thursday tunes

I was introduced to the fantastic Nicki Bluhm (aka: Nicki Bluhm & The Gramblers, aka: Tim & Nicki Bluhm, aka: Brokedown in Bakersfield) last year by a dear friend and self-proclaimed all things Nicki Bluhm groupie. And then I caught a Brokedown in Bakersfield show and my life has since been forever changed.



Seriously? SERIOUSLY? That voice is like warm, golden, soulful honey.



...which is only intensified when she (and husband Tim) harmonize in the way that makes me believe in "I do's" and true love and voices that were meant to be together forever and ever. Amen.

Which brings us to The Van Sessions...



Essentially, they cover songs while traveling between shows in their van. May I repeat - IN. THEIR. VAN. I'm telling you, the happiness this brings me is unparalleled. This one is my favorite but all of them are absolutely outstanding. Highly, highly recommended.

go FOMO yourself.

I've been thinking a lot about my "social networking" habits lately. Maybe, it's not been so much thinking as actual personal questioning re: where I am online, what I'm doing and most importantly, why I feel this overwhelming desire to CONSTANTLY be connected at ALL TIMES.

I think this stems from an incident that occurred at The Vino House a few weeks back. While watching a movie with B (or, attempting to while simultaneously responding to texts or checking email, Facebook and Twitter every fifteen minutes) I look up at one point to realize that we are both sitting there transfixed by the glow of our iPhone screens and not paying attention to the movie in the slightest.

Me: "Oh my god, do you realize how sick this is? We are such the stereotypical iPhone owners right now."
B: "Yeah, you're totally right. Actually, do you know how I can get three stars on this level of Angry Birds?"

(sidenote: B is a brand-spanking-new iPhone 4 to Verizon owner so, her behavior is acceptable. Me? I'm still rocking an original iPhone since 2008 thus giving me no excuse.)

So, let’s start this again: Hi, my name is Allison and I am a social media addict.

Fact: I am addicted to my iPhone. My morning routine consists of checking email, RSS feeds, Facebook, Twitter and a multitude of newsworthy websites just to get my fix. I’m sure this is somewhat normal for many people, so I really don’t feel too badly about it. Everything I do throughout the day (and then some) consists of using the internet, and that used to not bother me. We live in the age where internet is God and we are all its minions, referencing it for everything and using it for anything. It’s the king of tools and we utilize the SHIT out of it, as we should. With the push of a button we shove privacy aside and place our thoughts, feelings and life on display for any and everyone to be a part of. It gives us a little space in this world where we can connect to people, absolutely, but it also unleashes the inner creep within us all that we’re too ashamed to actually admit exists in real life. But is there really anything wrong with that?

So, back to my original question, why do we do this? To which I must answer completely honestly – I don’t know. Asking someone why they tweet or blog will probably produce a slew of answers ranging from “because I like it” to “well in times such as these I find it oddly peculiar that others don’t take to the internet to voice their concern over the emerging and evident issues arising around the nation as a whole”

… to which I will have to stop, laugh at you and tell you in my total serious voice that “Dude, you take the internet way too seriously to actually exist.”

But then, I get linked to articles like this one and it all makes sense. The internet is a great big party and if you’re not connected in some way, shape or form – you’re missing out. The FOMO the author so poignantly describes is alive and well but it can be fought and won. This isn’t some lame ass high school party where only the “cool kids” are invited and the wallflowers are forced to stay home. Regardless of whether or not you can physically BE at some event is slowly becoming irrelevant when you can pseudo-experience it all from many peoples’ perspectives through a Twitter stream. Of course, there’s nothing better than the actual experience of being there but for those of us who can’t – we’re still included. FOMO is much less when you just accept that fact.

I Facebook (though, much to my disdain as of late), I tweet, I blog. I check a dozen plus websites a day most of which are blogs of people I don’t know in real life. I Netflix (instant play rules my life). I use the internet for it all. It’s the ever-there presence that I love to hate and just can’t quit no matter what. I used to have a problem with that but now, it’s just accepted. Sure, disconnecting myself from it all is sometimes necessary for my own sanity but I’ll never be able to completely let it go.

And why would I want to? The only thing the internet lacks is a nonstop flow of free tequila, though I might then turn into that asshole that just runs their mouth on YouTube and does nothing but embarrass themselves like the idiotic bigot that they are.

Except you know, I’d be much classier. Thanks internet!

belief.

It's been awhile since I've felt inspiration. True, honest to god, pure inspiration. It comes and goes in waves, as I'm sure many people would agree. When you're looking for it, it never comes and when you're too busy to even consider the thought - it strikes. It always does. It's inevitable.

I've been inspired by, multiple things these past weeks and I think I'm at the point where I actually feel safe saying it out loud without fear that by me doing so will jinx it, thus leaving it as just a fleeting moment in the ever revolving door of life. Not only am I being inspired, but I'm actually EXCITED about this "project" (if I want to call it that) and can't wait to work on it. While I don't feel comfortable completely indulging all the details that it includes, it's going to be good. I think. No, I know. Once it gets past the pre-planning and planning and putting together and hours of work that I think it'll take to get up and running - this will be something that's good. No, great. Not only because I believe in it so much, but I believe in everything involving it. I don't know if I can say that enough.

It feels nice to be included in this, to be brought in from the beginning. To be picked (out of sheer convenience even) by a person and have them tell you "I want this and I want you to be the person to help me make this happen." Like all projects seen through from the beginning - it feels like a baby. One that I know when all the work is said and done, I will be proud of. I don't (or, really try hard not to) do things half-assed because, quite frankly, I like to make people happy. Knowing that someone trusts me enough, believes in me enough to think that I can do this, just warms me to my soul. Plus, everyone knows that I DO NOT LIKE to disappoint. Scratch that, I can't disappoint. Not when I believe in the project so much. When the time comes down to it and the weight is on my shoulders, I can take it. I'll be that person for you, always. No question.

It's good to have a little hope again. To be renewed. To be EXCITED - knowing full well what lies ahead. It'll all pay off and be more than worth it. Not even so much for me, but for the person behind it all. Who I believe in more than anything. Who believes in me, and together, I truly believe that we can make this happen.

I can't wait.

the fortunate.

I haven't been taking my time lately.

I haven't been taking time for anything other than, well, trying to catch up on my life since my run with retail during the holiday's is done.

Sidenote: DON'T DO IT. I'm not kidding. I never truly grasped the concept of just how horrible the human race can be when it comes to holiday's and shopping. That coupled with some 14+ hour workdays and giving up my weekends (people are seriously THAT MUCH WORSE then) while making pittance just, wasn't worth it. At all. Had I known then what I know now, the "oppertunity to make some extra money" would not have looked so golden, at all.

As it is obvious, I have since somewhat recovered and am on the track back to being somewhat normal, with a normal schedule. Just, you know, more broke.

But I've been trying to live this life, and take it in. Sure, there was Christmas (always fun), New Years (I got drunk, thrown out of a bar, and then had to work said retail job at 11 the next morning. Again, fun.) and everything in between. Maggie turned ONE on Monday and we had a party for which I hand-decorated 6 dozen cupcakes for. It was worth it though. it's all been worth it. Every single second.

I guess what I'm getting at is the fact that while I've been obsessive with documenting and doing all of these things to MAKE SURE that I remember what's going on with my life, I'm in a phase right now where I'm just not feeling it. Sure, Facebook is updated occasionally and I turn into a paparazzi whenever I am around Maggie, but I'm more than content to just sit and exist where I'm at most of the time. When I'm with people, doing something, I'm lucky if I remember to snap a photo. It's just that, I forget. I get too wrapped up in the moment(s) of it all and nothing else matters.

I've been feeling really fortunate lately. Just, fortunate for what I have. Sure, there are always things that I want, and that I wish that I had but for the most part I'm pretty content. I'm content to have a group of people around me whom I adore and love spending time with. Whom I miss when I don't talk to for a few days and who call or text "just to check in." For living in a place that seems to breed adventure in my soul. For a place that I feel like I belong. I'm fortunate, for all of it. For everything.

I couldn't ask for much else.

23

I'm 23 today.

It's such an in-between age, don't you think? I mean, am I officially coming into the cusp of my mid-twenties, or does that not happen until next year? Which then seems silly because you're closer to actually being a mid-twenty as opposed to just being in your mid-twenties.

Yeah, that's kind of how my brain has been lately. I apologize.

I wasn't looking forward to today, at all actually. I have some of the biggest issues when it comes to aging and getting older - most of which I can't quite narrow down exactly why. The only thing that slips into my mind is that I used to write birthday letters to myself on this day, every year. Giving myself goals and ideas to accomplish over the course of the next year, you know, to really justify my existence apparently. I couldn't just have another year of life, it had to MEAN SOMETHING and I had to BETTER MYSELF and CHANGE THE WORLD and then on top of everything else, CURE FUCKING CANCER.

For a long time, and even a little still now, the first thought I had when I would wake up was to call my parents and apologize for not being enough. I was never the best student, best athlete, best daughter, best sister, best anything really. This is a weight that I've carried for god knows how long and yet, with time, has yet to completely alleviate itself. Another birthday was a reminder of yet another year that I disappointed everyone around me because I just was not enough. It's still a constant battle for me, one that I struggle with consistently and it's really not anyone elses' doing but my own. But this is the first time, in a long time, that I opened up my eyes this morning not feeling like I owed them some huge apology for being their oldest daughter that's just still kind of, finding her way through this life. While many people my age (ahem, in their mid-twenties) may have a career, family, etc, I don't. And my parents don't (and never have, exactly) pushed it. They've accepted me for who I am, go along with (most) of my decisions and just kind of deal with it. I don't know how, but they do and waking up today as a twenty-three year old with that sudden strike of clarity was downright amazing. It's about time, no?

Looking back, it's no wonder I don't enjoy my birthday all that much. It's not that I don't believe in using your day as a way to maybe, try and start directing your life in a way that you want it to go but it's not a time to beat yourself down and submerse yourself in all the things you considered you failed at over the course of the past year. It's also not because I don't think you should dream big, or aim high, or whatever else you want to call it. Go on, achieve it. If you set your mind to it, you can do it! Blah blah blah. But in my case, I focus so much on what I fail to do, it completely outweighs any and all of the actual good things I've done. Stuff that maybe, didn't quite make the original birthday letter but still good none-the-less.

With that being said, I'm done with those letters for awhile.

So, back to today. My Twenty-Third. A great friend gifted me with a new copy of "Oh, The Places You'll Go!" this morning and I found myself struggling not to cry. Between those brilliant illustrations and simple, powerful words, it just strikes a chord with my soul. Every single time. I've read it so many times in my life, I've known it by heart for years now, but I'm so thankful she chose that book of all things to give to me this year. However, when I opened it to read, it wasn't just the all too familiar words that tore at my soul this time. It's what she chose to inscribe on the inside that got me.

"Success = personal happiness + meaningful relationships = you are super-duper successful!!"

I think I'm going to try and take those words to heart this year, extra exclamation points included.

electric feel.

The roller coaster has finally slowed. It's straightening itself out, back into somewhat of a routine that I can grasp and ride along with.

In short, the heart-stopping drops and gut-wrenching twists have subsided. I, in my completely "glass half empty" way of thinking, am just waiting for it to happen all over again. It will, inevitably, but hopefully be easier. It always seems to alleviate, just a little. Hooray!

To break up the monotony, I'm fortunate enough to be escaping to the seclusion of the mountains to stay in Big Bear for the weekend. I don't know what I'm thinking exactly, since it's completely opposite of me in every way shape and form. But since my only requirement of "no sleeping outside" is being met, I figured why not go? It's different, I've never actually been to the mountains and I might just like it.

To be honest, I'm pretty pumped about it. Pumped as in the fact that I'm counting down the days until Thursday night and I can't really stop talking about going. I'm excited to wear jeans and boots. Layer shirts and sweaters and scarves. Drink wine and play board games. Oh, and to hopefully see some breath-taking scenery while I'm at it.

Maybe I'm searching, reaching even, for something that isn't there. I'm hoping for a sight that is so breathtakingly beautiful, it makes me want to cry. I want to breathe crisp, fresh, cold mountain air in my lungs and just drink it in. I want it to course through my body from the tips of my toes, to the top of my head. I want to FEEL.

I don't know what to expect, if I'm setting myself up for disappointment or not, but I somehow can't imagine that I am. If anything, it's an excuse for a road trip which generally makes for a good time.

Though if I see snow, or a bear, I might not be coming back alive.

i'm just a shadow of your thoughts of me.

I can feel it. I can sense it. The dark cloud hovering, the terrible storm brewing ahead. The weight in my mind, my body and my bones threatens to crash down on me. I could write about how easily I allow it to consume me completely, wholly. That's the easy part, you know. Allowing it to sink in and build a home so deep within, it feels like it will never leave. All the things I would say, could say or should say are buried so deep down that it's easy to forget the good parts even exist anymore. All the things that I know to be true and right don't seem to be able to hold up to this invisible force of despair that threatens to take hold and never let go. Like clockwork, it comes.

The anxiety, the nerves, the racing of my heart, the feeling of loss of all control. The tailspin or the spiral, as I like to call it, it's there. Teetering on the edge all the while taunting and throwing every obstacle known to man in my way. Anything to knock me off course and fall flat on my face. It's a never ending game, this tailspin. One I'm ashamed to admit that I've allowed to win more often than not. But not without a fight, I'll have you know. Not without a knockdown, drag out, kicking and screaming fight. It's not until I'm completely exhausted that I go down.

However sometimes, it just gets to be too much to bear. There are days where even the thought of attempting to get out of bed is too exhausting, too much effort. Carrying the crushing weight of everything going on manifests into something that I'm not equipped to handle completely on my own. The monotonous schedule of life depresses me and it's just easier to curl up in a ball and exhaust myself crying over it. The sleepless nights where it just won't end. Those are the times when it's terrifying, the hopelessness of it all as if I've failed somewhere in life and it will never get better than what it is now. It's hard to be alone when it's like that. I'm not safe in my own mind.

But then in one way or another, I'm reminded of the good things in life. The activities or the moments where things are said (or not said) and my heart is able to settle down with contentment. The calming effect of just being near people I care about who somehow, in someway, always know exactly the right thing to say or do when I need it most. Soothing. Stepping up and just being there is more than enough to jolt me back to reality, even if its for a few fleeting moments, where it's sudden clarity and I can recognize that everything is going to be alright. The simple act of being in the same proximity as them serves as a reminder that this too will pass. The anxiety and the heaviness subside, leaving me with the recognizable parts of myself which I know are good and are worth fighting for.

I'm learning that everyday is not going to be sunny. It's okay to stumble and to fall and to pick yourself up only to repeat the cycle that is life. I'm starting to get that, understand it, and accept it even. Life is a test, and it can be cruel sometimes. But as long as I'm reminded that I don't have to journey down this road alone, I think I can manage the darkness that's ever looming. I can work my way through the clouds and back into the light that I know is there.

And the days where I really don't feel like being Mary-fucking-Sunshine 24/7? That's okay too. I always promise to alert people ahead of time. Consider that a fair warning.

wednesday, pm.

7:00 and the sky’s already transitioning from a light orange haze into darkness when I pull in the driveway. The air is warm and thick, almost humid. I can’t believe its mid-October and still 95 degrees outside. Sweat seems to resonate on any exposed area of skin, and I just can’t seem to get used to it no matter how hard I try. Even though, I know it’s something that I need to get over.

I’m startled out of my daze when my door flies opens and there’s Hayden, ready to greet me with some witty comment. The one’s he’s famous for.

“Ali, I totally beat you. I got down here first.”

“Hayden, dude, I’m not going to go 65 on a dirt road just to beat you. That’s nuts.”

“…whatever. I still beat you!”

The path between the shop and Flyin’ G Ranch is so calming. The trees stand tall with leaves hanging on like little soldiers. The air has that late-Summer smell, but the musky scent of fall is becoming more and more apparent. The gravel and fallen leaves crunch under our feet, eventually giving way to soft and grassy lawn where the sounds of our footsteps cease. As we walk up Penny Lane, he reaches down and interlaces his fingers with mine. We walk and chat, arms swinging in sync. He always has this way of making me feel like a kid again, and I cherish it.

The walk takes all of a minute, and when I look up, the sight is something that always makes me smile. It seems like I always stop and take a mental picture of these things because I’m half afraid that one day, they won’t exist. The other half is because I never want to forget what I feel in my heart when I think about it.

I guess I’m just a sentimental sap in that way.

Greetings are exchanged, along with countless hugs and kisses - each and every one given without hesitation, and oh so generously.

“There she is!”

“How are you?”

“Oh my god did you hear…?”

It’s all so basic, so normal, so right. I’m standing in the kitchen, stirring pasta sauce listening to the excited chatter and stories being exchanged. I hear the inexplicable sound of baby giggles and suddenly, I’m reaching for Maggie and placing her securely on my hip. She studies my face before breaking into a huge grin, and mine follows instantaneously. We wave, we play patty cake, we take pictures, we laugh. I smother her in kisses before she’s whisked away to the next person where she’ll surely kill them with her perfect chubby cheeks, drooly, toothy smile and facial expressions that will bring you to your knees.

Forks clattered on plates, spaghetti was slurped, salad crunched, wine glasses filled (always). 1, 2, 3 rounds it took to finally gather all the trash. A massive black forest cake from Madonna Inn was adorned with candles and a very lively (not to mention off-key) version of Happy Birthday was sang. A baby’s first time seeing such things, a grown women’s fifty-second, the flames dancing and reflecting in both of their eyes.

With eyes closed tight, wishes are made. Just as quickly as the flickering light was there, it's gone and the twisting towers of smoke left behind marks the ending and beginning of another year of life. It's beautiful and symbolic in more ways than one, and it never, ever gets old.

i'll do better.

Today (well, yesterday) has brought the first actual rain that we’ve seen in months. MONTHS, PEOPLE. No rain for MONTHS. Well, aside from the freak thunderstorm we had a couple months ago that woke me up from a dead sleep with the loudest clap of thunder I’ve ever heard in my life, thinking that we were about to have a massive earthquake. No seriously, I went from horizontal to vertical in about .02 seconds while screaming “OH MY GOD, THE BIG ONE IS HERE, OH MY GOD” at 7am on a Saturday.

Yeah, my roommates were stoked about that wakeup call.

Anyway, this weather is dismal at best. Outside it’s dark(ish), grey(ish) and more like a steady sprinkle of rain as opposed to a complete torrential downpour, which is what I’ve been hoping for. It’s not really cold even. I’ve been saying it’s like playing “just the tip” with a guy. Testing it out, just for a second, just to see how it feels before you know… committing to the whole thing.

Yes, I sometimes equate rainstorms to sex. If you only saw rain a couple times a year and went through record breaking temps last week like we did – you would do the same. I promise.

Needless to say, it takes pretty much every ounce of self-will in my body to haul myself out of bed in the mornings when it’s like this. When I can get up, I like to sit on the couch all day, curled up in blankets drinking a ton of tea and alternate between reading and watching trashy reality television. This of course, never happens since I do have to work but it’s a nice dream to have.

So, since I can’t do that during the week. I attempt to make mixes. This is a “rainy day mix” which essentially started off as songs that remind me of rain, then transitioned into songs that basically rip your heart out and then morphed into a list of songs that I like to listen to when it rains. Still holding with the fact that some (okay, most) rip my heart out, but that’s just because they’re ohsofreaking good.

I’m hoping I’ll get a chance to listen to them this weekend, in succession, while living my version of a dream-day. Oh, one can hope.

1. nada surf – paper boats
2. margot and the nuclear so and so’s – a light on a hill
3. azure ray – for no one
4. band of horses – evening kitchen
5. the national – sorrow
6. josh ritter – 500 miles (cover)
7. bon iver – creature fear
8. lissie – oh, mississippi
9. brendan james – your beating heart
10. ray lamontagne – this love is over
11. damien rice – grey room
12. tom waits – rosie
13. alexi murdoch – wait
14. sara bareilles – gravity (live)

dubsteps.

I don’t know what I’m searching for.

It isn’t a physical alteration that has me pining…at least I don’t think it is. I can color my hair, switch out contacts for glasses, take out piercings, change the way I dress. All of that I’ve done and will continue to do for the rest of my lifetime. I like to mix it up every so often, so that’s nothing new. And it won’t even begin to scratch the surface of what I seem to be on the hunt for.

I think I’m having an identity crisis.

I know what I am, what’s expected of me and what I’m supposed to do. I understand those roles and believe me; I perform them to an outstanding degree. So well sometimes I fear, that the parts get blurred with reality until I’m not sure which way is up, down, left, right. It’s not that these actions are not genuine because for the most part, they are. I’m not always on high alert, ready to feed people what they want to hear at any given time. That wall has slowly been chipped away at, with much effort, for awhile now and is coming down like the Berlin Wall. I listen, I feel, and I react. That’s something so ingrained in me at this point I couldn’t get rid of it even if I wanted to. But then again, that’s not the point.

I don’t know WHO I am.

Granted, I’m young. I don’t necessarily think that I should know who I am at this point, but it would be nice to have at least a basic understanding of it. I’ve heard people use countless adjectives to describe who I am, but they’re generic. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to hear these things of course (I may not be able to take a compliment very well, but I’m not a complete asshole) however, they’re descriptive of my personality - my emotions and actions, not so much my actual existence. Where I am in this world, how I fit into it and my contributions to it. Right now, those things can be answered in one word sentences: California, I don’t and none. Not exactly easy to describe, I would imagine.

It’s quite the reality check to see people my age with an actual niche in this world. They fill their life resumes with things like “college graduate”, “teacher / doctor / rocket scientist / etc”, “wife”, “mother”. I can’t steal any of those things and make them apply to my life. They seem so grown up while I’m the one at the bottom of the list with things like “great listener”, “music connoisseur”, “pop culture enthusiast” and “champion beer pong master.” My list, although admirable, does not scream “Hi, I’m approaching my mid-twenties and have a grip on my life”. It’s more like “Let’s get as drunk as we can and do stupid shit!” Yeah, party on Wayne!

It’s a little early to dub this an actual “quarter life crisis” since well, I’m not quite at quarter life yet. But before I know it, I will be and then where am I at? I’m not the kind of person that makes life choices just to appease living by the standard of which others expect me to (ok, I’m not that person anymore) so I’m not going to run out and get married, get pregnant or enroll in college just so I can fit myself into those categories. I just won’t do it, especially that whole pregnant thing. For obvious reasons, and my vagina is more than thankful.

I’d like something to just come out and hit me over the head screaming “DUH, YOU IDIOT” but that would be too easy, too obvious. If life has taught me anything, it’s that you have to weed through complete and utter bullshit before any sort of clarity is returned. Well, maybe that’s just my life.

I want to feel like my existence is worth something. That at the end of it all, everything'll even out in the books. That I’ve said and done what I wanted to do and the world is better because of it. Maybe that’s asking a lot. In fact, I know that it is. But I think I can get there. Eventually.

Baby steps. It’s all about the baby steps.

we take what we want when we need.

The smell of cigarettes and cologne linger in the air, as we speed up northbound 127, exit onto Grand River Ave. and hang a quick left onto a darkened side street. My anxiety level is at an all-time high as my brain desperately searches the not-so familiar surroundings for some sort of sign, clarifying just where we were. Inevitably, I come up with nothing and sink back into the comfort of the passenger seat with a defeated sigh. He catches this, of course, he always does.

“We’re almost there. Just relax.”

“Fuck off, I know.”

That produces the infamous smirk, the one that I love. The one that flashes across my mind every time something happens in my life that I know he would appreciate, or, completely disapprove of.

I really, really miss that.

Before I know it, we pull into the parking garage. The big, orange, tunnel-looking one that’s been deemed the “gerbil cage” for as long as I can remember and when I get out of the car, I’m immediately assaulted with the stench of cigarettes, piss, vomit and old booze. I actually smile at that as I reach back into the car to grab my purse and jean jacket, recalling all the times I personally contributed to the demeaning of the structure and mourned the complete loss of my dignity while doing so.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

Emerging out onto the street, I’m visually stunned at the sight. It’s Welcome Week, something that I’m still to this day all too familiar with. There are girls in groups teetering down the street in their sky high heels and super short, super tight dresses with hair and makeup done to perfection. There are guys in their jeans and button-ups or fitted t-shirts, dress shoes or sneakers. I used to be one of those people, stumbling around bleary eyed and slurring my words. When suddenly, I feel completely self-conscious. Standing there in my blue and white knit jersey dress, cardigan, jacket and Huaraches; I'm completely out of my element. Simple. I've removed myself from the chaos and entered a life where simplicity rules. This is no longer the city I know. The hand that settles in the small of my back, gently leading, jolts me back to reality and pushes the ever growing lump of insecurity to the back of my mind.

While walking, I think I spot a few flannel shirts in the mass of people traipsing to and from the bars. It makes me smile. That's more like it. My eyes fly over to Mr. Ricks, then The Landshark and finally settle on Harpers. I used to be able to list them without even thinking. The big cracks in the pavement out front taunt me from afar as I reach up to brush back my bangs and my hand lingers on the small scar proudly displayed on my forehead thanks to a drunken fall in that exact spot years ago. I didn't have bangs then and it was a bloody mess. Oh, memories.

“You know, they just opened up a new club underneath Harpers.” He said.

“Oh really? What’s it like? Have you been?”

“I hear it’s the place to go if you want to pick up a cougar…”

“Fuck, really?”

We arrive at the hookah lounge, which has always been more of our scene anyways. It’s busy and as I assess the crowd, I realize that we’re probably the oldest people in the place. The kids that either have no interest in drinking, or haven’t found a fake ID yet congregate here to fill their lungs with the thick, sweet, smoke in their flavor of choice in this darkened room where whispered conversations and secrets are exchanged between every inhale and exhale, while the music that I'm shocked to realize they play provides the perfect background accompaniment.

I’m comfortable here. I’m safe here.

Suddenly, our first round appears out of nowhere. It’s as if nothing has changed, our order is still the same. I can breathe easier.

The first inhale goes straight to my head. The tangy, fruity taste starts to build a home in my nose and throat just as I exhale and the billow of smoke that comes pouring out of my mouth is both impressive and astounding at the same time.

I haven’t lost my touch.

It feels good.

We sink back into the couch and fill the gaps in conversation with deep inhales and strong exhales. I crave normalcy, and he knows it. I know he's giving it because if he doesn't, I'll shatter and crumble and he knows better than to leave me like that. The line is too precarious, the stakes are too high. We can read each other way too well. He tries to teach me how to blow smoke rings for the millionth time even though we both know I'm beyond a lost cause at this point.

“It’s not that hard. You just fill your mouth up, shape your lips like this, and blow it out.”

“…THAT’S WHAT SHE, I MEAN HE, SAID”

“You’re completely insufferable at times, you know.”

The seconds pass, and minutes tick by like nothing has changed. I sink in closer to him and shut my eyes, willing for time to stand still for just a minute since it’s the first time in days where it feels like my heart’s right. His arm slips around me and I feel the lightest of squeezes, encouragement. In that moment, it becomes too much and I can't bear it. The tears slip out from beneath my closed eyes and before I can open them, I hear it. Softly, mumbled.

"It's okay, you know. It's okay to let go of this place because it was never your home. It was never you. It's okay."

"I'm scared to let go completely because I'm afraid that if I do, I'll lose the good memories attached to them. I can't do that."

"They'll never be forgotten because you always carry it all in your heart. Always."

As we got up to leave, I shrugged back into my jacket to prepare for the inevitable blast of cold to permeate my body, attempting to refreeze what just took hours to thaw out. Such is my life, I suppose.

One foot out the door, and I fall. Cracks in the sidewalk I could have sworn were never there before. I grab his arm but it's too late, the evidence is already starting to show in the form of skinned knees which will most likely transition into bruises overnight.

I call from the ground laughing, "At least it's not my head this time!" as he picks me up, smooths my hair and links our arms as one. The dynamic duo.

"Babe, you really have changed." he states matter-of-factly as we make our way back to the car, slowly maneuvering through the now deserted streets. "Did you honestly expect me not to notice?"

"Of course you're the first one to notice, B. Even from a world away, you always do."

these boots were made for... walking.

I (eventually) fell into fashion after I fell out of sports. Well, more like gave up on making it as a 5’3” small forward in the WNBA (because, uh, really?). So, out went the sweat pants and gym shorts, athletic bras and t-shirts and in came… Abercrombie and Fitch.

Ugh, I’m gagging at the memory now.

Yes, I thought that $30 t-shirts and $80 (destroyed!) jeans qualified as “fashion”. I became addicted to what was considered cool, price be damned! Because hey, it wasn’t MY credit card that was being charged a couple hundred bucks at a time. What did I care? And I’m sure in the typical angsty teen fashion, I mumbled a “Thanks Mom” and dashed down to my bedroom to throw those embroidered moose covered clothes in the air and roll around in them, breathing in the scent screaming "OMG ABERCROMBIE I LOVE YOU."

To this day, I honest to god love the smell of A&F stores. Seriously, they just smell so GOOD. So shoot me.

As any good obsession usually does, it ended. I eventually got tired of walking around in shirts with blatantly sexual innuendos plastered across my chest. This was also probably around the time I started working and started paying for my own stuff. I can only imagine the look on my face the first time I went to pay for my pair of jeans and two shirts from there and they tell me my total is ONE BILLION DOLLARS. Then of which I probably crapped my pants.

However, this was back during the time when I was “rich” (aka: working 6 days a week while in high school, living with my parents, no bills and only sometimes paying them back for the car insurance I was supposed to be paying.) This developed into a case of what can only be described as complete destruction of self-control and I just, bought whatever I wanted when I wanted. I had the money, so going to the mall every weekend for new clothes was no big deal. Why would I do laundry when I could just go and get something new?

In short, I lived in EXTREME excess. Annnnnd, it pretty much ruled.

Buying new things made me feel good. NICE things. EXPENSIVE things. Things that no one else my age had. I devoured fashion magazines like they were the Bible (in full disclosure, the September Issue of Vogue IS the Bible) and just morphed into this epic consumerist that had to dress a certain way while purchasing any and everything I could get my hands on. But it had to be the best of the best. And the mention of Goodwill? PLEASE. Only “poor people” shop there. It’s “dirty”. I WILL NEVER SHOP, NOR SET FOOT IN ANY STORE LIKE GOODWILL. IT IS BELOW ME.

…um, yeah. Did I mention that was also a really shitty time emotionally in my life? I’d go back in time and kick my own ass if I could.

Flash forward to reality and when I decided to move (and you know, start paying bills) that luxury went out the window, along with the elitist attitude. And it sucked, at first. It sucked not being able to just go buy something new when I wanted (though, the temptation is greatly reduced when the closest mall is 40 minutes away) but it’s made me appreciate clothes more. Get creative and make more of an effort to put things together. And awaken a new-found love for thrift stores. Who saw that one coming?

I love the rush I get when I find something that I love, and it’s my size. It’s like it was meant to be. I love finding an article of clothing and visualizing what I could do with it and I most certainly love that it’s CHEAP. Also, it needs to be noted that I’m friends with the QUEEN of thrift store shopping, Bethany, and I probably wouldn’t be so into it if it wasn’t for her. I’m not kidding. If thrifting was a sport, she’s the Michael Jordan of it.

Except for yesterday.

To sum things up, I've been looking for a pair of (vintage) Frye boots for probably a year now. It's like my ultimate thrift store find and I just haven't come across any (in my size, fucking size 9 feet) yet. So, I put the word out to all my fellow thrifters with specific directions as follows: If you ever see a size 9 Frye boot, YOU BUY THAT SHIT AND I WILL PAY YOU BACK. Subtle? Never. Get the point across? Yup.

So, yesterday afternoon, I get word that Frye boots in my size have been found. And purchased. And I FREAKED. OUT. I'm talking incoherent screams of joy, jumping up and down, and maybe even some tears of happiness. I was anxiously awaiting their arrival, texting friends about how the elusive Frye boots had been found and how jealous they must be, etc. Because I am THAT PERSON.

But then my world came crashing down when I was informed that they really were not THE elusive Frye boots I've been wishing for. And I was bummed, and I mean BUMMED. The gesture was sweet (S was the one who saw them and bought them) but they just weren't THE boots. So we stood and talked for a little bit, the wrong boots taunting me from the floor and I couldn't get why I felt so, weird about these shoes. SHOES PEOPLE. THEY ARE SHOES. I should be thankful, fortunate that someone thought of me and even though she was wrong, she still bought them anyway. For me. So she left, and I sat down with those boots and had a little slice of humble pie.

I realized I had convinced myself that I didn't like them because they weren't Frye boots. Because, the longer I sat there, the more and more cute they looked. Light brown with stitched detail, a rounded toe and stacked heel. Pretty much what a Frye boot is and I'm sitting there being lame because it doesn't say FRYE on the label?

Oh please Allison, get a grip and get over yourself. I thought we were over this?



15 minutes later, I had those babies on and I was strutting around like I'm on a runway. I'm totally and completely in love with these boots and I don't care that they're not what I was originally looking for. They're better, in fact, because they have some semblance of meaning. Thanks to these boots (and S, for being her amazing self even when I was being a brat) I was reminded yet AGAIN of how much I've changed. By a pair of BOOTS, yes. Judge me.

And I'm planning to rock the shit out of these for the entire Fall season.

no more 3x5's

I've been home for over a week, my suitcase is still only partially unpacked and my room is an utter disaster. But of course, the only thing I have any desire to do is sit on my couch (or in my bed, or in my backyard, etc) and watch episode after episode of Deadwood. I. JUST. CAN'T. STOP.

Seriously, if this show could impregnate me, I would probably let it. And run the risk of having filthy, toothless, dumb as a doornail, smelly children. Especially if my baby-daddy is Seth Bullock (aka: Timothy Olyphant). Hell to the yes.

I'll get the vacation stories out, eventually. Once I process everything and get my head together. There isn't THAT much to say, save for the awkward family photos story which I really need to document so I don't ever forget. Ever. Not that it already isn't seared into my brain for the rest of my life or anything.

* out of the (very) limited photos I took while there (thanks, iPhone!) this is probably my favorite. I hate lakes even more than I hate oceans, but there's something about the houses on Lake Michigan that clenches my heart.

the window seat.

That mess, right there? The sad state that was my bed at oh, about two o'clock this morning.

Did I mention that I'm only going to be gone for 5 days?

Hey, at least I (eventually) got it all to fit in my carry-on. I just hope it doesn't fall out of any overhead compartment and bludgeon the seriously unlucky bastard that's sticking out in the aisle. Your "easy bathroom access" doesn't seem to awesome now, does it?

... another reason as to why I much prefer the window seat.

Detroit, I'll see you tomorrow.

split-screen.

Here we go. Home stretch, final countdown. One week to the day.

And, I'm not freaking out.

Well, not freaking out as in how I'm normally functioning at this time before any vacation I take. My lists have been made, outfits matched with according days, shoes to match, accessories picked. Toiletries placed in those god-awful carry-on sized containers. Other than some laundry needing to get done, picking up the house, and running some probable last minute errands the day of, I'm set. Ready to roll. My lists never fail me and that's why I produce and stick to them like the crazies on Hoarders do to shopping. I. Handle. My. Shit.

...except for this whole not sleeping thing.

It started innocently enough. If by innocent standards means waking me out of a dead sleep in a full on panic attack? Yeah, innocent. It was one of those moments where I start the mental checklists (always dangerous) and then completely freak the fuck out over it. Because, as it always does, makes me feel like I'm taking on too much. Trying to fit and squeeze in too much in the weeks-worth of time and I already start feeling horribly guilty about the time, or lack thereof, I'm going to get to spend with the people that want to see me. My mind starts going a million miles a minute and I can't rationalize anything. ANYTHING. Then it starts going to places that are just, completely dramatic and it's all over from there. Goodbye sleep, hello breakdown and Allison magically morphs into a 2 year old. It's like a serious case of Benjamin Button-itis, but without the gratuitous use of Brad Pitt. Shame.

That would have been okay, had this pattern not continued for the past SIX DAYS. Six meaning last Wednesday to today. 123456. A bedtime of nothing earlier than 3:30am. Most of which spent reading, tossing and turning, then pacing and more tossing and turning. I tried to convince myself that I didn't know why this was happening, I wasn't THAT freaked out over it. In my mind, I had it under control.

HAHA. FIRST MISTAKE. POINT AND LAUGH. TRY AGAIN.

History, and common sense, should tells me that I know exactly why I'm eerily calm during the day and then channeling my inner Regan from The Exorcist late at night. I know this, obviously.

I'm placing myself back in the situation that I left oh so long ago and quite frankly, that scares the SHIT out of me. I'm terrified to go back to this place and feel any sort of inkling of the person I was when I left. I'm not that same person by any means, give or take a few wondrous traits that still hang around. I'm different, stronger and completely capable of "steering my own ship" (borrowing what I now like to call a Stacy-ism) yet this place may as well be the tank holding Jaws captive and I'm going to dive headfirst into it to take a little dip. Why? Why am I putting myself back in this situation of which I ALWAYS know the outcome? I get eaten, every. single. time.

This is the first time I've admitted this. Out loud, to myself, at all. Mostly because when I say it out loud, it becomes real. A real, honest to god admission of being scared. Of being weak, which I DO NOT LIKE SHOWING. I prefer the much more subtle 'sob myself into hysterics in the corner of a dark room all alone', thank you very much.

But I've decided that I'm not going to fight it. There's nothing to fight, and manifesting a conflict for justifying why I'm batshit insane isn't going to do me any good. I'm not afraid of who I've become, I'm afraid of who I was mostly because I know how easy it is for me to slip back into that oh-so-comfortable yet completely self-destructive behavior just to make other people comfortable. The desire to be the "healer" (Stacy-ism) is there, and always will be because it's just part of who I am. That, I've realized, is just another one of those wonderful personality traits that I'll probably end up passing on to my future, itsnevergonnahappen children. They can thank me later.

But I can't control the feelings of other people, just my own. Mostly, I can't sacrifice my own well-being for the sake of others. It's not my job any more. It makes for one lonely and miserable person, as I'm all too well aware of. AKA: the time I had the epic breakdown and should have been held on a 5150. Yet another reason as to why I love California!

I need to go into this prepared, and I'm finally starting to feel like I am. It's a vacation, for godssakes. I go, blow everyone out of the water with how fierce I am, pay for nothing, get inappropriately drunk because I can and then I get on a plane and come home. I think knowing there's a beginning and an end helps with that. It doesn't sound all that bad, when I put it that way.

I'm starting to feel better already.

Oh, except for the fact that we're taking family photos while I'm there. That should make for one hell of an interesting story, if we don't end up on Awkward Family Photos first.

Dear God, help us.

classicinsta

I have such a sick love-affair with my iPhone, it's disgusting. And finding apps that pretty much turn it into the best point-and-shoot ever for me, rules. I'm an avid Shakeitphoto and Hipstamatic enthusiast, and now I have ClassicINSTA to mess around with. And I'm loving the results so far.









Next up? Camerabag. Once the novelty of this one wears off.

*these are old(er) photos. I really need to get back on the photo-taking stick.

you were never supposed to leave, now my head is splitting at the seams

Maybe it's just me being completely oblivious (probably true), or the fact that I just have way too much music (absolutely true, if there is such a thing) but I get on these kicks where I stumble upon the musical gems that just so happen to already be on my iPod. Something always triggers it, and then I'm thrown into this musical bliss only to realize that WELL, HELLO SELF. YOU'VE HAD THIS ALBUM IN YOUR POSSESSION FOR MONTHS NOW, AREN'T YOU JUST SO SMART.

My inner self is just as sarcastic and nice as my actual self. I rule!

Case in point: Mumford & Sons

I've had that album for I don't even know how long and then one glorious day, it comes on randomly and kicks me right in the nuts (hypothetically, of course). After the initial reaction of picking my jaw up off the floor and stuffing my heart back in my chest, I realized what I'd been missing. But somehow, the whole discography has been sitting there for months? Weird.

I go off on these "I-need-new-music" sprees, gather recommendations, download (legally, of course), put them on my iPod and then... they get lost and forgotten amongst the thousands (yes, thousands) of songs I already have. But then it all comes back to me when I'm having one of those days then that one song just finds me and soothes something in my soul. Realizing then that I already have more of that artist without even knowing it, feels like I just won the musical jackpot.

I have to lean towards the thinking that in someway, somehow my mind knows that I'll hear that song at one point and I'll need it. I'll need that instant calming and soothing and when I do, the rest will already be there. So basically, not only does my sober self take care of my drunk self, my present self takes care of my future self. Emotionally anyway.

My god, I'm such a catch.

Anyway, TANGENT. Second case in point: Radical Face.

I was introduced via Ryan from Pacing the Panic Room when he shared quite possibly the most perfect wedding video I've ever seen IN MY LIFE. Seriously, watch that and try not to cry.



Moving on, and to make a long story short. Saw the video. Became enamored with the song he used called "Welcome Home". I downloaded, I binged, I forgot. I forgot until last night when I happened to see that Radical Face just released a new EP, so I grabbed my iPod, scrolled to the R's and saw that low and behold, there he was. Already there, and waiting for me to hit Play. I sat back, put this song on and then... almost instantly succumbed to the calm feeling I remember having the first time I heard it, months ago. The tranquility, the peace, the stillness in my soul that I've been relentlessly searching for these past few weeks.

I don't know if it's because I'm just always an emotional basketcase or if it's the fact that my trip is so near (less than 3 weeks) but this song. This song. Oh, this song. It's everything that I need to hear right now. Everything and then some.

Things always have a way of finding their way back to you when you need them, I honestly believe that. I have to. And when things like this happen, it only makes me believe more.

my life is like a mixture of america's most wanted and cops.

I don’t know how I manage to consistently get myself into the most awkward, terrifying and just flat out WEIRD situations. What. The. Fuck. Self? It’s either the affinity I have for police procedural shows catching up with me (but if that’s the case, then I really need to never watch Lockup: Raw EVER again) or I have some subconscious death wish.

First it was almost being abducted back in the Fall… long story short: car broke down at a park-and-ride the night before, me = stupid and went early the next morning BY MYSELF to check it out, approached by some seriously shady dude who cornered me and proceeded to tell me that he saw me there the night before, saved by S who just happened to be driving by that early in the morning and spotted me before I was probably held at gun-point and forced into the creepy child-molester van he was driving. Yeah, talk about scariest thing to think about EVER. It was totally one of those moments where I didn’t think of anything being wrong until it was too late and then there was nothing I could do. Or, nothing I could think to do. Tears totally ensued after the realization of what I had just been saved from hit me like a truck. NOT FUN.

And I still won’t stop at that Park and Ride ever again in my life. True story.

Everything’s been pretty mellow since that incident. Meaning my life hasn’t been threatened in any way. So last night at about 7:30, I stop at the somewhat sketchy corner store by my house. I know I’m admitting it to being sketchy now, but I go there all the time and have never had any issues, plus the guys that work there are pretty nice. Even though I’m a little convinced that they may-or-may-not deal drugs out of there. MOVING ON.

So, I’m inside. Standing there waiting just minding my own business and then I hear it. Raised voices turn into yelling which then turns into full on SCA-REEEEEEAMING. Not like, blood-curdling murder screaming or anything but you know the way that guys scream? Trying to get their point across, yelling but to a louder decibel? Yeah, that. And of course, OF COURSE, I am the only other person in the store so I’m looking around in a WHAT IN THE FUCK IS GOING ON fashion because I’m convinced there’s going to be a brawl and I am in a white dress and flip flops – aka: NOT IN APPROPRIATE ATTIRE TO DEAL WITH THIS SHIT.

The owner then comes out of nowhere with this greasy looking man in what looked to be a headlock and is charging toward the front, doing the whole man-yelling thing. I’m still standing there in shock and awe willing my feet to move but that would be a joke. And then. AND THEN. The owner walks over to the doors, the only ones in and out of the store, and pulls these big, white metal gates together and locks them.

Um.

UM.

UM UM UM.

HELLO I AM STILL STANDING RIGHT HERE. I WANT OUT. LET ME OUT.

I still don’t know what’s going on at this point. I don’t know if this guy is crazy, has a gun, is trying to rob the store, ANYTHING. I do not know. It's about this time that I think the realization of what was happening finally hit me and I started to dissolve into tears OUT OF PURE TERROR. However, before shit really got real and I had a full on breakdown, I see a cop car arrive. One. Singular.

Oh, Paso Robles finest. I've never been so happy to see you in my life (ps: I still hate you, and I want that $400 back that I had to pay in January for something that I DIDN'T DO.)

Anyway, cops show up. I'm standing like a deer in the headlights just staring in complete panic and terror, fighting the urge to tounge-kiss these officers because I'm so happy they're there. Turns out? The guy in question was TRYING TO STEAL. What? I have no clue. Probably a Snickers or something, I don't know but I sure as hell wasn't sticking around to find out.

...but not without buying what I stopped there originally to get, of course.

As I'm you know, pale-faced and shaking like a leaf due to the sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through my body, paid for my stuff and walking out - the kid behind the counter goes: "We'll see you in a couple days?"

Yes, yes sir. You probably will. I'll just be bringing pepper spray, a knife and my shotgun next time.

gym gypsy.

So, I've recently decided to get back on a regular gym schedule.

I'm pausing here to let out an enormous sigh heard around the world and to give other people time to get their breath back from laughing so hard.

It's not that I don't like (well, that may be a strong word to use) going to the gym. Because I do. I DO like going... when I can actually get myself there. Being decently athletic for the better part of my life (and having a mother that is like the Adolf Hitler of gym-fanatics) at least gave me some understanding and appreciation for the Giant Building of Pain. Or, maybe that's just what I call it.

I go through these phases where it's like an alien spaceship has come down and lasered out the better part of my brain, only to insert a parasite which I've appropriately named Jillian Michaels for the way it's only goal in life is to SCREAM AT ME FOR BEING LAZY AND NOT GOING TO THE GYM. AND IT WON'T STOP. IT NEVER STOPS. EVER. Goddamn those aliens for leaving me no other choice than to find my sneakers and begrudgingly subject myself to the Pain Train for at least an hour.

The first couple times are the hardest. Yes, I know, THANK'S SHERLOCK. But once I get there, pick out the machine that's going to torture my body for the next hour. Set the timer for 60 minutes, cram the headphones in my ears, say a prayer and start moving. And moving. And moving. And not stopping. Ohmygod, I'm not stopping. What is that feeling? OHMYGOD MY THIGHS ARE ON FIRE, I THINK I NEED TO STOP.

Five minutes in, and I want to die. FIVE MINUTES. Not even one whole horrible pop-songs worth of moving and my life is flashing before my eyes. The good life which included drinking copious amounts of alcohol, chain-smoking cigarettes and inhaling pretty much any food I wanted without caring one bit. Those empire waist dresses that you love so much? There's a reason they're EMPIRE. Who cares what's under them? They hide it anyway! Oh that world, that glorious world. I'll never get to experience you again because I swear to god my lungs are going to fall right out of my mouth if I dare to even think about moving my lips. Please oh please, let me go back to my previous life.

Here's where that oh so glorious hell-bent will and determination part of my personality comes in. I don't like to start things and not finish them, at all. Even when my life is at stake apparently. Fifteen minutes pass. "Ok Allison, 45 more minutes. Just make it to 25." 25 minutes. "Ok, you made it this far. 35 minutes left. That's only like 7-okay 8-okay 9 songs." 45 minutes. I catch my second wind, and I'm HAULING ASS, feeling good.

And then, the inevitable happens. The UNTHINKABLE. My iPod dies. And my head is suddenly filled with the sound of whirring fans, heavy panting, grunting while simultaneously telling my legs to put the brakes on because the music stopped and that can only mean one thing: the torture is over! ... OR NOT, BRAIN. HOLD THE PHONE FOR A MINUTE.

As I'm scrambling, I at some point ripped my headphones from my iPod and shoved it into the radio thing connected to the machine. Anything at this point to get me to finish. I'm expecting something horrible like Beyonce or Nickelback or Justin Bieber to sudden fill my head (because you know, God has such a great sense of humor sometimes) but no. What do I hear? Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac.

Never in my life would I have thought to listen to Fleetwood Mac at the gym. I adore the Welsh Witch, Stevie Nicks, but there is a time and place for her magic. The gym is usually reserved for the likes of Britney, Gaga, etc. Something that has a steady beat, lots of bass and makes me shake my ass. I have no shame in admitting this.

However, I soldier on, mouthing the words as I finish up. And as I'm wiping down my machine with the increadible waterfall of sweat cascading down my forehead and trying to keep myself from barfing all over the place, out of nowhere comes:

THANK YOU STEVIE NICKS.

Outloud, in front of probably a dozen people. My god, I am so good sometimes.

I'm SO wearing a tophat in there next time.

america!!1!!1

I didn't have concrete plans but at some point I slipped into something red, white and blue (well, white and blue. my iPhone case was red) to be respectful and headed out. I ended up at Templeton Park with these fine ladies for a little while where they promptly ordered me to put on red lipstick to "complete my patriotism". We were all dressed in blue bottoms and white tops with red lipstick...and no, we didn't plan that. Not that it's easy to avoid considering everyone dresses in the trinity of colors but I just feel like that needed to be pointed out.

The afternoon continued with beer and good talks with friends and evening ended with a quiet dinner and personal fireworks display at the George's. All in all, a pretty mellow Fourth but I wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

I'd probably be considered horribly un-American. It's not that I don't love my country but, I just don't get all crazy over the Fourth of July. I hate fireworks (too loud!) and I usually spend at least one day a weekend drinking anyway so, it's not all that special to me. However, it is nice to see people come together to celebrate the "birth of a nation" (yeah, I gagged just typing that fyi).

Though my one patriotic contribution throughout the day? Quoting "Team America" of course. My personal favorite? "America, FUCK YEAH!"