The Whereabout

Yes, that is John Cusack on my wall three times. And no, I do not care what you think about it.


Photoshop Photo Op

Top 5 Songs to Make Love To

A gem from High Fidelity‘s official website. That site doesn’t exist anymore apparently. Even WayBack Machine has no idea where this is:

Potential monkey shockers, take heed.

I’m thankful for the McLaughlin Group mention, since it gives me license to entertain weird visions of John dirty-talking Neve Campbell (his then lady) in the sack, except using John McLaughlin’s voice. Hahaa. Almost makes me want to pursue a career as a sex pundit (you know, if that were a career, and if it weren’t also creepy and voyeuristic). But instead of a roundtable with people, I’d do it MST3K style with robots in tow (preferably from the comfort of outer space), and with the ‘S’ of course standing for “Sexxxxx”.

The sex act is surreal enough as it is… but add in a soundtrack? I feel like this would be distracting. However, in honor of Rob, Dick and Barry’s Top 5… I would like to offer up my own top 5 (you know, if I were going to take it seriously, and if I were into that sorta thing):

Top 5 Songs to Make Love To

1. Röyksopp – “True to Life”
2. Q-Burns Abstract Message – “Differently”
3. Broken Social Scene – “Looks Just Like the Sun”
4. Sneaker Pimps – “Post-Modern Sleaze”
5. Lady Gaga – “I Like It Rough” (for shits and giggles, though I do not actually like it rough, fyi)

Bonus track: Cocteau Twins – “Ribbed and Veined” (lol, ignore the title. This is my pick for if I were to ever have sex in outer space.)


I Need to Go on Sabbatical

I was jacked up today. I knew something wasn’t right when I got out of bed this morning, and it just went downhill from there. I was extremely agitated, but had a hard time explaining why (even though I know why), which was even more agitating. I couldn’t focus. I wanted to scream.

I spent more time at work today bawling my eyes out than I did getting things done (first at my desk, then in the restroom, later in my car). My entire lunch break (and I usually never take lunch breaks) was spent on the phone with mom, trying to articulate my meltdown. It’s the little things that make melting down at work so troublesome, like finding a good place to cry, hoping no one sees you or says anything to you that will make you cry on the spot, and…especially — leaving the bathroom raw-faced, only to realize that you have a marketing meeting in less than 5 minutes. I splashed with cold water as best as I could, but that doesn’t do anything for red eyes. I should keep eye drops at work maybe.

It’s safe to say that today’s productivity = negligible%. Luckily I had enough sense to go home after lunch. I was of no use to anyone or anything, so I figured it was best to sleep it off and return when I was ready and able to get back to business.

I got home, and made the mistake of revisiting On The Edge while I ate a late lunch. If you recall, that’s Cillian Murphy and Tricia Vessey in a story that is essentially a glorification of suicide. This led to waterworks onslaught #4. Then came the much-needed 5-hour nap.

I’m a little apprehensive about tomorrow.

Seriously Though, Less Really *Is* More

“Technology millionaires don’t hobnob with celebrities or buy a fancy car. They travel to Thailand, or they fund an incubator. These things are just as expensive, but that’s the classic hacker ethos that prizes the mind, not materials.”

lol, Classic hacker ethos? I’m certainly no talented tech millionaire (yet), but I covet the so-called “classic hacker ethos.”

Over the past year or so, I’ve developed this preoccupation (no, not John Cusack, although there’s that too), but it’s this preoccupation with reducing the amount of personal belongings that I own. After a difficult day at work, I like to come home and take out my frustrations on the objects in my living quarters.

It’s unnervingly satisfying to give up my attachment to these things and see them off to their new lives. They don’t need to stay a part of mine, because I don’t know what I’m doing right now, and I can’t be in charge of things.

Every once in a while, I will get caught in a store and go on a buying binge. I usually hate spending money, but on these occassions, I go in and just do not know where to draw the line. I can’t afford that much, but I dupe myself into thinking it’s OK. And then I go home and feel sick with this incredible urge to purge myself of something else out of shame and guilt. Is there a consumption disorder that exists at the opposite end of the spectrum from hoarding?

I’m becoming a thing-vigilante, and I’m completely serious about it. Constantly evaluating and re-evaluating my possessions for what they are worth and minimizing my stuff (and myself) down to the essentials is pleasurable. My space has been put on a radical diet. I’m overwhelmed in my mind, but I can at least control how overwhelmed I am in my physical space. Yes, part of me does believe that reducing personal possessions is responsible, and what most people should strive to do. But I’m not here to tell anyone how to live their own life, and that’s not really what I’m getting at anyway. The larger percentage of my reasoning for this comes from my constant desire to disappear. I figure, the less objects I have to my name, the less of ‘me’ there is to consider physically, and eventually, the less of me there is to consider at all. That is the crux of it.

Each time I give or throw something away, I’m able to withdraw bits of myself from my environment. I get that you aren’t what you own, but your belongings can act like little extensions of yourself. Little representatives or spokes-things. They reveal things about you to other people when said people come snooping around your space. I don’t want spokes-things. I’m not a corporation. I’m an individual. I need to reel my self-expression back onto 2-dimensional surfaces, and furthermore, back into my head. There’s no reason for me to have representatives. When you die, run away or otherwise vanish, you leave that shit behind and then people sift through it. It reminds them of you and the fact that you were a thing. Eventually, I will get down to a ridiculously small amount of things (clothing included), and it will be like I never even existed. It’s not really a statement against mass consumerism (although I dislike that also), but rather just self-minimizing for therapeutic benefit.

On that note, if you’re one of those people who thinks that we, as relatively privileged world citizens here in Western society, should revel in our ability to consume to excess on the principle that others are forced to live with less, not by choice, but due to economic circumstance, then realize that you are trying to legitimize a set of desires and values that are pretty irrelevant to what I’m talking about. This isn’t some inadvertent making-light of people who struggle on a day-to-day basis to get by with what little things they have. Minimalism may be considered trendy or something, but for fuck’s sake, I’m just sad, not ignorant.

At some point, I expect that all of my misgivings, shortcomings and insecurities will be modestly contained in a single room. I don’t want to let any of that crap unnecessarily seep out into the aether. So here are some books (some spokes-things) to help along the way:

The Joy of Less by Francine Jay; 2010

In The Joy of Less: A Minimalist Living Guide, Francine Jay, also known as ‘Miss Minimalist’, explores the philosophy of possession reduction, offers tips on how to detach yourself from belongings and streamline different types of living and working spaces, how to avoid the desire to accumulate shit, and examines the environmental impact and psychological cost that cluttered living can have (she encourages people to buy the Kindle version of her book. I did not do that).

The book is based on her popular blog, where she chronicles her own journey and efforts to reduce. And blah, blah, blah. She also features ‘Real Life Minimalist’ stories submitted to her by various single, married and/or child-rearing minimalists (some having quite a few children, but still maintaining the lifestyle to the best of their ability). I do like her sensible takes on consumerism, gift-giving, making your things pull their weight, and the alternative decorum ideas she comes up with. The only thing I might object to is how she treats unwanted, clutter-causing things as if they are “intruders.” I suppose I don’t like that because I’m one of those delusional people who still secretly thinks that inanimate objects have legit feelings too. But anyway, it’s all sort of interesting:

The Story of Stuff


The 10-Item Wardrobe

The 100 Thing Challenge by Dave Bruno; 2010

A few years ago, Dave Bruno radically reduced his possessions down to 100 things. Then he plopped out a book about it. (He’s similar to that dude who went completely generic, or that other dude whose family radically reduced their carbon footprint to like… almost nothing). It transformed his life or something. What I like about this guy is that he operates his minimalism under the assumption that things themselves aren’t inherently bad. Still, he’s vehemently against consumerism and thinks we’d all be better off if we used more of our brain power toward actual human thoughts, people moments, and productivity, and not so much…ya know, stuff? He’s a little gimmicky about it, but whatever.

I may never make it to 100 things, but I suppose that isn’t the point. Besides, even if I did want to, my Second Life days have primed me for it (no pun intended). When I had an SL apartment on the Manhattan sim, my prim count limit was 250. That was all that I could afford. For those of you unfamiliar with Second Life apartment rentals or prim counts, the amount of Linden dollars you pay your landlord per week determines your allowed number of prims (or objects). Most objects are comprised of more than one prim, but you can find sculpted objects that use up less prims. So if you’re on a budget, you have to be very selective of what you purchase for your place, and as you accumulate more items into your inventory, you have to constantly monitor how many objects you have placed in your space.

It all amounts to vigilance, folks. Don’t be judgmental. Get that shit outta here.

And click on this mystery link.

I Just Had The Dream From Hell

It was just fucked up.

The first thing I remember is being introduced to this strange girl, who apparently was unwell and had a variety of issues. I don’t remember where I was at that point, or who introduced me to her, but she seemed very disgruntled and agitated, and had this whole spiel she was giving me about injustice and her curiosities. She kept talking and talking, and her voice became increasingly louder but from farther and farther away. Eventually, she asked me if I had ever wondered about things. Then she just started stating the same questions over and over again. What is the universe? Why am I here? Why are you a thing? I understood that they were rhetorical questions.

I was planted into this really bizarre, darkened model of a city. All of the colors were wrong. The buildings were the most hideous blue, solid and with no proper windows, and the sky was dark grey with intermittent red lightning. It looked as though something nuclear had taken place. Where were all the people?? On a large, circular marquee above me, the words of the girl’s disembodied voice began to scroll across: What is the universe? Why are you here? Why are you a thing? What is the future? Obviously, I couldn’t answer any of those questions, and I was starting to become really scared. There was something inherently sinister about the environment that I was in. I could sense danger, and the questions she was asking me were not intended for my own benefit or to spark my personal curiosity, but rather to suggest how soon I would meet my demise.

Every time she would get to that last question, these little joker-faced icons would scroll across, and red letters would form a series of keywords like “Greed. McDonald’s Corporation. Absolute Power. Phony Politicians.” I don’t think those were the exact words, but those were the exact ideas expressed. It was either a warning…this girl was trying to warn me. Or it was just her own personal commentary, a recounting of what had already transpired; of what had led to the downfall of this particular civilization; of what had essentially turned all of the buildings blue and the sky dark grey.

I walked further down this spiral ramp and at the very center of the city was this massive, larger-than-life woman, towering above all of the buildings. She seemed to be writhing in terrible pain, and her torso was wrapped in black cords. In the background, I could hear two men discussing her in a way that sounded like she was a patient of theirs, under close observation. I sensed that I too was under surveillance. They referred to her with a nickname that I can’t recall now, but it was something like, “the titling woman.” They warned me to steer clear of her, and not to be influenced or deterred by her very obvious, very public suffering at the city’s center. I spun around a few times, and kept walking.

The next thing I know, I had walked onto an open field somewhere. I don’t think I was in the creepy blue city anymore. I saw a person and impulsively tackled them. I think I was looking for answers, but neither of us was actually speaking. There were people lined up red-rover style on either side of us. One of my co-workers kept kicking water at us from yards away. I didn’t understand how the water could reach us from so far away, but it did each time. I got up and kept running. I came up onto a loading dock for a large naval vessel. There was a group of men, all dressed in white uniforms, who were trying to board up a large doorway with random objects. They were taking apples, oranges, tennis shoes, anything to help obstruct this doorway. The head officer was shouting to a crowd, soliciting more objects. He kept saying something about the purpose of blocking the door. It had something to do with finances, but I don’t remember what it was that he was saying. There was one female officer present in the group, and she turned to acknowledge me.

Then I’m back in the open field and these two men are commanding me to begin self-stimulation. In fact, one of them had taken it upon himself to try to masturbate me, but that wasn’t working. But as I was viewing this from outside of my body, I noticed that it wasn’t even my real body. It was a male’s body. I was young teenage male (probably between 15 and 17 years old), and for whatever reason, these two middle-aged men were insisting that I quickly jack off. I agreed to give it a go and took over what the one man had tried to start. I was this young guy, who was vigorously masturbating in front of two men. My thoughts at this point were completely weird. Since I don’t have my own penis to reference from waking life, I think my subconscious kind of fucked up on the whole male sexual response pattern thing. (I could feel that I was developing an erection, but every time I looked down, the damn thing kept getting smaller!) I also noticed that I was missing a urethra. A lot of things about this didn’t make any sense, but I continued on anyway. It seemed like the right thing to do.

I don’t know if I ever finished though, because all of a sudden I was running again. But I had run into a trap. When I backed up, it turned out that the trap was actually a goalies’ net. Two goalies grabbed each of my arms. I was smack in the middle of a sprawling game of women’s soccer. I had a simultaneous aerial view and ground view of the game, as I tried to run for the sidelines. I briefly found myself pushing a cart of water bottles and Gatorade. I think I had tried to get by under the guise of a team assistant, but if I came too near any of the players, they would turn their offense onto me. I could hear another disembodied female voice overhead instructing someone at the far end of the field to harm any girls who tried to run away. I assessed that none of these people had my best interests in mind, but I couldn’t seem to devise a clear way off of the playing field. I don’t remember exactly what happened after that.

I woke up with my eyes burning, as though I had opened them right in the middle of a sandstorm, or onion-chopping.

Analysis: I want to take a moment now to quick analyze this dream before I lose proximity to it, and before I lose perspective. I’m going to go ahead and guess that this was a castration narrative (surprise surprise), but told in reverse. I suspect that those recurring two men were kidnapping teenage boys and forcing them to experience the last natural climax of their lives before castrating them and casting them off into this weird blue city/soccer field universe as tortured and confused ‘females’. But for some reason, I met the damaged females first, and then became the castration-bound boy later (only to revert back to female, and try to escape). The obstructing of the naval vessel port with random objects was likely the closure of a bodily orifice. Maybe that’s where my urethra went…

Over the past year, I have been developing increasingly worse pre-menstrual symptoms. I never used to have this problem, but I think that my underlying emotional turmoil has made it so. I’ve talked to my doctors about it, and am working to get that resolved, but it does make me afraid to begin the descent into madness cycle over and over again each month. In addition to this, I’m currently battling some fierce work-related anxiety and a mild fear of success, the latter of which is frequently linked to women in the workplace.

Those things coupled with the fact that I watched an episode of Skins UK earlier, and had fallen asleep this evening to the shrieking and moaning sounds of Sherlock Holmes Mysteries wafting through the house, and voila! — a freaky post-apocalyptic castration narrative is born.

Father Figure

My father is an interesting case study if there ever was one. He assumes that everyone else is stupid and less capable of operating cars, garage doors, and a slew of other mechanical things. If you appear to be having trouble working some certain device, he will first jump to the conclusion that it’s operator error, and that you have no idea what you are doing. Then when he tries his hand at it and realizes that he too cannot get it to work, he will devise some sort of excuse or otherwise explain away his shortcoming.

Typical dad behavior. On top of that, he loves to talk down to people. Ask him a simple question, and he answers in the most condescending tone, as if you were truly inept. If I ask you a question, father, it’s because I suspect you either A) know the answer, or B) have some additional preference or forewarning that, if I don’t heed now, will later come back to bite me in the ass in the form of you complaining and berating me to excess when you find out. Not C) because I want you to insult or speak down to me.

He had a stint in the military, where he dutifully executed orders that were barked at him by superiors. He then spent 30 years (a good half of his life, that is) in a position professionally where people had to take orders from him. He’s great at barking orders and expecting that they will be dutifully carried out by subordinates. But when it comes to his own family… he has always been met with opposition and unexpectedly defiant behavior. My mother, brother and I have never been ones to go along with his vision of the proper family order of operations without protest. Each of us in our own unique way has put up a fight. He is perpetually frustrated over the fact that we don’t behave like his subordinates used to. With us, it has never been “Yes, sir.” or “Right away, Mr. Long.” It has always been “No,” “I don’t want to,” or even just “Why?”

You cannot treat your wife and children as if they are your employees. I think this is what has driven him up a wall since he retired 11 years ago. I I think it’s tragic, but also positively hilarious. My mother and brother have both gotten to the point with him where they have stopped caring and have given up on fighting. They know that he is who he is, and is likely never to change. They can never win the battle. I however, am still young, and although I know he will never change, I have not yet given up on the thrill of sheer disobedience. I’m tired of this, but eventually I will reach my brother and mother’s level of tiredness, and I will cease asserting my independence in favor of saying “Fuck it.”

Let me explain: When I was but a wee little girl, I was apparently a daddy’s girl (*ralph*). His right-hand man. We were two peas in a pod or whatever. I sat next to him at the dinner table and tried to clean my plate just like his, and I hung all over him on the couch while he used to watch PBS. I basically functioned like his little minion, and I think that’s why he and I had such a good relationship when I was small. But then, his job was transferred to Huntsville, AL for 4 years when I was between the ages of 9 and 13. At the end of that 4-year period, he retired and returned home to St. Louis full-time. Obviously, by that point, a transformation had occurred. I was becoming my own person. (*gasp*) All of a sudden, I had developed opinions that didn’t coincide with his own, and I was intent on speaking my mind. Let’s just say that none of that sat very well with him. At all. He probably felt that my mother and brother had corrupted me in his absence.

He considers all three of us to be stubborn. However, all three of us realize that it is he who creates the pressure against which we feel the need to be stubborn in the first place. He has always been at odds with my brother, and his relationship with my mother is inexplicable at best (why didn’t they divorce the first time around??) But I think that the breakdown of his relationship with me has probably been the toughest one for him to deal with, since I used to be Little Miss Complacent. Little Miss Can-Do-No-Wrong. Little Miss Daddy Knows Best.

That being said, I have no apologies for the results of adolescence and my own personal trajectory in his opposite direction. Too much has transpired and has reshaped my point of view on life and on this family since I was 5 years old. I cannot return to that prior, ill-informed version of myself, nor do I ever intend to. There’s a lot that my dad can figure out when left to his own devices, being a smart, know-it-all kinda guy of course. But my decreasing willingness to be malleated into submission is the one thing he still hasn’t really wrapped his mind around. I understood it when I was 13. He’s 65, and seemingly still has no clue.

Go ahead, dad. Take your best shot at trying to figure that one out, and let me know what you come up with.

John Cusack Is Ultra Soft and Super Absorbant

John Cusack tweeted the following in response to a comment by another user who was responding to a guy who tweeted that his toilet paper performs better than John Cusack in 2012.

Don't look very absorbant here, John

I’m glad you’re absorbant, John. I really am. It makes me wonder though… do you just like sit alone at home in your pajamas on a Friday night, checking your Twitter, having random Twit convos with randoms and reading articles? Because, if so, that’s really really cute and nice and strange in a “wait, I thought your life was mundane, but in a significantly more glamorous way than mine??” kinda way. I suppose I should stop assuming that he does this in his pjs…

StopReadingHisTweets. StopThinkingAboutHim. StopWritingAboutHim. StopWorryingAboutHim. StopNoticingJohnCusack.

StopIt. StopIt. Stop.

I’m so tired of myself.

Should I go on

Omg, why did I just type that? I didn’t mean that. I don’t want to do that. Ignore that.

Adventures at Kum N’ Go with a Robot Doll Sex Slave

I realize that I used to actually post my dreams on this blog, but now I’ve just sort of fallen into the habit of writing about the overall experience of dreaming as opposed to documenting specific dreams. What a tease, right? It’s like someone just selling you the book jacket with the summary and all the review quotes…but not the actual book.

I took a nap with my cat earlier today, and woke up right in the middle of a very strange dream. What I recall now are only just a few scenes. In one of the scenes, I had returned to Kirksville, MO, where I was driving up Franklin Street. I decided to stop at the Kum N’ Go gas station for a hotdog or a slurpee or something. It looked completely different from how I remembered it. They had added on a pharmacy pick-up window to the front. In addition to that, there was this new policy that if you purchased anything inside the Kum N’ Go, you had to strip your car down to just it’s body frame, and then the girl working inside had to stand against a wall while your car’s frame was smacked into her. I swear on my life this is what I dreamt.

So I magically stripped my car down to its frame, and I apologized to the girl that she would have to be pummeled by my car’s frame over the $2 hot dog that I wanted. She sort of shrugged it off, but I could tell that she was worn out and exhausted from all of the car frames that had knocked her over that evening. She claimed that her boss had decided this. What a barbaric policy. As I pulled into my parking spot, I could hear and see her being bowled over by someone else’s car through the window. I have no idea how this worked. Anyway, she noted that my car’s frame wouldn’t be too bad because it was relatively light…whatever that meant.

The next part of the dream that I remember was maybe even more weird. I had purchased some sort of robot doll. I’m not certain what I had originally gotten the doll for, but it quickly turned into a sexual thing. I remember letting some friends check out the doll, and I kept having to arrange its limbs so as not to get broken. The doll started off as a miniature, but then eventually became life-sized. At one point I was like trying to finger the doll, but I like couldn’t really get that to work. So I disassembled it to try to figure out how its private parts worked. As far as I could tell it was a female doll. At one point I was also like on top of the doll.

I have no idea, but the next thing I know, I am at home and I am getting into an argument with my dad. He and my mom were sitting at the dining table eating, and I was hanging out in an adjacent room, but I could hear him badmouthing me about how I was supposedly lazy (this actually happens in waking life). So I got angry and started yelling at him about how my laziness ought to be the least of his worries. I went into the dining room and said something along the lines of, “You should be more concerned about the fact that my boyfriend is a robot.” This was confusing in retrospect because the robo-doll from earlier was definitely female, but I referred to it as my boyfriend. I was almost upset that he knew nothing about my robot doll lover. He was oblivious to what was important to me at the time (this is actual true of waking life).

After that, I only recall being at some sort of knick-knack dollar store looking at a bunch of random crap like playing cards, and string lights, etc. Some nerds nearby were talking about how they wanted to buy some of the stuff while it was on sale. >_>

A Very Expensive Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner at Tiffany’s

Round Brilliant Ribbon Ring; Tiffany's

I’m not at all in the market to get married anytime soon, nor do I usually have expensive tastes, but somehow I ended up on, and the above engagement ring they featured earlier this week has been makin’ me cuckoo bananas.

I love the ribbon idea and how the diamond is nestled into it, almost like it’s being revealed. It’s like a diamond flower in bloom. Fuck me. I can’t stop looking at it. This mofo goes for $11,700 at Tiffany’s.

Tiffany & Co: Round Brilliant Ribbon Ring

I betcha if John Cusack ever finally got around to tying the knot with someone, she’d be sporting a much pricier engagement ring (probably in excess of $100K, or am I overestimating?). So would it really be too much for me to ask him to just like get me this as… just a gift for a friend? Just like a small gift for the thought?…Ya know, like for the trouble of being in love with him or something? Not that he owes me anything, but it’s just a thought.

When Irish Eyes Are Smiling or Stabbing Your Soul

This is where I talk about my two favorite celebrity Irishmen and the weird things that their eyes do.

I couldn’t imagine being Yvonne McGuinness (Cillian Murphy’s wife) every day. Being constantly surveyed by those eyes! I’m enough of a self-conscious blob as it is. But I’m sure to her, he’s like a normal baby daddy dude who gets on her nerves for doing normal baby daddy dude stuff. Gosh, I would probably get irritated with him too if he tried to be normal with me. You can’t have those eyes and lead a normal life. I wouldn’t put up with that. His whole pretense as a normal person is a lie. He’s an extraterrestrial. Normal shit that he does is like abnormal by default.

It’s like when you make a Sim with the daredevil trait in the Sims 3, and then in their day-to-day life you have options like taking an “extreme shower,” or checking your “extreme e-mail.” Everything he does must seem intense. If he ever wanted to be my normal baby daddy dude, he’d have to wear shades. I could not be normal and domestic living in a house with eyes that could drill holes INTO MY SOUL. (Just kidding… I prolly wouldn’t actually make him wear perpetual sunglasses).

And then there’s John Cusack…

John Cusack has totally non-sinister puppy dog eyes. Take the above photo for example. How can that not illicit an “AwwWWwwwpwuppyyy” visceral response?? I feel like I ought to be squeezing something soft and/or furry. But his smiley face does make me curious though, because I don’t think he can actually see out of his eyes when he’s doing this full-on John Cusack smile. Like, if he smiled any harder, his eyes would just disappear. They would just minimize into oblivion, into 1pt thick arcs, and then they would just vanish…with like…a flash of light, and a popping sound. He would just have no eyes. No actual confirmation on that yet, but it’s a likely theory that I have…

He doesn’t have extraterrestrial, life-threatening, on-again off-again creepy, blue dagger of death eyes like Cillian. Although, in interviews it does seem like John Cusack has a tendency to stare people down as though they were from outer space. He’s got quite an impressive poker face. John Cusack would never crack under pressure. If I had a super secret that I was trying to keep safe from the feds, or from anyone really, I would totally tell John Cusack. He would never tell anyone.

I’m Glad That Winona Ryder Is Still A Thief… of Christian Slater’s Heart

So one of my super duper favorite 80s flicks is Heathers. If you are unfamiliar (WTF), just think Mean Girls, but with more guns, more Levar Burton, and more strip croquet.

Anyway, somehow while at work yesterday I happened upon the following article from 2007 in which Christian Slater admitted to still having a bona’ fo’ Winona:

‘We crossed paths briefly in Sundance, but we don’t speak on a regular basis,’ he tells the Independent. ‘But I love her. I’ve never gotten over the crush I had on her then. She is still the woman of my dreams.’

The fact that he is still emotionally plagued by his lack of Winona-lovin’ 20 years later, and the fact that they are both flying solo right now makes me supremely happy, and renews my faith and fascination in unrequited love.

It also raises the question: does Ione Skye still have the secret mcHots for John Cusack? On the Say Anything special edition DVD audio commentary track with Ione, John and director Cameron Crowe, Ione admits that she was sexually aroused whilst filming the driving lesson scene contained in the clip below: (jump to 5:25 – 5:49)

In addition to that, she said that if it hadn’t been for the fact that she had a boyfriend at the time, she probably would have gone home with John after shooting that day. Way to be subtle, Ione.

It’s important to note that both Heathers and Say Anything came out in 1989, so these co-star crushes have both had 22 years to ripen into a beautifully nostalgic middle-aged sexual frustration. On that note, let’s take a look at what has transpired in the lives of these teen flick stars since 1989:

Christian Slater (42): Drank a lot. Sexually assaulted some women. Spent some time in jail. Married Ryan Haddon and made two kids. Divorced since 2007. Appeared in nearly 100 movies.

Winona Ryder (40): Almost married Johnny Depp. Serial dated a billion musicians. Abused drugs. Tried to shoplift from Saks Fifth. Got arrested. Fell off the face of the earth. Reappeared as a swan wannabe (a swannabe?) in 2o1o’s Black Swan. Appeared in nearly 50 movies.

Ione Skye (41): Married a Beastie Boy (lol, Ad-Rock). Got divorced. Briefly lezzed out with Jenny Shimizu. Made a kid with David Netto. Married Ben Lee, then made another kid. Appeared in 50 movies, yet regretted her career arc.

John Cusack (45): Emotionally assaulted some women. Rejected a run for the presidency. Earned a level 6 Ukidokan kickboxing black belt, and the reputation of ‘asshat’. Filed a restraining order against this woman. Learned Twitter. Appeared in 60 movies.

Their stories are all mildly tragic and wrought with poor decisions of some form or another. In other words, these kids are inspirational.

I don’t care if Ione’s with Ben Lee. He’s got nothin’ on John, who is apparently “built like a stallion.” And if there’s one thing that Winona Ryder is good at, it’s stealing… spotlights, hearts, expensive clothing, whatever. Whether or not she ever sees Slater again, she’ll have him wrapped around her finger for life.

{Also, can I just add that in my dream last night, I was way groped by Cillian Murphy? I’m cool with it.}

More Talking

I spent most of today asleep. I accidentally miss another day’s dose, and my psyche is like origami folded into the tiniest structure. You then spend the next 8 to 10 hours supplanted onto one of its sides, traversing your way across seascapes, canyons and canopies, through the weirdest repetitions and anecdotal assemblies, as it slowly unfolds. You can literally feel your mind cramping and relaxing, undulating via raging migraine headaches that last for hours in the morning.

The universe is pretty clever in having created individuals for the purpose of curtailing and tying up all of this shit into neat little walking cages of information. Everything that happens that we are aware of, needs to be processed. Information should be recorded and filed away, not for safe-keeping (which implies a certain sentimentality) but just for the sake of documentation — that this event happened. That Annie or Anthony happened. Information is sustained and made real through its presence and persistence in objects, in individuals, and in dreams. That this emotion occurred. That the universe was capable of this experience, in this person, at this point in time. File it away in your mind file. We are living proof of complexity, although who needs this proof still remains to be seen.

When people die, their psyches must be unfolded into the cosmos. People who have had near death experiences often talk of a shining, bright light. But it isn’t a voyage or passage through any tunnel. It’s an unfolding of crevice upon crevice after crevice inside crevice. Every abstraction in every byzantine corner of the mind that has been processed and reprocessed, folded and refolded through the years is finally laid flat. Death is exposure. Lifetimes worth of emotion and observation held captive in the mind are set free, spewed forth into the ultimate open-source environment — the universe. I don’t yet know my thoughts on whether or not there is a higher power, but I do believe in a more homogenous, less fragmented consciousness from which all human beings are extruded. The greater universe begets the minor universe, of which we are all co-owners and co-creators. It is the only way that empathy is possible.

Some hold the belief that we all know everything that has been known by anyone at any given point in time ever. All of the information that has been experienced and processed by other human beings is available to all of us. We are made of it, but only through civilization are we groomed to make sense of it in any meaningful way. Dreaming is this process at its most transparent. Dreaming is what’s left when the opacity of waking reality is scaled back to zero. We are allowed to peak beneath the hood of our own incredible machines every night, and get brief glimpses of the type of exposure that could only await us at death. Everything is crystalline accessible, yet completely arcane at once. Death may be years off, but we are visited by visions of our own mortality at night. In dreams, give us a puzzle whose pieces we have all created, and each of us one by one will solve it in our own context. How clever to let us all work on the project together through eons of cycles of wakefulness and sleep. I vividly do my part each night.

I am also amazed by the number of dream characters who have asked me over the past few weeks, whether or not I have seen The Muppets movie.

The answer is always yes. You know this. You were there when I saw it. Please stop asking me about it.

Is The Milk Carton Half-Empty? Or Half-Full?

This guy must love dogs…

So I was looking at my blog, and I decided that it is very lame. The only way out besides deleting it or ignoring it for the rest of eternity, is to turn it into a blog about something really relevant and useful and promising and interesting and meaningful, right?

So then I was thinkin’…

What if I started blogging exclusively about John Cusack? I mean, not really about him (since I clearly have no clue as to what he’s like, where he is, what he does, or why any of that really matters in the first place), but ya know… just like, a general appreciation type thing related to his work, his– wait, I can hear someth– Hello?

Lloyd Dobler: “I just wanted to say that I think that idea is really pretty great. I mean, it’s really pretty great, isn’t it? I mean, chances are, you will never have another idea as great as that one.”

Uhhh… ok? Wait, are you John Cusack?? I know I was just talking about you, but you kind of interrupted my blog post. I mean, it’s okay I guess. But I didn’t even ask for your opinion, and then you kind of offended me. How did you get the number for this blog anyway?


That was weird. All I want to do with this blog is experiment and try new things. I’m 23. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing at this stage in life, or did I already miss that boat? I just want it to be good and meaningful, and not so saddening and pathetic all the time.

Lloyd Dobler: “I’m pretty sad and pathetic right now. I’d probably feel better if you made your blog all about me though. I’m standing in the rain. I just got dumped. I gave her my heart, and she gave me a pen. Now Diane won’t answer my calls. Won’t you answer my calls?”

Wait I’m confused, are you calling me collect from the past?? Listen, Joh– er, Lloyd— I like you and all, and I want to blog about you, but can you please stop calling me in the middle of my blog post? We can talk about this after I’m finished writing. I mean, deciding whether to re-purpose or not to re-purpose her blog is one of the most important decisions a 21st century girl can make in life.

So I want to give this some proper thought. I need time to really think this through. I’m sorry about Diane, by the way. She’ll come back to you. I know how the movie ends. Hold on a minute, I think I’m getting another call.


Vince Larkin: “Sorry, the line went bad or something last time. Anyway look, you gotta commit to this. You gotta execute. We could probably even ca$h in on this operation. How about this for my next movie: A sad and disillusioned young woman from Missouri resurrects my career from its post-apocalyptic thriller slump out the comfort of her own bedroom in “Must Love Blogs.” I’d be playing the part of John Cusack of course.”

JEEZUS, what?! Who are you people?! Stop pressuring me! It will either happen, or it won’t. Most likely it will, but still…”Resurrect” is a little harsh, John. And optimistic. Nobody even reads this blog. Besides, your last few movies weren’t so bad. …Well, except for 2012. That one sucked. And I guess Hot Tub Time Machine. And yeah, War, Inc. also kinda… >_> Hm.


I can’t believe John Cusack wants to make a movie about me blogging about him to my 3 friends. No one would pay to see that. Celebrities these days won’t even let you write a few sentences about how you’re maybe thinking about writing a few sentences about them, without trying to muscle in on the whole thing. Although this does give me a new idea… what if I made a movie based on John Cusack’s Twitter timeline?

Martin Blank: “I spy with my bionic eye… a sock monkey that you’ve named after me, along with my 10th grade yearbook photo that you’ve rasterbated and hung up on the back of your bedroom door. What would happen if photos of these artifacts got into the wrong hands, hm? What employer would ever take you seriously? Devote the blog to me, or else.”

EXCUSE ME? How can you see into my bedroom?!! You don’t even KNOW me. Stop hiding behind all these movie aliases. I know that it’s you, John! You jackass! Where ar– *Click*


Rob Gordon: “I hear you’re rowdy.”

What?! NO, I AM NOT. @#$! Janice Dickinson WARNED me that you’d pull this kind of weird, drunken phone soliciting shit. Fuck you. I am not up for playing any of your reindeer games tonight, John. And tell the others they can all fuck off too. *CLICK*

What a creepo. Guys, I’m sorry but I can’t blog about this guy. I mean, he’s a total creepo. Doesn’t he have anything better to do than internet stalk his own internet stalkers in realtime? If he even so much as THINKS about calling me from another freaky time-warped, geo-spatial internet bananaphone again, I will rip him off of my wall and out of my heart for good.

*faint sound of a quarter being placed into payphone*


That’s it. I’m gonna find the number to this blog, and I’m gonna change it. I don’t know how you change the phone number to a blog, or how this blog even got a phone number in the first place, but I’m gonna find it, and I’m gonna change it, and you, John Cusack, will be sorry.