...Not the kind of wheel you fall asleep at...


Since crushes seem to be the topic of the day (for no apparent reason), I wanted to toss a bone out there for you all to hopefully nibble at (a vegan bone of course) and ask this:

What is the most giggle-inducing, face-flushing, mothy-stomach-inducing, weak-in-the-knees, delerious crush you've ever had?

Details please.



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This, and Then No More Talk of It


Turning 30.

It both horrifies and astounds me, floors me. Makes me feel like a whisp from a dandelion fluttering through breezes that are warm and soft. Makes me feel like the cold hard slice of a razor-blade through vinyl. Like old LPs that I've slipped from their sleeves and thrown at the wall and that now sit in clunky piles of bustedness on my hardwood.

It's not that I feel old. It's not that I feel the urge to bemoan my lost twenties. It just feels strange, like when your molar starts to hurt and you tongue it over and over and think that maybe the filling fell out but aren't sure if that was the tooth that ever had the filling in the first place and can't remember what it felt like before, before this one specific moment where you suddenly realized that perhaps it is now gone and you didn't even notice it when it was there to know for certain.

Sitting here, listening to Cat Power sing sad songs makes me want to hug these thirty years up and lick them and/or eat them with an oversized spoon. I keep hearing songs driving to and from the places I go that make me feel like I'm in a film with the most beautifully-timed and chosen soundtrack ever, and that remind me to appreciate.

So I can say this:

I feel blessed when I find myself still marveling and awestruck at a blizzard that knocks everything out of commission. I feel charmed that I still enjoy little stupid shit, like the rattling interruption when you suck something really hard and metallic up into a vacuum cleaner, that I still remember someone writing a brief poem or observation about that exact noise and how they loved it back in an old issue of Sassy magazine that I probably read in 4th or 5th grade and how I felt connected to them right then in that shared appreciation, and how I still remember. I dig that I thought the word "keyhole" right now and then thought how perfectly perfect and lovely a word it is. I appreciate that I can think of something as small as the sensation of squishing fat macaroni-and-cheese noodles around in my mouth, all gross and goopy, and it makes me smile. I feel joyous that I can love a being and she can love me back so much that she will do anything to sleep as close to my heart and my breath as possible. I delight in the fact that on the occasional Sunday I wake up hyper and filled with pure unencumbered happiness and want to bounce up and down on the bed and instead do irritating things to E like hold my finger just centimeters in front of his closed eyelid as long as it takes until he opens it up and it scares him. I like that I like pancakes, fat with chocolate chips. I find myself startled and appreciative of the fact that I can feel so goddamn sad from a song because it speaks to me just like that. I feel blessed that I am so smitten with the people I love and admire that sometimes it takes all my willpower not to pin them down and makeout with them fiercely. I am in love with the fact that I can picture a pair of boots carefully propped in front of a furnace-vent to dry and that it makes me feel warm inside.

I don't feel old.

I don't really feel young either.

I fear death. I fear aging. I think it sucks that I'm ever going to die, that I have to know this, that I have to dread it and occasionally try to wrap my mind around it. That it makes me question whether the existence of death renders everything pointless, or whether it pumps it all full of such amazing potent beauty that I can't even hold it all in and it pours from my eyes and my ears and my mouth in a humming like that of song or electricity. I try not to think about either because it makes my brain feel like it might bottom-out, like it'll swallow itself up in some black-hole and that will be that.

Most of all, turning thirty is making me wanna talk and talk and talk. And write and write and write. Like I'm afraid that if I don't write it, do it, talk it all now, it's gonna up and elope on me, slip out of that 2nd floor window and into the red sports car idling in the driveway, waiting, and that will be the end of it all.

So to all that I say, happy 30th b-day, my happy 30th-bday.

That is all.



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I feel like I have a whole bunch of words all stuck up inside of me today, just begging to explode all over the place, but I'm not quite sure what to say.



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Swoosh Swoosh


As a general rule, I am a disorganized whirlwind of a woman. But there is one weirdly-specific area where I am border-line OCD neurotic for absolutely no reason at all, and that's the area of windshield wipers. I have *NO* clue what the hell my problem is when it comes to them, but for some reason, whenever I am forced to use them, I am constantly scoping the speed of other people's wipers and then comparing it to my own and then spending *WAY* too much time wondering whether perhaps I don't need them up so high and whether the other drivers are thinking "Oh my god--look at that woman using fast-delay when it's barely even sprinkling out!"

Seriously.

I have no clue why I am afflicted in such a strange way. It has no rhyme or reason. And yet: total performance anxiety when it comes to my windshield wipers.

Meanwhile, I have no problem leaving stretched out, used underwear scattered all over my bathroom floor.

The mind is a wonderful thing.



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One of my cats answered the phone today. Seriously.

I called to check my machine, and after one ring, suddenly it picked up. No machine, but something answered.

And then, for the next hour, busy signal.

I finally drive home wondering what the hell crazy-ass robber is sitting in my living room, chatting on my phone while no doubt looking down his/her nose at my tofu and the dirty underwear bunched up on the floor next to my toilet, only to find that the phone is sitting on the couch. And it is on.

I probably wouldn't find this half as amusing if it hadn't gotten turned on *WHILE* I was calling.

Proof positive that my cats are going to take over the world if given enough time.



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Sacher-Masoch, You Had Me at "It"


"It is merely the egoism of the man, who wants to bury a woman like a treasure. All attempts at using vows, contracts, and holy ceremonies have failed to bring permanence into the most changeable aspect of changeable human existence, namely love."

"Nature has put man at woman's mercy through his passion, and woman is misguided if she fails to make him her subject, her slave, no, her toy and ultimately fails to laugh and betray him."

"Should I belong to a man I don't love simply because I used to love him? No, I forgo nothing, I love any man who appeals to me and I make any man who loves me happy. Is that ugly? No, it is at least far more beautiful than my cruelly delighting in the tortures incited by my charms and my virtuously turning my back on the poor man who pines away for me."

(from Venus in Furs by Leopold von Sacher-Masoch)



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Orange and Oily Feces


So having a vegan food blog titled "Yeah, That Vegan Shit" yields some of the most bizarre google searches with which people have stumbled across my blog.

My ultimate favorite came up this week though:

"Shit yeah"

Who the hell goes into google and looks up "shit yeah"?

I don't quite know, but I think I want to be them.



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Coming Out of the Closet


I heart songs from iPod commercials, and I don't care who knows it anymore!

Most recently, "Flathead" by the Fratellis.

Call me a consumer whore, but they had me at "bara bap bara ra ra ra bara bap bara ra ra ra."



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*NEWSFLASH*


Today, an old acquaintance of mine, whom I haven't spoken to in quite a long time, responded to an email I sent with a completely out of the blue and unprovoked compliment, telling me, "I hope all is well. I just want you to know, we all thought you looked smok'in hot at my wedding. once you and M____ broke up I was able to make up sexy stories of you in mind without feeling like I was betraying M____... ha ha! ;)"

Yes, people. Let me let you in on a little secret. Despite my scraggly and unkempt appearance, I clean up well. Very well, in fact. I already knew this, but apparently many of you don't.

Shocking, I know.

Apparently you all just haven't yet figured out that this disguise of squirrely hair, hippie-stench, and discombobulated clothing-choices is merely serving to keep me under the radar until my plan to CONQUER THE UNIVERSE has been completed.

Just a few more months and my army of Julian Casablancas robots will RULE THE WORLD!

Prepare to bow down.

Prepare.

(Until then you can rent me out for weddings and special occasions for $500 a pop. All proceeds will go directly to TFFTOTWOJCAAT (The Fund for Taking Over the World One Julian Casablancas at a Time).)



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