The sea hath blogs for every woman.

I think I'm turning into a fish. At first I thought I was just extra thirsty, but yesterday, during one of my dry-run suicide attempts, I noticed I was able to stay beneath the bubbles in my bathtub for a full 17 minutes. To be fair, I haven't timed myself lately, but I think that's longer than normal. Also, when someone offered me a gummi worm at work yesterday, I briefly considered accepting but was then overcome by a strong sense of impending danger and ran to hide under a large rock in the court until I was coaxed out by my manager. It's not that I mind the transformation; I mean there are worse things that one could turn into. A brick wall going 90 miles per hour, for example. (Shout-out to Princess Di!) In all seriousness, I'm not going to try to fight this. If being a fish-girl is my destiny, then I'll welcome it with open fins. I didn't even have to think twice about ending that sentence. I wasn't tempted to use "arms" because I know they will soon be useless appendages and either shrink and mutate or simply fall off. On the downside, I won't be able to control any type of typing instrument with which to convey my feelings about becoming a completely new species, but I'll try to work out a system of communication that relies on periodically released bubbles before making the switch. One bubble could mean: "Nearing the conclusion to my theory that God is either non-existent or dead, and that in the absence of an omnipotent power, unexplainable chaos is ripping through the universe as it attempts to compete with MP3 players the size of kidney beans for our attention and awed respect." Two bubbles could mean: "I'm feeling frisky, give me a ceramic castle to hide in." Well, there should be at least a week to hammer out the details, as from my understanding the complex transformation of back hair to dorsal fin takes a minimum of 8 days. I'm not sure where I read that, if at all. Something about the number 8 makes a lot of sense to me though and I suspect it's more of the animalistic instincts I'm inheriting. In any case, I suppose I should make the most out of my opposable thumbs while I still can. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to dab a little lemon juice behind the ears and hit the town. I have a sudden urge to swim upstream and tell manipulative lies to sailors.

You suck at life and I'm not talking about the board game.

Why is it that we all cram in to tight spaces on the weekends in attempt to makeout or smoke or get drunk? Do you think if it was not customary to do these activities on the weekends that we would be doing something else? By this I mean; would we automatically tend towards bars or drinking parties? I wonder if we had a chance to start from scratch if we would do other things on the weekends. Like have everyone go out and take pictures, or have picnics, or play baseball, or ride bikes in groups. I mean who decided that we should go to these bars? Granted they are fun, but no one ever asks why we go. We just do. Makes life simple I guess. Also, why is it that logic seems to totally leave the picture when romance enters? It is a line between living and a tame logical existence. It is so easy to forget goals and aspirations when a new love is brought to the table. The question is whether this is a bad thing or not. Is one not supposed to dance in the danger of romance just because of certain risks to the heart? I would think at first no. At least not when put like that. That would be ridiculous. Why would one want to completely shut themselves off from the possibility of love just in light of a few risks? There is a compromise to be made between logic and love. Too far in either way and you are as good as dead. Most of my life is logic. School and living in general can all be done with the aid of logic, but love, love is something different. This requires that you step away from the safety of routine and actually let go. To give total and complete faith in someone else, meaning you will give all of yourself to that one person. That simply put, is not in allign with any normal thought process. So what should the balance be between the two (logic and love)? All I can say is that even though there are risks in love, there is life in love. And living is what we are here for. I guess the best thing for me is that I love math. So I win because I am in love with something logical. Beat that.

All my life.

Albums I can't listen to anymore: Grant Lee Buffalo- Might Joe Moon, the Lemonheads-Varshons, the Bananas- First 10 Years, the Cramps- How to Make a Monster, Dan Melchior and Holly Golightly, R.L. Burnside- A Bothered Mind. There are more, but these are the ones staring me in the face right now. I can't touch them without some bright flash of lips or eyes or hands welling up. The thin ghosts that attach themselves to thighs and notes and sweat and room build up over time if you let their souvenirs rest in your room. At first they only stared at me from the bookshelf, sometimes from the computer or a desk drawer, sitting gaunt and still. There are theorists who say that ghosts themselves, the kind that scare you and open and shut your doors without your permission, are nothing more than the collective thickness of emotions spent in that space. All the afternoons spent fucking or kissing or silent letting the CD run out and the lights stay off, too engrossed in whatever was happening at the time to care about illumination. The phantoms grew out of our sweat, out of our glaring eyes, out of our silent, closed mouths. I could sell CDs by the dozens, I have thousands. There aren't enough years in my life to listen to them all, so I trade in the detritus to get more flotsam, dust for dust, but these talismans, these flat discs and rectangles thick with spectres, I can't touch them. I tried listening to the songs I heard while the sweat cooled off of my stomach and a remarkably handsome boy's back and found myself waking up hours later, the stereo off and my eyes wide open. I tried hearing the songs I cradled to my heart in my warm room, climbing up the stairs at three in the morning after making a hasty and vicious phone call, but I ended up retching after the first note, not ready, and the spirits jumped free and stared from the corner of the room. They never leave, at first I brush past them in the hall, stared at them when sleeping or curled up next to someone else, old eyes and hands and smiles, the looks that make your stomach sink or your blood pound. All we ever want to do is bury ourselves in someone else, to fuck or laugh or love, and all the incidental scraps of paper, pieces of ribbon, records, songs, movies and people that get in the way are tainted with the haunted breath of some ghost or other, unusable, hazardous and poison. There's a billion other records with snapshots of hips and eyes and screams and sobs on them. I don't want to list them, even mentioning their existence sets phantoms to flying all over the room. All this to say exorcise your demons smooth and quick, cut off that limb and cauterize the room immediately. There are a thousand eyes staring at me everywhere now, from roads, from stairwells, from hallways, over buildings, huge and distant. I lie down next to a thousand sighing memories, a room thick with ghosts that never ever go away and keep staring long after the lights are turned off.
And all that is heard over and over again is Thomas fucking Dolby- She Blinded Me With Science.