Me Talk Pretty One Day (but God forbid it'd be while I was writing an English paper)

Alright, I'd like to know what is up.

Anytime I have the urge to pop on blogger and blather about Matt Dillon and his spandex, I have no problem coming up with a few generally related sentences to string together.

Yet, once it comes time to do school work: Mandatory.Important. Graded. writing, I can't even write a heading without being swallowed up by...well, utter laziness and complete disinterest.
Also see: excessive, painful boredom.

Now I'd like to write this off as the usual cause of my academic shortcomings: procrastination. That way I can say, "it's not my fault", I just have poor time management skills.

But, unfortunately, I don't see how that excuse will aid me in finishing the motherfucker of a workload I have put off to, and must complete by, this week. And by this week I mean tonight. And by tonight I mean within the next 20 minutes. And I really do mean motherfucker of a workload.

Anyway, this post can be filed under "frustrated rant". Also seen as, "wasting even more time because it feel so good".
What can I say, I'm a glutton for punishment. And chocolate.

Dusk, Central Park, Wilco, and Matt Dillon

Finding the time to remove yourself from the unending number of daily misadventures to trek someplace where you can't be bogged down should be mandatory for everyone at least every 6 weeks.

Unfortunately, having the hormones of a 16 year old female, times when I am able to capture instances of such serenity are few and far between.

However this evening, to my surprise, I was able to embrace the verb "to chill" and for no less than 2 hours, I stepped back and relaxed my self-conscious, SAT fretting, Starbucks pumped, man-hunting persona to walk around the sun-dappled reservoir contemplating nothing that hasn't already been contemplated in almost absolute peace.

Now if this is staring to sound a little too emo.
I should add that my bliss is more likely attributed to the fact that I got to see the ever-so-sultry Matt Dillon jog no less than 2 feet away from me wearing spandex.

Matt Dillon. And spandex.
Neither man nor child can say that doesn't knock out at least 3 of their all-time greatest fantasies in one titillating swoop.

Anyway, after I finished my mid-walk dream about Matt turning his sweet self around and bringing me back to his Madison Avenue penthouse,(followed by rose petals, chilled Cristal, a king bed with a canopy, 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets, and cuddling), I was able to retreat back to the whimsical solace of Wilco while looking over a sunset Manhattan skyline.

It was nice.

So, I guess the point of this, aside from showing that I have yet to become desensitized to seeing hot famous men, is that: It seems that almost everyone needs a place to go where he/she can let the discomforts of reality melt away. And if you haven't already, I highly recommend that you look into making a little hajj to find out where that place might be for you asap.

I think it's safe to say, so far, that Manhattan is my personal Mecca.
After all, where else can you find characters like

the Naked Cowboy

Wigstock Drag Queens

and of course, Matty D.


thrown together on an island, for a reason other than a reality TV show kick off?

But as the saying goes, "whatever floats your boat".

Red Bull Ain't Got Nothin' on a Good Ol' Fashioned Cup of Joe

Last night I had a plan. I was to stay up all night, no matter what, in order to start and finish a term paper. I know that most collegians have mastered this skill, but I lacked the experience for the task ahead. Luckily, I had heard of a most effective ritual that has been passed along the underground labyrinth of universities for decades: CofFeE.
Sure, it seems like just your average benign beverage. But beneath the murky, hazelnutty java juice lay a darker being. I didn't want to get ahead of myself, so I took it slow. One cup. Black. But before long, it had taken a hold of me and by 2 am, I was willing to lick the bottom of the canister for just a little more sumatra goodness.

Long story short, I finished my term paper. With time to spare. So I watched one of those obscure and slightly erotic Australian television programs that only play at 4:50 am on Cinemax 2. I even got to catch the end of a rather creepy circa 1952 Italian horror movie. On a separate note, my right index finger still convulses every 4-6 seconds. I haven't gotten to sleep yet. And by 7 am computer looked like:
this


I blame the above on a bad mix of my thesis and the Italian horror movie.

Yo, I be a gansta'?

I grew up the lucky and loved daughter of a single working mother.
Though my mom has shown me love in my first 16 years that many people will never see in their entire lives, the question mark that hovers over my father remains a bit of a rocky subject.

One of the few things I know about my father is that he is Moroccan.

Despite any physical and/or mental detriments that I may have inherited from his gene pool, my link to this exotic ancestry has always been a source of intrigue for me.

As the "anywhere but here" girl, traveling to exotic locations such as the aformentioned is one of the things that I thrive on.

Or rather, the idea of traveling to them. As the closest I can remember to an adventure abroad is the last time I read On The Road with a cup of chai tea.

But, unfortunately, my hunger for travel is about all I picked up from my Moroccan roots.
And anyone who has ever seen me dance will tell you, without a doubt, that I am a one-hun'erd percent white American.

But who says that if one parent is from Africa and the other America that you can't slam a hyphen in the middle and get yourself a little minority status?

So, I'm in a bit of a predicament. As the time when I'm supposed to have a sketch of what the hell I plan on doing with myself nears, so comes an impressive amount of paperwork.

By this time, whenever I'm given a scantron preceding some kind of state exam, penciling in the "caucasian" bubble is an automatic reaction.
But let's face it, I'm lacking in extra-curricular activities and overall, my grades ain't that pretty.

So aside from perhaps being just a smidge unethical and not entirely accurate, maybe I ought to give myself a little boost in the college admissions department and next time I'm asked my ethnicity, try out a new bubble.

I Apologize, but this is Completely Necessary

This woman plays Shane from The L Word. She is so. hot. I want to have her babies.