Yesterday while out having cocktails I decided that I should really stop wearing sandals because the season where it is necessary to wear sandals has ended. I am too lazy to put socks on half the time.

It's almost like how I have ceased working on pretty much anything besides the necessary table waiting. Mostly because I am lazy.

I have had inspiring moments--walking home alone half-drunk on days where there are droplets of rain and the coolish air curls around my t-shirts and tanktops-- where I am way too sublime for my own good. But because I have essentially rid myself of complicated emotions (or am at least ignoring that they exist at present), I shrugged off anything besides waiting tables, beer, and cocktails.

Or maybe I just need to make out again.

So blogs and the like turn people's lives into stories, non? I think it's just my need to write a good story that is getting my internet-self going again. I've been journalling off and on online since the eighth grade for the reasons that every other awkward teenage girl wants to journal online. So this is the same thing, just as a "look at the funny things that happened to me today" format rather than a "today I lost my virginity" type of thing.

Today I lost my virginity.

Also, I accidentally set off the burglar alarm at work. Zany!

When I write a good story, I'll probably stop pretending that my life is a good story.

One of the few good stories that I've actually ever witnessed has to do with a mandrill.

Cause and effect.

In any case, I've been inspired by the fact that certain bands tell good stories.

I wanted to have a blog with well-thought out posts, but I'll just begin with a quotation from the movie I'm watching.

Rules? In a knife fight?!? No rules!

Maybe next week when I don't burn my brains out every day on natural gas lanterns, I'll begin writing like crazy. Since I moved, my fingers have stayed mostly still. I'm waiting for the day when I can really think again. By "can" I mean "let myself."

In the meantime, some observations:

1. The neighbors seem to be "doing it" upstairs. If my house were not over one hundred years old, I would have no problem with slight thumps on the floor. However, it shakes the whole house.
2. I fell in brief love today with a man who looked something like Mark Twain or a character from The Music Man. He was either a professor or an old southern gentleman (maybe both) in a blue and white pinstripe coat, all summerlike and seersucker. He asked intelligent questions about the lanterns, proving my one-month-and-leaving-on-saturday knowledge inferior, yet made me feel extremely comfortable while we discussed acid dips and stunning rivet work. If there's two things that often make me feel uncomfortable, it's acid dips and stunning rivet work. Anyway, I'm going to attempt to sketch a picture of myself as this guy but chances are I'll fail as I normally fail at drawing anything at all. A self-portrait, particularly of myself as an old man, probably won't work out. It won't work out.
3. My legs are covered in mosquito bites because there are probably no fewer than eight mosquitos living in my house right now.
4. A good part of my day-to-day thoughts involve the fact that I am old enough to have fucked up my life already, am young enough to fuck it up more, and too silly to know if I've actually maybe fucked it up already. How does one truly fuck up a life, I wonder quite often, and am frequently stunned by the fact that other people's lives are not my own.

How were those thoughts for a beginning? I am glad that I am not starting a "my life dating in New York" blog. If I had stayed... yeah. Anyway, expect something like this from now one, longer and less flightly than previous efforts.