This Next One's For You. &, Yes. It is a Fuck You Song.

I don't know if the time indicator is accurate on this here blog, but please let me describe the particular circumstances under which my tiny, frozen fingers type: It's a brisk 37 degrees F according to the results of Googleing 'weather right now gainesvile fl'. It's 6:05 am. I'm at Deja Brew. I'm about 3/4 of the way done with a midterm paper who I began working on at appx 8pm. (Yes, 'who'. I've spent so much time on this piece, it's more like a stubborn child who will not fucking grow up already than a term paper). My nipples are so hard, the only appropriate use for them at this bitter moment in time would be to cut glass. Save the diamonds, people, please. I have a nipple. I also have a spare, jic.
I'm actually feeling great, though. The coffee girl just started dating a friend of mine and is successfully getting in with me by attentively refilling my coffee cup.
I absolutely should not be sharing any of this with you. I'm not finished. I'm not really close to it. And my nips will not leave me alone. It's painful


--Mosephine cannot get over this nip thing. Ow.

& Wait. There's More.

To Name a Few

Alright. So I know I haven't been the best with updating the goings on of my life, so here is a photo blog entry of a what's-been-going-on visual.

Everyone Is Entitled To My Opinion

If necessity is the mother of invention or whatever, then procrastination is the surrogate. It's all very Baby Mama. And don't fool yourself for a second that I'm the only one who is only able to spew out precious creativity at the least appropriate times.

And another thing: whatever ana coined the phrase, "Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels" is a damned ass liar because I just had the best pasta salad of my life. 2nd St. Bakery. Need I say more?

The other day at Volta, Little Bright Bright and I pondered over one of our favorite activities:creating names for hypothetical businesses. Being as it were, us at a coffee shop, my mind instantly began planning a no doubt more successful version. I had heard of Les Beans and am pissed I didn't think of it first. Then I decided on From the Grounds Up. It'd probably be set up in San Fran and have a killer color scheme and house all the greatest thinkers of our time, mainly Michelle Tea. Little Bright Bright (LBB) came up with Latte Da and The Whole Enchilatte - Coffee, Burritos & more. Brilliant. These ideas are all patent pending, so don't try any smart stuff.



-Mosephine also wonders where all the cowboys have gone.

On Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of a Decent Fork

I continue to be awed by this particular dash on the time line, c'est ligne de temps, of our lives, and with such certainty it seems it will be among the boldest that will ever be marked. How could you look around and not feel yourself in the same envelope as countless numbers of people in such a cliched position? This second adolescence. This fork in our respective roads on which we've been placed, now with an infinite number of prongs to choose from. And with such urgency and dire necessity to choose the strongest, shiniest one that will hold the most delicious and satisfying future of opportunities. How simultaneously cliche and intensely personal. Like walking through a crowded mall and hearing your favorite song, an external experience turned so fiercely private. We have these aspirations that seemed so much more attainable in the form of prospective day dreams and night dreams, during which we so assuredly visualized ourselves wrapped in the brightest fabrics surrounded by our ideal dinner party company. How comparatively dull to open our eyes and find ourselves at the table, staring at our plates, rendered completely incapable of making the most basic of decisions. Chicken or rice, Grad school or New York? Water or beer? National Coalition Against Censorship or Goerings bookstore?
All this food imagery. I must be hungry. And I am. So hungry. Always for more. Wavering from poles of the instantly gratifying and the historically established facts, assuring a future of good health and green poop.

Do I look at my feet and make sure I have the proper footwear to get me from here to my immediate there? Or do I sprint forward into the indistinct distance, trusting that the route to my destination will be well-marked and well-lit and that someone I know will be there to pick me up when I get there, regardless of my footwear?
I've never been one for shoe shopping, though. And I have a decent sense of direction. But I did pick out a loyal pair of Vans once. And I did get lost in France for 9 hours a few years ago.

I'm 3/4 finished with a paper on Eve Sedgwick and Barbara Johnson (which I have typed every single time 'Babar' before spellcheck issues me that red wtf line) and the desire of the Other. "The differences between entities are shown to be based on a repression of differences within entities, ways in which an entity differs from itself." Ugh. How very foxy of you, Babar Johnson. Marry me.


-Mosephine sees fiery pianos washed up on a foggy coast

Fotos From the Road

-Mosephine whispered, too.

Bleeding and Pleading Pygmalion

All I can say of my endeavors of the heart up until this point is that they have been of completely unjust origin. This is not to brand myself with the marks of a villain, but to plead honest ignorance. I had always considered myself in the rankings of the utmost profound romantics when, in fact, I was but reveling the warm but shallow waters of ignorant bliss. Let me make an explicit distinction between the desired and myself - that is, the explicit distinction between the silently admired, loaded with potential and the inevitable hopelessness attributed to the admirer in doing so. How tragic. This ignorance is not only a simple lack of knowledge but also a blindness to the injustice that was being done to me and that I was also potentially doing to the other. It is unjust to blindly fill another with one's own ideal desires.

I declare an adamant disagreement with the notion of love at first sight. (Think twice, however, in labeling me a cynic. I remain steadfast in my claim to romanticism.) To place one's self in the column of believers of love at first sight is to place one's self (not the desired) on a pedestal that is destined to either be reached or, in not being reached, leaves one's self in her original state of solitude at the false expense and fault of the desired.

What this sort of admonition of love creates, in actuality, is a coat of armor for the desired. It declares one's self a brilliant artist, destined to be able to revel only in one's own beautifully tortured soul. It is seeking symmetry. In claiming love and the perfection of an unknown other and viewing a vision of perfection, I was declaring myself, in turn, as the ideal. It is seeing a mirror image, projecting back contours of pure attraction.

How narcissistic to live in such a golden age of love, during which we are happy almost by ourselves. This love was from the beginning the cancellation of the other.

It turns out I had only been inhaling this whole time. How deliciously terrible this infant flow of oxygen tastes.




-Mosephine has deconstructed. not destroyed.