Since I turned 23 two days ago, I've been worrying about aging. Wrinkles and shit. Looks like the cosmetics industry just got me by the balls.
It's hard to be a girl. That's what she said.
When you go shopping wearing clothes that you bought at that same store recently, do you feel self-conscious? I do.
Back during sophomore year of college, a guy once told me, "You know, maybe you should get a blog," to the tune of, "Why don't you go fuck yourself." He was trying to convince me to stop sending him sappy emails to Chile, where he was studying abroad. If only he could see me now!
Last night, I went to F & M's. I know. When this guy went to the bar to buy me a drink, I left. I know. But at the time, I felt that it was the right thing to do. Have you ever done that?
I hate making that right turn from carrollton to claiborne. I always just miss the green arrow because the douche bag in front of me decides to idle on through, paying me no mind. And then I have to wait. And I want to move to a city where the
only cultural advantage is being able to make a right turn on a red light. I thought that was just one of our many cultural advantages, but apparently, on this point we are inconsistent!
Parallel streets that are better than one another: Broad destroys Carrollton. Always. I prefer Esplanade to Canal or Canal to Esplanade depending on my mood. Uh, and where I'm going. Ok I just realized these comparisons are going to be way too arbitrary.
Boy Alexes have issues with their name, as does everybody else. I have never known a Boy Alex to ever go by just Alex. He and the world suggest a host of nick-names that basically sabotage his name. Girl Alexes don't have this problem. Why? I don't know.
Boy Alexes I have known: Alex Visotszky. Goes by Avis, Lex, or Favis. Alex Sugiura. The dude who writes the blog whose style this particular post mimics. Unfortunately for him, but fun for everyone else, in college, he went by "Sug," the g pronounced like "je" of the french language, basically an abomination of his Japanese last name. Oh, or he went by Al. Or Big Al. Or, if he's feeling particularly fruity, Alexander J. Alex Gonzales. Zan, or Al, or Alexander. Alex Reed. Unfortunately for him, fun for everyone else, he was dubbed "Ale," rhymes with "heeeyyy" by a bunch of fat senior football players who were in his AP Spanish class that he took as an 8th grader cuz he was smart and half-Spanish. Recently, he has dropped "Ale" like a bad habit, requesting instead, surprise,
Al.
Also, Boy Alexes are nuts. Intense.
Isn't it kind of a let-down that in this age of globalization and what have you, you can never truly mourn that you might never see someone again? But then there is always death. So that should remind you not to take any one for granted.
Always read the NY Times, and always apologize, even if you are afraid the person could give two shits.
....So how'd I do?
Al of
porwinegrind.blogspot.com blogs like lying in bed saturday morning, half-awake, squinting your eyes at the wall as things occur to you. Sometimes I love it. It's like, "Adages" by Al. Or, "Afterthoughts" by Al. Yep, like a cologne. Or candles. Like, "Serenity" by Jan. (Those who know, know.) Sometimes I think he's lazy, and he leaves too much to the world. Dry, squinting humor. Why does that sound dirty.
I'm out.
