and also one of the most amazing people I'd ever met.

Leanne allowed me to start over. I'd just come out of high school and I'd just come out and I really just needed to start over. I needed to feel out who it was that I wanted to be exactly. Leanne listened to my whines about unrequited "love" and complaints about the people I couldn't stand and she always told me when I was being unreasonable. She came to my performances despite how boring they probably were and she came to my dorm room despite how much laundry was piled up on the floor.

Some of my most fond memories are of the nights in my room. My bed was famed for being the softest and most comfortable in all the dorm. I will always remember those nights with me in my desk chair or sitting on the floor and Leanne on my bed, usually hugging my fish pillow.

Happy Birthday, Leanne! I love you!

The weather reports here in San Francisco are ridiculous.

We were watching one of the more ludicrous (and therefore our most favorite) reports last night on the 11 o'clock news and right next to the high temperature for yesterday (84 degrees) there was an animated graphic of an exploding thermometer. Mercury was erupting from the top of the thermometer! Apparently thermometers here in the Bay Area only read up to 80 degrees.

After seeing the exploding thermometer graphic J added that it was actually better than the forcast from the night before, which had fire all over the map.

We watched The Interpreter last night.

I realized that I really, really want to be an interpreter at the UN. Then I realized that I can barely speak the one language with which I was born. Then I realized that we had Teen Titan Hero Popsicles in the freezer.

You win some, you lose some.

I do most of my thinking in the shower.

Considering I'm only ever in the shower anywhere between 20 and 40 minutes a day, I feel as if the odds are against me.

This morning in the shower I thought about what I'd just thought about. I'd thought about the homework I wanted to have done by the end of the day. I'd thought about how very badly I needed to do dishes and tidy up. I'd thought about how I've been using extra dish soap lately so that I might get through the current bottle faster so that I might be able to try the new Dawn Direct Foam because, in the commercial, when you depress the pump a little foam vacuum cleaner comes out and cleans your dishes for you. I'd thought about how long it's been since I weeded the garden. I'd thought about which meat I needed to take out of the freezer because I couldn't possibly serve my boyfriend sandwiches and pasta salad for dinner two nights in a row. I'd thought about taking the trash out, but not until I made sure all of the recyclables had been properly sorted. And then I thought about a) how fucking queer I am and b) how much I really despise the things that I, as a 23-year-old, think about on a daily basis (or, inversely, the things that I, as a 23-yearold, do not think about on a daily basis).

In other news, Mother has turned another year older this very day. I'm sure she'll have more fun than her 23-year-old son could ever even dream up.

I am not a photographer.

I will never be a photographer. I enjoy taking pictures, but I'm not very good. I have to turn in a portrait at class today. I took over 100 pictures of J. The one I chose for the assignment I really quite like. The truth, though, is that anything with even slightly developed motor skills (a category in which I very rarely fall) could take a good picture of my boyfriend. I will show you mine.

Before I go to bed

I must say that the absolute highlight of my otherwise lacklustre day was when the 300 pound girl wearing the Playboy halter top turned to me during class and said Isn't the book cover supposed to be five by seven? and I said Yep and she said But five by seven is a square. Glorious!

It's really a wonder I managed to find a boyfriend

because I'm equal parts awkard and unkind when being hit on by strangers.

A guy started talking to me on the train last night. He asked my name. I politely told him. He asked what I was studying. I politely told him. He asked if I was on myspace. I politely told him no. Then he asked for my email address. I told him that I do not have an email address. Instead of politely telling him that I was not interested in furthering our relationship beyond train seat neighbors, I told the most transparent lie. I could have sooner convinced him that I didn't have a nose or that I'd slept with his mother the night before. When we got to my stop he muttered something about seeing me around and I said "What are the odds?"

Obviously, I saw him on the train today and probably will every day until I admit to having joined the 21st century and signing up for an email address.

Right, then.

I don't really know how to get things done here yet. I remembered that I'd moved a bunch of my old posts here already a while back so I figured this was the logical place to start anew. Eventually I'll fill in the gap. Fortunately, I really only update once every 15 years or so, so that project shouldn't take long.

Maybe some day I'll make this thing look not ugly, too.