i love jimi hendrix.

i'm DONE! i can barely contain myself.

so i pretty much want to die right now. no, maybe just break an arm or something so that i won't have to finish all of this shit. sigh. i'm miserable.

i got into ucla. i feel like i lost ten pounds. or even fifteen. call me jenny craig. suddenly all of the CRAP i have to do before tuesday doesn't seem as bad. who cares about american lit? i got into ucla. smile.

listening to elliot smith.

i can't handle this anymore.

the olympics

peanut m'n'm's
peaunut butter toast
cashews
orange dream machine with protein from jamba juice
sushi
phillip roth
my powerbook
baths
sharpies
pilot neo-gel .07
eclipse wintergreen gum
writing checks
wrapping presents
peanut butter toast WITH bananas
cold grapes
victoria's secret amber romance lotion
coldplay
the summer

so i feel kind of like sylvia plath right now; i have absolutely no idea where i'm going. one time, sylvia described herself as sitting in the crotch of a fig tree, staring up at all of the different "figs" of life that could be consumed. the choice of which fig to pick was a terrible one--exclusive, final and not guaranteed. i don't think that i'm ( Read more... )

1. go into your lj archives.
2. find the twenty-third post.
3. read the fifth sentence.
4. post it along with these instructions in your journal.

"othertimes (looks like a nice one-word, i think.) she likes to walk by herself and look at the city lights glittering through half built library structures. "

making hard-boiled eggs is not an art that i have mastered.