Observations.

Santa Monica is filled with two major stereotypes: Rollerblading Jerks and Elderly Road Crossers. The elderly road crossers are kind of adorable, if you're not in a rush. I don't think I've ever been at a Santa Monica crosswalk without having to wait for an Elderly Road Crosser to shuffle across the street. Being stereotypes, they obviously have canes or walkers or grocery carts, if not all of the above. They are usually very precious and bespectacled and wearing exactly what they're wearing in your head when you picture a little old lady crossing the road. I just love them because in my head they are all war heroes and even if that's not true, they definitely lived through the Depression. Poor dears.

The Rollerblading Jerks are another story entirely. Why Rollerblade? It's unnatural and frankly, kind of a cop out as far as I'm concerned. It's the lazy man's jogging. I cannot see how Rollerblading gives any kind of aerobic workout whatsoever, yet every single Rollerblading Jerk in Santa Monica acts as though they're training for the Ultra Physically Fit Rollerblading Olympics. It's also impossible to tell whether a Rollerblading Jerk is in control or not, therefore making driving in their general vicinity kind of treacherous. Hitting a Rollerblading Jerk would definitely wreak havoc on a front hood and windshield.

Committed.

I literally procured an entire Los Angeles living situation in maybe 48 hours. Technically it's a North Hollywood living situation (No Ho...s allowed). Theoretically it's going to be super, but in reality, now is the perfect time to panic about the fact that I am about thirty days away from grown up bills and the terrifying fact that the employment section on my apartment application was a complete, empty joke. I also have no furniture. The best way for me to deal with all of this cause for panic is to think about it later.

Remember in elementary school what a big deal folders and binders were? It was an epic decision, every fall: do I go with the Lisa Frank ballerina bunnies or the Christian Lassen dolphins swimming through an outer space sunset? My boss and I were talking about this yesterday and I thought it would be funny to do a quick throwback to top notch folder art circa the 90's.

Initially, I was a Lisa Frank Girl, obviously. I thought she was just superb. Exhibit A:

Ah, yes. The Fabulous World of Lisa Frank. A land where that little speckled rainbow seal can swim harmoniously and worry free with that giant smiling killer whale and doe eyed little polar bear. Incidentially, it is also a land in which the waters of the arctic feature white sand beaches for golden retrievers to frolic.  A land where unicorns not only exist, they exist harmoniously in the jungle with a rainbow jaguar. Let's not neglect what's going on over the rainbow, that kitten is loving her hat and there seems to be some sort of talent competition between the ballerina bunny, the koala cheerleader, and that entertainer bear. Who wouldn't want to be a part of it?

I was so smitten with Lisa's work that when I was in fourth grade, I wrote her a letter, on Lisa Frank stationary, complimenting her on her art and commending her choice to create a world inwhich sad colors did not exist. She never wrote back. If I hadn't written to Steven Spielberg the year before (to ask him for Tim from Jurassic Park's home address so that I could initiate a correspondence of love letters  that would ultimately lead to love, marriage, and a lifetime of happiness) and received a letter back from him (Steven wasn't at liberty to hand out the addresses of his child stars, even in the name of love) I might not have been as put out. I was really disgusted with Lisa's laziness, because surely she couldn't have had more going on  than Steven Spielberg and he managed a reply.

After that incident I switched over to Christian Lassen in protest. He was a true artist:

What a mindfreak, right? Tigers in space? I can't even begin to figure out what is going on in that other one. Why are the planets so close to the water? It looks like the apocalypse. What is really going on here, Christian Lassen? I think we can probably guess what your true inspiration for these masterpieces was.

Annnnnnd that's enough.

Favorite.

Whenever I think of happiness, I think of 50 Garden Street, Apartment 3, circa 2006/2007. (I think of other stuff too, like my family and friends and Disney World and Paris and honeysuckle, but for the purpose of staying on topic, I'm just going with 50 Garden Street for now.)

I probably shouldn't feel this way. After all, the apartment was filthy when we moved in, and since it was Beacon Hill, it was never really 100% clean. The floors creaked, the door frames were crooked, there was no dishwasher, the bedrooms were tiny, there were arbitrarily colored walls, the bathroom was miniscule, there was a mouse and a silverfish or two, the windows were drafty, the building's foyer smelled like cat food, we lost heat and hot water regularly,  the under-the-kitchen-sink cabinet was so terrifying, I don't think I ever really opened the doors, and oh yeah, a wall burned down. But really, none of that matters.

None of that matters because not too long after we moved in, all of those problems became overshadowed by goodness. All I remember now is a beautiful fire hazard, charmingly crooked with a couch just saggy enough to force snuggling in the middle. What sticks out are milestones and adventures, surviving a fire and dealing with the repercussions, losing a cable remote and dealing with boredom and free, television-less hours by going to Happy Hour and stumbling back to drink PBRs in the bathtub, cooking sweet potatoes in tin foil and Venice Cafe calzone nights, saving the second half for the next day in the vegetable drawer in our refrigerator that was re-labeled "Calzones". 

All I remember is the Summer 2007 No Pants Policy and Harvard Gardens and Cafe Podima and Rosie at the Market and flowers and petit ecoliers and spotting a silverfish behind the TV and drinking until it no longer bothered us. Paramount breakfasts and free wireless and jive talking and taking pictures of jumping and Christmas decorations and ethnic birthday celebrations and awkward visitations and exposed brick and chore charts. Ab swings, Sam Adams Summer, spontaneous dance breaks, a ficus tree with a faux bird in it and a cabinet filled with a badger and a poker set completely outweigh any negatives.

This is why it is hard to not be in Boston. It is because I so closely associate Boston with this year of my life, and while I would do anything to be able to live in 2006-2007 on a continuous loop forever, I've come to terms with the fact that that is what I miss, more so even than Boston itself. 

I've got to wonder if anything will ever be that good again. Right now I'm leaning towards no, but I'm overly dramatic and therefore usually wrong about this sort of thing.

Obviously.

The great thing about dreams you wake up from wishing they were real is the part where you get to look back, recap and realize that Dream You actually does have it pretty good sometimes. Let me tell you, Dream Me deserves a break. She gets reoccuringly hunted down by velociraptors in her own home, tortured with giant centipedes in labyrinths... and she always never even questions it. Raptors in the house? Rats. Centipedes? Again? Oh, no. 

Now that I strain to remember my dreams (unfortunately only the strong survive in the dream bank of my memory) the only times I can think of Dream Me ever actually realizing something's a little off is when the nightmare is even remotely reminiscent of my real life, like being forced back into gym class or worse...St. Bernard's High School. Raptors I can deal with, but not St. Bernard's.

I love the that anything can happen in any given dream. I love the suspension of reason and the irrelevance of death and fact.  I love, even for ten minutes or whatever, being in a life that's pretty much the ideal. The dreams that I actually wish were real are few and far between and hooray for that; awesome as they are, they're way too much of a tease to wake up from and that is no way to start the day.

I leave you now with an e-mail that I received from one Michael Selig at Emerson College:

Dear Students,

If you have questions about changing your major/specialization, you should consult with the Advising Center.

Michael Selig, Chair

Well alright. 

Thinkabowdit.

Since I have one of the last few required assignments of my academic career looming ominously on my List of Things To Do Post Haste, I am obviously inspired to procrastinate in any way possible. So after sitting and staring and thinking about what to do in order to avoid what must be done, I came up with a few lists:

List of Lessons Learned for Today

1. When the wrench light in your car illuminates, it's not as ominous as it appears. Your car is not on the verge of exploding at any given ignition-start. You don't actually need to take it to the dealer to get its engine serviced for $117 because you're not in jeopardy at all. You just need to change the oil. Dammit. They really should make a different, less threatening symbol other than a wrench that means "Hey, you know, go buy a can of oil at Target because what you've got in here could use a refresher." 

2. Hollywood version 1.0, as in, Hollywood Hollywood, not North Hollywood or West Hollywood, just Hollywood, is really...not so nice. This I'd heard before, but now I can attest to it after walking around a not unquestionable series of blocks surrounding Honda of Hollywood for two hours instead of sitting in the doughnut filled, Honda of Hollywood waiting area.

3. Hollywood Forever and cemeteries in L.A. en general seem very strange. I can't put my finger on why, exactly, but they just do. It might have to do with the whole one season, time stands still feeling that this place seems to have, where people do everything in their power to be (or at least appear to be) young forever. Cemeteries keep it real.

4. This isn't really a lesson, but I'm beginning to suspect that when Jamba Juice throws that "free boost" into your smoothie what they're really throwing in is crack because I don't not get the DTs when I go too long without a Pineapple Passion.

List of Concrete, No Room for Argument Truths. 

(Some of you may think that I'm just being an ignorant, stubborn, bigot who is just obnoxious with her opinions, but I assure you that that's really not the case. I've given everything on this list careful thought and did not jump to my conclusions without securing the necessary airtight facts.)

1. Titanic is the greatest movie ever made. Say what you want, but deep down, you know in your heart that it's true. I don't care who you are. There is nothing unlikable about Titanic. If you can't honestly admit to liking the entire movie as a whole, there is at least one of its many wonderful layers that you find brilliant. I love a lot of movies, and though I can't say for certain that Titanic is my favorite of all time, I do know that it is the most perfect and all of you who act as though it isn't really ought to just own up to the fact that you're just not allowing yourself to acknowledge the true feelings that reside within you. 

2. Nobody dislikes The Departed. Nobody.

That's really all I've got for this one.

Wicked Smart.

So I just took this IQ test on Facebook and I don't want to brag or anything, but I'm basically Will Hunting. I'm certain that this newfound awareness of my superior intelligence will only help me in the long run. If any of you imbeciles ever need help problem solving or anything, don't come to me because I'm sure I'll be too busy cracking codes for the CIA.

It's become more and more obvious to me that I am living in an environment that is suspended in time and space. Seriously, it's only been three months and the fact that it is essentially what I know to be late May weather 90% of the time really does weird things for perspective in terms of being aware of the passage of time. At least this weekend I'm responsible for two precious puppies and a cat that's hell bent on escaping into the coyote infested outdoors, so I can pretty much measure life in the amount of times I mop up pee (which is often. I'm pretty sure one of them just prefers peeing inside, since I had her outside for a solid 2 hours before bringing her in, only to have her pee immediately upon setting foot on the wood floor) and fend off cat attacks. 

The point is, under normal circumstances, if I didn't have bangs when I got here and if I hadn't dropped a razor and sliced my thumbnail a little on the road trip, I would have nothing to look to for proof that time here actually doesn't stand still. The bangs are already pretty much gone and the thumbnail slice gets shorter and shorter and once it's history I guess I'll just be here in never-ending summer, not realizing I'm getting older for Lord knows how long until one morning when I wake up looking like Clint Eastwood's mom. 

...Because I'm pretty sure that happens overnight. 

30 Days.

I know this isn't particularly unique or anything, but I would really like to live a lovely, regret-free life. That being said, after a particularly satisfying day here in the Los Angeles, I had the revelation that not staying here and giving L.A. a full year to show me what it's got (and vice versa, naturally) might end up being a sizable mistake.

I have decided that this is the month that will provide me with the solution to the What Should I Do When I Graduate conundrum that's been weighing me down ever since the beginning of January. From today until April 10th I will keep track of how many days in L.A. make me happy versus how many make me violent. If the happy outweighs the violent, I will, for starters, be absolutely flabbergasted, but I'll also know that I shouldn't let a few bad days ruin whatever L.A. experience I'm supposed to have. If the violent outweighs the happy, then it'll be proof that the West Coast and I just aren't meant to be.

This is the best way. The scientific way. This way my decision will be based on hardened truth and statistics, which are exactly what I always look for when making any kind of major decision. Why should this be any different?

Peut etre I've just gone off the deep end and am officially out of my gourd.

C'est la vie.

Vert.

For the sake of being Green, my internship site has decided to put the kibosh on buying individual, recyclable bottles of water to keep on hand for guests and employees. Instead of bottled water, we now fill up non-recyclable plastic cups at a water cooler.

...

I wonder how not recycling plastic cups is better for the environment than recycling water bottles.