September 2003 Archives

This is why I love Sars and have her linked up -- besides the fact that once upon a time I wrote into the The Vine and she sent me pens when I got published.

Great article from Salon...definitely worth those stupid premium commercials.

I've gotta say that this article sums up just about everything I love about "While You Were Out." Except for the kitschy goodness and the quiz for prizes at the end.

Also on Slate, the Diary feature is a medical anthropologist in NYC researching sexual decision making in minority poor MSM -- or men who sleep with men, in case you haven't heard that. Back when I was writing my essay -- seems like forever ago, I doing a lot of reading trying to incorporate that topic into my research about the sexual agency of young black women, but it was way too much to tackle. I'll be reading the week's dispatches with interest.

Apparently the Friendster "it" pickup line for a Candice is referencing Prefuse 73. Not that I'm complaining...I guess. I am single after all -- not that I wasn't before -- but single and looking again, compared to the single yet tempestuously involved with someone of the past month or so.

But, I've realized (as conceited as it might sound) that I'm tired of guys hitting on me. Not altogether, just the shameless, lame lines having, leering, obnoxious ones. It's driving me nuts. They won't leave me alone, whether the bus, the train, the streets, in stores, in the building at work. It's like fuck, I don't care if you find me attractive, step off! Then again, I just might be experiencing a bit of "grass is always greener on the other side" because I spent years of complaining that no one ever noticed me.

The problem I think is that I'm the sort of person who likes to be proactive more times than not. If I like you or find you attractive, you'll know it because I've gotten pretty good at flirting (sometimes) over the years. Besides, it's just no fun waiting for someone to come to you. Sometimes it can be advantageous, like when I'm sitting at my bar, chilling and feeling cheap (or broke) and minding my business when some guy wants to step up and chat and offers me a drink (or 3). I don't discourage it yet I'm not doing anything but sitting in the corner most of the time so I'm not encouraging it either. I'll take the drinks, we'll chat, end of episode. But, the reason I embraced things like Nerve and Friendster so is that I get to be choosy and go after someone without the immediacy of a potential hit and miss at a bar/club. When you're talking back and forth online, you can develop a preliminary rapport and it's kinda playful and fun. The ultimate in no pressure. You can meet and even if nothing romantic happens, you can still be cool because you've developed a nice sort of friendship. Win-win all around. And of course, the occasional something else might happen and that's always excellent unless he's annoyingly bipolar and starts to make me crazy. That gets evened out because I'm kinda bipolar too and I'm sure I've dished out plenty of that. Ah well. Here's to a tentative reintroduction to the "dating" world.

Currently cracking me up:

11. Drinks with "sexy" names. Bar patrons who order a "screaming orgasm," "sex on the beach," "blow job," or "long slow screw against the wall" are 77% less likely to get laid than the ones drinking beer. Wonder why.
18. Your cats. Attachment to a non-human mammal that doesn't give a fuck about you bespeaks emotional damage. It's the kind that transforms you from "alluringly quirky" to "certifiable."
19. Little digital cameras on your cell phone. These are for taking dirty pictures and posting them online, not for snapping your fully clothed friends in bars. When will the populace understand this?
35. Friendster.com. For a few months, it was a secret cute-kid sex party. Then all your exes heard about it. Then Courtney Love got on it. Then strangers started insisting you'd shared some magical experience with them outside Tuscaloosa. You told them you'd never been to Tuscaloosa and that they must have the wrong person. Then they told you your pet hamster’s name from when you were five and you started shaking.
36. Employment. People always talk about "becoming their job," which is the most heinous thing ever.
43. Blogging about your sex life. People who do this are under two delusions: a) that everyone wants to fuck them, and b) that their writing is interesting. Which is worse: sexual megalomania or an inability to edit? It's a dead heat. The online equivalent of that excruciatingly monotonous blowjob scene in every porn movie ever made.

Looking like a weekend must so far. [via Gothamist] maybe not because of the dual excuses of being broke and having somewhere else to be. Wes friend b-day party! Woo hoo! But, this I might drop into. I've been trying to see Antibalas all freaking summer and no dice so far. I'll do it eventually.

In other news, guys suck...no really. Good old excess energy is a terrible thing to waste. Song of the week: "Last Light (featuring Sam Prekop)" by Prefuse 73. No decipherable lyrics, but the song is awesome. It fits this week so far -- nothing to say but an overarching mood is apparent. I'm currently preoccupied. Websites don't build themselves, you know.

Looking at my tracker, I've got to admit I'm dying to know who's taking a look at this from SUNY-Plattsburgh, Canada, and the UK. I sent the link to folks in France myself, so that's no surprise. Say hi, people! And whoever keeps googling and the like "Candicissima" and "Kitty Power," stop it! I can seeeee you! LOL.

I'm currently in the middle of making my new cyberhome nice and cozy. Wish me luck on weeding my way through all the instructions!

Scene: Family gathering. My aunt's new fiancee's birthday party. Long Island. Bored to tears with PrincessNella, a cousin, and his friend in the back of the room with booze to keep ourselves occupied. I'm called over by other cousins, sisters 1 and 2, a little older yet cool.

Moi: Hey, what's up?
1: Where's your boyfriend?
Moi: Huh?
1: Is he here?
Moi: (thinking that perhaps she was late to the end of Mr. Sailor even though that was all last year andeverything) I don't have one.
1: Oh okay. Are you looking? There's some guys over there (gesturing towards the table of teenage bummy-looking non-prospects)
Moi: Uh...I think they're kinda young.
1: You're right.
2. So, you didn't get a perm, huh?
1: What kind of guys do you like?
2: You ever think of twists? That would look nice.
Moi: That's how it was earlier but I tried to do the crinkly thing and it didn't work. Uh...I dunno I don't have a type.
1: Leave her alone, she's been growing it natural for a while. You date white boys?
Moi: Uh...
1: That's a yes.
Moi: Not exclusively
1: Okay...(wheels visibly turning)
Moi: (panicking) You're not going to fix me up or something, are you?
1: (unconvincing) No...
2: You gained a little weight, huh?
1: No makeup either?
Moi whimpers.
1: You have to come over my house one Friday night. I'll fix you up.
Moi: Okay...umm, I'll be right back.
Moi runs to the "bar" and downs a massive vodka and cranberry.

Today's favorite things include Interpol tickets (mine tomorrow) and sales listings courtesy of New York Metro, my new fave online reading material. Tomorrow's favorite thing will probably be Prefuse 73/Dabrye tickets twice over. Maybe some Turin Brakes too. I need some concerts in my life.

I've realized I've almost skimped on a song of the week. Can't have that.

I'm so hot for him, I'm so hot for him
I'm so hot for him and he's so cold

Yeah, I tried re-wiring him, tried re-firing him
I think his engine is permanently stalled
He's so cold he's so cold
Hhe's so cold cold cold
Like a tombstone
He's so cold, he's so cold
He's so cold cold cold like an ice cream cone
He's so cold he's so cold
I dare not touch him my hand just froze

stephen malkmus (pavement): he is clever, and you
are hot shit. go find a shady lane and fuck
off!


who's your indie rock boyfriend?
brought to you by Quizilla [via Coolfer]

I called on Camilo to get me into the interview game.

The Questions:
1. How do you define your presence here?
2. What was your moment of power, your finest hour?
3. What was your most absurd dream that you had, that became reality?
4. What is your fondest memory from childhood?
5. What have you always wished you could do with your life, but
are too scared to try?

The Rules:
1. Leave me a comment or email, saying you want to be interviewed.
2. I will respond; I'll ask you five questions.
3. You'll update your website with my five questions, and your five answers.
4. You'll include this explanation, and acknowledge me as the interviewer.
5. You'll ask other people five questions when they want to be interviewed.

The Answers:
1. How do you define your presence here?
I kinda touched on this the other week when I jumped into the black blogs discussion, but I define Kitty Power as a loose narrative of my life, loves, adventures, and thoughts. I put this out there because I've got a certain degree of egotism, but also because growing up I spent a fair amount of time feeling a little too cerebral and out there. Ever since I started writing on the web (initially to kill story telling time), I've discovered that people find it kinda entertaining as well as it being an interesting way to connect to new folks. It's been cool to discover that yes, I might be a little outside the box as far as a lot of things go, but I've got my voice being heard from my little corner. I define this blog as me being free to speak my mind as I don't always get the chance to in real life...within moderation. But, as I am multifaceted and keep some things close to the chest, the same applies here. It's simultaneously totally yet not representative of me.

2. What was your moment of power, your finest hour?
My initial cop out answer is to say that I haven't experienced it yet because I'm so young and feel that my best moments are before, not behind, me. As cheesy as it sounds, graduation was pretty powerful for me. So much shit led up to that. Every moment before, I felt like I wasn't going to make it because of mistakes, missed opportunities, malaise, exhaustion, you name it. I've never felt so completely drained as I did the last couple of months leading up to that and I found it hard to mentally think of myself being really done because I knew I had almost 2 more months of work ahead of me. Yet, that day everything just went right and for that ceremony, every piece of heartache, misery, failures and frustration was just worth because I did what I set out do.

3. What was your most absurd dream that you had, that became reality?
Going to Senegal was pretty huge for me. I've always been an optimistic pessimist. My excitement about anything is always secretly inverted by the dark thoughts that it won't really happen. I blame it on plenty of things, but that's another story. Junior year of high school was a big trip for my chorus for a week in Senegal to sing. I wanted to go unbelievably badly, but the cost was a lot more than my family could afford and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to go. Being an optimistic pessimist means that most of the time that my drive for the object of the conflict is neutralized because of opposing forces. With my mother on my shoulder as a hypercritical naysayer, I stopped hoping for it and resigned myself to being miserable. Yet my stepmother, having traveled everywhere and believing that the trip would be something that I'd treasure forever, made my father step up and I went. Mindblowing is the short description of everything I saw and did there and I wouldn't trade those memories for anything. The dream of that trip itself isn't absurd, but my doubts and my mother's disencouragement are typical of from being from a community where something outside of a narrow range of presented experience is ridiculous. I know that's a strange statement and I've considered rewording it, but it is what it is.

4. What is your fondest memory from childhood?
I spent most of my formative years as an only child. My folks worked or were scattered about and I spent most of my time with my grandmother and great aunt. I trailed after them like a shadow, all through the city or down South, just soaking up being encouraged to be the little smart one and do whatever I wanted. My older relatives were strictly Southern, having come to NY in the 40s and 50s because where they grew up there were no opportunities. They didn't have the chance to go to school as they had wanted because they had to work in the fields or travel once they were older because by then they had families and responsibilities. Those women looked at me like an explorer of the possibilities a woman could have. I was actively encouraged not to cook (or rather, learn just enough to get by but also to keep it a secret), to study and read everything, to speak everything on my mind, to be loud, to be fearless, to be confident, to never settle for anything, to resist being "tamed." I was introduced as "the future writer" and clucked around appreciatively. I'm sure it sounds as if I retrospectively am lavishing being completely spoiled as a child, but what I am trying to celebrate is the memory of always being told that my possibilities were limitless, something which I rarely remember hearing since I was that tomboy running behind old women.

5. What have you always wished you could do with your life, but
are too scared to try?
When I was younger, I was encouraged to read everything I could get my hands on. A favorite was the Almanac, learning about all the different countries in the world and their histories. I used to write reports on Uruguay and Italy and Egypt and Greece, not being able to wait until I would go there. I decided in high school that I had to go to a college with study abroad, so I could go to England or France or Brazil or Japan. But, somewhere between sophomore and junior year, despite having the brochures and applications filled out, when it came time for me to pick some international location to call my home for months, I neutralized my own desire and killed that dream. It's been frustrating for me to have become more debilitated by self-doubt with age than I was as at 5 or 10 or 17. To do anything takes so much more encouragement and having to get fifth and sixth opinions. Having a friend like Alex always makes me more regretful because he is out there living his dreams unapologetically. Still, he planted the seeds in my head that with my coming temping financial windfall, I could pick up and go to those places I've only read and dreamed about. My excuses involving my parents' anger, potential wasting of money I should hoard, and a general fear of just saying "fuck it, I'll do what I want" are feeling pretty hollow for once. I don't even know if I need to do the stereotypical "post-collegiate backpacking" trip because that's not who I am, but me, my notebook, maybe a camera, riding the rails, seeing the sights, taking that leap is something that sounds so good to me right now. I strangely feel that if I can let go and just do it with this, a lot of other things that I'm always punking out about would follow suit.

This talk about jello cocktails has me reminiscent about freshman year with Jay when we were the hardcore jello shot eaters and no one else could hang. Good times. Jay, it looks like a place we have to go!

I'm feeling sort of creative lately. I think I'm going to reinvent Scenestress as an NYC specific travels/experiences essays sort of thing. I'm also going to add some my old site pre-blog posts to here (if I can). But all of that might be moot since I'm considering taking this guy up on his offer. But, money's kinda tight since I've got so many things I want to invest in. For a change, I'm not spending recklessly. I'm considering joining a gym because when even my Virtual Fit girl is looking like a hippy hippy hippo, I've had enough Double Cheeseburger Value Meals. I always forget that my genetic makeup has me predestined to expand outwards unless I'm up on that. I don't do enough right now to make my former "oh look, I keep forgetting to eat and lost 10 lbs!" methods work. For that, I have to be either hyperstressed/pressured or broke yet out and about. Being that I'm pretty chill, relatively settled down in something or another and not really up to anything, my bottom half is spinning out of control. Some Pilates will fix my fat ass...hopefully.

Taking it back straight old school, I'm 51.8% pure. I chuckle back on the days where I thought I'd be 92% forever.

As quick as he reentered NY, Alex has jetted back off across the ocean. He gave me some wonderful sage advice that helped me make up my mind. If Alex says someone is too sketch for me to be involved with, that's enough for me to listen. Not like that wasn't what I was thinking already.

All summer I've been experiencing writer's block. Mostly because once I gave every once of blood, sweat and tears I could muster to the yearbook, I had no desire to create anything. You might think, how can you write so much in this blog and be having writer's block? Well, this is different. It doesn't take much effort for me to yammer on and on about myself. People have been helping me keep the past couple of months crazy interesting. But I've regained that urge that's always propelled me to just write something. I dunno. We'll see how it turns out.

Alex's guerilla visit was great for me because it inspired me to again reassess what's going on with me. I want money to pay the approaching loans, a place of my own, to settle down into some sort of romantic bliss for a min (I'm such a softy underneath), and a way to combine my interests into something that's not completely draining. Sunday, we met up with other Wes kids who are now across country doing their own thing. I felt kinda stifled that I haven't done anything but rush from CT to here. Yeah, I had a good time for a while now, but I haven't had a real vacation in ages...minus that ill-fated 21st birthday trip to Miami and a visit to the Midwest. I've got invitations extended from France, Belgium, Portugal, New Mexico, and California. Fear of not being able to pay what I need to has me running to a "real" job, but truthfully, I don't mind the temp stuff, just the hours right now. What's to stop me really from working enough to pay stuff off and do some traveling? I think I'll hold off mentioning it to my parents just yet because they already attribute my general lack of "get up and go" to all the damned hippie schools I went to. Still I'm considering it.

I'm just being a punk complainer, but I've got to be somewhere at 9am 4 out of 5 days this week. *sob* Who's prepping the little violin for me?

Too little sleep makes a girl grumpy. I'm hating in a big way today. But it didn't take too much to cheer me up.

Offline, the past month or so has been filled with all sorts of funny yet sketchy situations. The Randoms and I had more fun than anyone ought to in Central Park last week, but previous to that was the night that I glossed over oh-so-nicely here on the blog. No details shall be forthcoming, so don't even ask, but an exchange about it is amusing the hell out of me.

Jamirakid: yeah well. drunkenness attracts me to sketchiness. good for stories, with certain parts censored, natch.
Jamirakid: like i can tell about that drunken night with your shoes getting messed up, but i have no role in that story.
Grandmastah H: no role? ha!
Jamirakid: ha what? i was minding my own business sleeping like a peaceful youngster that night...at least as i tell it.
GH: just don't tell it like that within earshot of me and you'll be fine...

Amusing stuff [via Palochi]

PISCES

Drinking style:

If you're a Pisces, you've probably already heard that you share a sign -- and an addictive personality -- with Liz Taylor, Liza Minelli and Kurt Cobain. Not only do Pisces like to lose themselves in the dreamy, out-there feeling that only hooch can give, but they build up a mighty tolerance fast. Who needs an expensive date like that? On the other hand, they're fabulously enchanting partners, whether in conversation or in crime. With the right Pisces, you can start out sharing a pitcher of margaritas and wind up in bed together for days. The phrase "addictive personality" can be read two ways, you know.

Trademark Cocktails:

Pisces rules fresh mint, and they do love a mojito or three -- though a julep will do just as well. They also like punches, like sangria or the oh-so-aptly named fish house punch. (Pretty much anything will satisfy a Pisces in a pinch, though -- "drinking like a fish" is an idiom pulled out of the zodiac, not the deep blue sea.) Pisces is a chocoholic and loves creme de cacao (and spiked cocoa). (Umm...no chocolate please. Very allergic. I do like sangria, but I'm having a sours period currently.)

Drinking buddies:

Drew Barrymore, Chastity Bono, Chelsea Clinton, Kurt Cobain, Edward Gorey, Queen Latifah, Liza Minelli, Anais Nin, Sharon Stone, Liz Taylor

My boy, my brother from other parents, my window into the crazy rock star life, my cheerleader, my well of good vibes and fun has reentered the building. Alex is in NYC for a limited time only. I'm so happy that I could scream. All is right with the world.

Stupid Blogger lost yesterday's hurried post. Grr. Coming soon after I marinate on it a little bit more, The Interview Game.

Strange week this has been. Being busy is a great cure for driving silliness out of your head. I'm becoming a phone interviewing BS master. I've got two go-tos set up for next week plus a briefing meeting for that project that's going to have me living it up in October. I was telling PrincessNella that despite essentially wanting a full-time thing (I suppose, I'm becoming wishy-washy on that even. I'm such a slacker), what I have going right now is the best of both worlds. I've got plenty of time sitting home, watching TV, taunting people at work over IM that I'm doing nothing yet a few times a week, I put on my responsible face, go off to work, and most importantly get a paycheck. Work, being highly overrated, sucks and I can't say I'm really looking forward to the "9-5" (which really is so much than that in most industries I'm interested in) except for the more money part. Then again, who cares if I have more money when I'm worn out from the week? More money means more things, more responsibilities. Between paying off my student loans, moving out and then paying rent, internet, utilities, etc, the long overdue presents to myself, and trying to save a little something, I'll be just as broke as I was a month ago but in a different venue. Screw the rat race.

Amusing me the past month or so is the reemergence of the "girly" side. I suppose I'm typically a no-nonsense, cynical, universally underwhelmed sort of person, but when I like someone, it's different. It opens up all sorts of psychological cans of worms, mostly because I like being able to plan and proceed based on an arbitrary yet semi-logical Candice system, but dealing with romantic repercussions usually throws that out the window. I find myself thrown so far off balance, everything like a rollercoaster. Simultaneously tired and exhilarated. It's kinda fascinating once it's passed and I can process, but in the mix it scares me shitless. My "girly" side isn't about me wanting to dress up and be pretty or that stuff, it's a mental thing. Me trying to fit myself into a the paradigm of being a woman dealing with a man in the relationship sense on a "I'm also just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her" tip (hopefully without having to ask), while trying to work out ways to incorporate my philosophies and history without bumping up against a wall. Trying to navigate that treacherous path has me super edgy and that's why I've been spouting out strange self-doubting stuff in the middle of everything else because I'm constantly thinking and rethinking what to do or not to, as the case may be. What I've been devoting a personally sickening amount of time turning over in my head is: why do some guys just drop off the face of the earth for a couple of days, then reappear like it's nothing? It drives me completely insane. Mr. Sailor got dumped for that -- among a heap of other reasons, but that amplified everything else. Surprisingly, I'm not a needy sort of person. I'm all about doing my own thing and having a separate life, but I just need the check-in. Just my quirk. Jay and I were talking about the rules I should put in place for a him and myself. Way up there has to be not mentioning the blog for at least a month. She was completely against it, but the blog is pretty big part of knowing me. All my friends read it and if I'm spending some serious time with someone, they're missing a major part of me. But the main thing is I spend a fair amount of time referring to it, so after a month it's gonna be way too glaring for me not to have shown it to him already. I started it for the laziness factor. I just got sick of telling people the same story over and over again or back when I told people selective things for whatever reason, not remember who was what and not wanting to have to backtrack. So, the blog's a basic Candice reference. The really juicy stuff is for offline or at least IM.

Public service announcement:

TIB Soho Grand Opening Sept. 15-21
Join us in celebrating the grand opening of TIB’s newest store in the Soho district of Manhattan! Mention this listing when you visit the new store Sept. 15-21 to get a free vibrator. 43 Mercer St. (between Broome and Grand), Mon-Sat 11am–8pm; Sun noon–7pm.

The Random Collective convened last evening for mayhem. The Central Park Boathouse has been rocked. End of dispatch.

So, yesterday I was hanging with the blogging big boys. I spoke my little piece and watched the conversation with interest. I'm still wondering even in the most obtuse sense what the hell OJ had to do with a conversation about black bloggers, but is it really a cheap flame if it's coming from the webmaster himself? Eventually, I was patted on the head and sent back to the corner. Intruding in one of those hypermale spaces, you know. But, I did appreciate some acknowledgement via linkage. I can put my retractable claws away now.

There's a major part of me that spends a lot of time second-guessing myself, especially in the context of my blog. Am I too personal? Am I rambling too much? Is there any focus? Just about everyone I know and like reads it because it is an extension of me. It is my thoughts, my words, my feelings. I suspect it has caused some problems in my non-relationship, but fuck, what am I going to do really? This is me. If you don't like it, then there's nothing more to say. Despite my wishy-washiness, that's my final word.

Cruising a site I link and like to read, I stumbled onto this discussion. I followed links and ended up smack in the middle of it here. Apparently, this is the origin.

What does it mean for me to be a black blogger? The same thing is means for me to be a black woman. It's a part of my identity, practically one word because they are so intertwined. Does it necessarily mean that I have to go screaming from the hills that I'm black or preface everything with "in my young black female opinion?" No because it's obvious. It's not something I'm hiding really.

See, the rain stopped! I'm on a roll...

...except for the pain I feel in my hand. Is it possible to get carpal tunnel syndrome in a finger, then have it spread as an idiot (named Candice) won't stop using it? In my defense, I am right-handed and it is my clicking finger. I suppose I could get off the computer or something, but since I haven't heard about a blizzard in hell lately, that's pretty unlikely. Besides, I've got 4 other fingers on that hand. Ouch.

Tomorrow in the early evening hours, the Random Collective will convene for cocktails, good times, and a little mayhem. You've been warned.

I'm also considering my own little project. Not as elaborate as this onefrom the Golden Era, but just as fun hopefully.

I'm a freefall, but I wake up as a starfish or a soldier [via Yahoo]

Funny peach business [via Negro Please]

Now, considering my love of sly sex talk sprinklings here and there, how the hell did I never know that Face/Off is a quote goldmine? Granted, I know why I haven't seen it. I have a generally irrational dislike of Nicolas Cage and that was directly post-"comeback" Travolta when he was getting on my nerves too. But,

"If I were to send you flowers where would I... no, let me rephrase that. If I were to let you suck my tongue, would you be grateful?"

"Y'know, I could eat a peach for hours"

Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, I've kicked the blahs to the curb.

Today was pretty much as bad as it could get. Transportation sucked. The job people I was supposed to call were all MIA. I was completely drenched on my way to the Central Park light show (which I basically missed) and didn't meet up with Farmer and crew like I had planned. I sulkily found myself getting pushed along like cattle amongst everyone else that was leaving into Columbus Circle. I dragged my wet rat self to an overly expensive McDs and inhaled a Double Cheeseburger meal on the way home, standing on the stupid crowded for after 8pm train to Queens. I miserably contemplated coming home to post on my blog I was going on hiatus because I hated the world and everyone in it and that's just not good reading. I was envisioning a night in bed stuffing my face, so I got a Popeye's 3 Piece (because I wanted a biscuit) and some ice cream on the way home. I took a shower, washed my hair, put on my fuzzy sweats, killed the chicken, and suddenly felt better. (And stupid full...ugh).

I'm just bipolar like that. I even arranged a non-date with a new Friendster. New blood always spices stuff up. The current undefined complicated whatever can be forgotten about for a couple of days. That's always the inherent problem with me -- even in a non-serious mood, I dedicate too much thought to things that should be nice and easy. I'm sure he doesn't sit up and obsess about it, so why should I? Exactly.

Now if this off and on rain garbage would stop, I could be the happiest camper in NYC! For a minute at least.

"You must remember this, a kiss is still a
kiss". Your romance is Casablanca. A
classic story of love in trying times, chock
full of both cynicism and hope. You obviously
believe in true love, but you're also
constantly aware of practicality and societal
expectations. That's not always fun, but at
least it's realistic. Try not to let the Nazis
get you down too much.


What Romance Movie Best Represents Your Love Life?
brought to you by Quizilla

Right. [via Mercurial]

A thing I do that annoys me is obsess about my age. I'm 22. So what? I've been thinking about a lot of things this weekend cruising to a close, especially how I like to hide behind things. I hide behind the blog, my age, my pride, my memories, my fear, the Ex and those that once a held a piece of me.

In feeling stuck in limbo, I've felt inept. I hate feeling that I just can't do things -- it shakes something in me. Helplessness breeds dismay which brings overcompensation. If I can't have that perfect situation I hoped would fall into place by now, I'll be damned if I won't exert control over one aspect of my life. So you like me and you want to be with me? I'll make you wish you never met me because I'd rather have us both miserable now than have you pull the rug out from under me later on like they always do.

How fucked up am I? I'm tempted to run away from myself about now. I definitely need a break from this. It's getting a little too raw.

Ever tried to stop yourself from looking at what you shouldn't and not been able to? Curiosity killed a kitty, but satisfaction brought her clarity. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then looking at so many that my vision started to blur has to be more than I could ever write. If I can't deal with my own baggage, how can I be expected to take on someone else's? I truly consider my losses cut.

Songs of the weekend and now the new week:

Shoot me sugar, there it is
Now we talkin' square biz
I'm leaving you without a reas(on)
What I steal, but a kiss
What you think, I'm hen pecked?
Girl, get yo mind checked
Take the time, recollect
I just gave you disrespect

As a calling so amaze me
So it leaves me every day
Well I never be the same
But I'm yours today

I've been in a shit mood all weekend. It just kinda snuck up on me sometime after waking up Friday -- the shrillest alarm in history damaging your eardrum would probably do that I guess. I've been trying to fight it, being social all weekend, but between the rain and the fucked up journey to and from anywhere, I've been worn down. I'm unhappy. I feel like I'm in limbo. A lot of stuff has shaped up for me nicely, but I'm not satisfied. I want that permanent job. I want my own place. I want to nest. But, I'm also avoiding a Conversation and surprising myself by being pulled towards all sorts of fucked up things that would ruin something that feels nice a lot more than it doesn't. I'm doing that push-pull thing I've always despised in others. I don't make any sense. In my defense, I put that out there beforehand as a disclaimer, but that's no excuse to be a fuckup.

Walking to the bus stop earlier tonight, a guy across the street was doing that annoying hiss thing. That's gotta be one of my top pet peeves for sure. What would make a guy think by doing that he would be getting anything more than a dirty look (or a middle finger)? I mean, I know damned well he's skeezy and not thinking: "Wow, look at her big brain! She looks like she'll have crazy witty observations on life. I should ask her to recommend a book to me." Fuckwad. A look is too much to give a guy like that.

I hung out with Wes kids tonight. It's been a while. I've been in my own little world for a heap of weeks now. It ultimately made me more melancholy because it feels like everyone has their shit together but me -- though even thinking it, I know it's not true. I suck at keeping in touch. I've been trying to think all week what that's about. I've been searching for something all summer, bouncing from place to place, group to group. I need a routine. I need a foundation. I want someone to ground me, not push me to crazy heights I'm not ready for. I want that nice wholesome relationship, but I also want a mind reader.

I need to stop using this an emotional crutch. Sometimes I feel like I've lost my ability to speak with real words and breath and that is the root of most of my problems. I need to unplug for a while, but right now, I'm just reading and thinking..

Uh oh...I'm getting back into that "while I make my way home and I'm stuck with my own crazy thoughts, get ridiculously bent out of shape because the negativity flooding my brain" mode. I was good for that in the beginning of my summer. Crap. At least I didn't blog about it like I was planning to as I waited almost a half hour for my bus in the rain in the wee hours of the morning. That post as I had worked it out was gonna be a doozy. I need to take my own advice about honesty occasionally being too much. I would've been way out there in a way that would've made the other week's outpouring of crazy woman despair/self-loathing look like a picnic.

I'm getting swept up again in a way I shouldn't be. Ever hear that the definition of insanity is making the same mistakes over and over again and expecting different results? I'm such a slave to patterns even when I see red flags, feel that sinking feeling in my gut and tell myself not to do it because I should just know better already. Ah well.

Onto breezy subject matter, my cats crack me up. They have this patented mood that my mom calls the Fainting Goat. One walks up to you and you make indications to pet her. Then, she kinda tips over and then rolls to expose her belly, but in the most dramatic way possible. You know, like those goats that faint when they're scared to confuse attackers or something. It's hilarious. Even better is when they roll around together having cute-offs. "Pet me! She can't even roll for real because she's too fat!" "Pet me! I've got softer fur!" Crazy animals.

I'm wondering how I ever got that strange compulsion for total truthfulness. I mean, in theory, it's not a bad thing. You play straight with someone and they play straight with you. Everything's on the table, the world should be fabulous. Back in the day when I actually was in possession of that youthful naivete and I began to think I actually sought out shady characters, the truth was elusive and necessary but hardly ever present. After that, I got on that damned truth kick. It made life with Mr. Sailor interesting. Always blabbing about my feelings, being so fucking open, ultimately doing the mental anguish to myself. The relentlessness of giving up the deep truth is tiring. I'm trying to get with being satisfied being a naturally curious person that will ask if I desperately want know something. The spontaneous offering of information that is ultimately going to drive me mad with my thoughts is getting the gasface today. Isn't there another option besides lies and too much honesty?

I've got money! I've got money!...that I spent a crazy chunk of carousing last night. I hung out with Ant, my kindred spirit from the DC days. We were the slacker sociologists among the uptight future lawyers of America on our study not-abroad program. We went to my favorite chill bar and were totally gobsmacked by 9:30. Yay happy hour! We stumbled off to Katz', giggling like fools, before heading off here to meet with Farmer and friends where we continued to rage and took some really good pics:

Excellent time had by all.

Things making me laugh today:

Him: Come on, cat, you've got to move! You're messing up my steez!

An unsolicited Friendster message: Candice, where did you go to school? what did you major in...how to increase my heart rate? if that's the case then you're hired.

Since I'm all warmed up for ranting, this dispatch is especially funny to me because Random and I were talking about this the other week...amusingly enough, the night of that currently infamous kiss (you know what I'm talking about. I'll just say the one from an MTV show because I don't feel like dealing with hits). The "Girls Gone Wild" syndrome. I was at this bar minding my business about a month back. They have this basement where there are metal railings about where you can stand up from the floor. It never failed that if the space was empty for more than five minutes, some girl and her equally drunken friends would walk up to the poles and start grinding up against them or each other. What is it about liquor and certain girls (now, I've got to admit that I'm kinda biting my tongue to not say white girls, but truthfully, that type of thing knows no color. When I was DC, I saw some shit in a cage that amazes me to this day) that make them so determined to live out those stripper fantasies? It's really a personal pet peeve of mine, that fake sexuality. Twitney embodies so much of it. Look at me, I'm perky! I'm kinda naughty...but not too naughty because I'm a good Christian girl who listens to my mama and goes to church. I'll blow you when she turns her back after the service though! It's so empty. She probably sucks at sex too with all that bullshit repression. Her idea of a good time is probably to lie there as he does whatever, making those sounds like they showed her to in the porn all the while. She probably hasn't even had an orgasm...or knows what that means. She probably has been indoctrinated to not listen to those dirty words...just coo in a sexy voice: "I'm not a girl, yet not a woman. Should I put on my school girl outfit?"

Yes, I'm hating. That Blowup Barbie sexuality sets women back. She's got the mindset of those kids who think "if he pulls out when we're having sex, I can't catch anything" or "me sucking his dick isn't sex. Besides he took me to the movies, so I owe him." Abstenance only education is one of the worst ideas I've ever heard, especially since most of those hypocrites were screwing up a storm as teenagers I'll bet. Kids have hormones and they're gonna use the equipment whether they're taught to or not. Sex is a natural part of life and that fake "oops, I had no idea this wet clear shirt would be sexy" garbage is making things a lot more confused than they have to be.

An article that I most definitely agree with [via Negro Please]. Much of rap right now is a farce. I don't even take seriously what I'm hearing most of the time -- and I suppose that's part of the problem. I dance around to "Get Low" or quote "Get Down (Like A Pimp)" on my away messages, maybe even watch the videos if I catch them. But is enjoying it as mindless entertainment implicating myself? The last rap albums I bought were God's Son and a Source mag compiliation from 2001, both discounted. Truthfully, I can't stand listening to most of what's all over my radio. If I think about the lyrics too much, I get annoyed. Like everyone's favorite "nice" song, Fabolous's "Can't Let You Go." That shit pissed me off. But, I've been annoyed with those "sensitive thug" songs since "Let's Get Married" of the "We ain't get no younger, so we might as well do it" line. Then again, what does my opinion matter really? I'm a black woman. It's not exactly speaking to me anyways. Who is the music really speaking to is the question indeed. He thinks that it's speaking to those who want the excitement of ghetto warzone imagery for various reasons -- the corporations strengthening their bottom line, white kids playacting at "thug life," disenfranchised urban youth who hear their stories in the music (a view he shares). I get annoyed with articles like this one that are so essentialist, especially since his conclusionary line is such a crock. It's knee-jerk generational gap garbage. I'm sure he would've protested to the death if someone said that about the soul music of Motown and Stax at the time.

Once upon a time (perhaps last week), I was crazily bent out of shape over some garbage. Then again, when am I not bent out of shape? I was a wreck in May, June, July, August...it's par for the course around here. So what I crossed out some text in my posts and it was hard to read or something? I could sum up all of that for you pretty easily: "blah blah I need to stop liking bad boys blah blah and while I'm at it, I need to stop being crazy blah blah it sucks to me blah blah I want a relationship...oh, wait I don't blah blah I like feeling sorry for myself blah blah I need to shut the fuck up because this whiny crap is really annoying blah blah." I blame it on those pesky hormones. This week, however, I think if I was any more chilled out, you'd swear I'm high on the regular. I'm not, natch. Strangely, getting tortured by a 4-year old and holing myself in a basement on DSL did wonders for my disposition.

Word.

My favorite sound of the week: the pop-up blocker laying the smackdown on pesky windows.

I've been trying to think of a song for this week. I'm not in any sort of music mood yet. I've been listening to a few things, but only when I wake up and then trying to go back to sleep because 7:30 doesn't agree with me. Despite my complaints about feeling musically disconnected, it's been a great music summer -- though I've barely bought anything and my former new music connections -- my old radio show and fast downloading speeds -- are both gone now. I'm still loving Donnie's album. Great shit. And his live show was amazing.

Anyhoo, I've decided: the song of the week is: Blue Six, "Beautiful Tomorrow."

Gizmodo is electronics porn. I've been stuck on this page for hours now. I've been whispering sweet nothings to a computer screen: : "Hello, my sweetness, I'll see you at Christmas!"

Crazy exchange of the day:

The Moms and I were talking about the subway for whatever reason and I was saying that I had no idea where the Smith-9th Street F stop was in relation to Park Slope.
Moi: I passed it on the way to Manhattan and didn't notice it? That's so weird.
Ms. Mommy:" Maybe you were drunk.
Moi: *jaw hitting the floor and just gaping dumbly* Drunk? What would make you say that?
Ms. Mommy: *shooting me a Mommy look* C'mon now. Like I don't know you get drunk and have sex. Who am I? Your father?
Moi: *still gaping* I wasn't drunk. I was coming back from a concert.
Ms. Mommy: *rolling her eyes* Riight.

A special happy half-birthday going out to me! (But more important, happy b-day to Ms. Mommy and belated wishes to Jenny. Virgo-Pisces connection, holla back! Heh.)

So, I'm working even when I'm not -- by that I mean hustling for a full-time gig. I'm trying to get those interviews, so I can get that money. I got a call (as I do) for temp project in October that'll blow everything I'll probably make until then out of the water. I'm going to be running to do that -- unless I get a real job first. Money, money everywhere -- but not in my pocket yet. Thursday will change that though. Did I mention that this check is already blown? Well it is...most of it at least. I plan to toast myself into a stupor with lovely people helping the liver decline. I was full-blown stressed until I got a little luck. I deserve a night of loose spending...or so I'm telling myself.

Currently sucking my nut. It's trying in vain to get me but it's not going to happen. I don't open any file I didn't previously know was being sent. I'm not crazy. Take that, you crap ass virus!

Cherry blossom kiss What you’re givin’ Makes my body rock Keeps me sizzlin’

Do what you want
I don’t care
I’ll be your lollipop
You can lick me everywhere

I fixed Jay's link because she thought it meant I didn't love her. That's not true, natch. I'm just an HTML retard.

So, I got bamboozled into going to Upstate NY. My father (when he wasn't pissing me off) was all, "why don't you come up for the weekend" yesterday and I felt all happy like "my daddy misses me...aww!" I discovered that I was the buffer between him and my little brother while my stepmother is out of town. Curses! At least the kid's all interesting and cute though that fucking mutant should be taller than me within a year or so. Have I mentioned that he's 4, btw? Kids nowadays.

At not even midnight, I'm tired because I went to work today. Yes, I do have a job...sorta. I'm the go-to temp for this certain magazine publishing conglomerate. First, they had me Wednesday and then called me back for a different part of the same department for a weekly thing. My temp contact said I get first heads up on whatever call they send out of there. It's all good so far. I'm in the midst of all the web folks and copy editors and I can totally picture myself in the middle of it all there. I'm tempted to be all "do y'all need a junior copywriter? I could be all over that." Again, I like their version of business casual which is jeans and tanks or whatever with killer killer shoes. I can already see my first paycheck getting blown on some unnecessary shoes or something.

Damned money already burning a hole in my pocket. I got to see what my working world would be like: talking to Random and another Random Collective co-conspirator from his office -- coincidentally across the street -- and chatting with Farmer and Jay over IM. As I was being worked so hard that I left the building at 6pm, shithead Farmer was saying how he had nothing to do at work but chill. I was telling Jay that he had no idea how close he came to getting told to suck my invisible nuts. For future reference, the quickest way for someone to get me to not like them is to disappear without a word. That shit works like a charm. I won't give a fuck when you reappear. It's one of those funny things about me. (Was that disjointed or what? Or what is it really? That's for you to wonder.)

Well damn, Rome has me feeling like people had me on suicide watch or something this week. A kid's gotta bitch and moan, man, but it's all good. It's the way I cope. I'm back to being neutral. For real this time. I'll stay away from a certain person while under the influence because the combination always makes me seem to lose my clothes. (Don't you hate it when that happens?) Soon when my pockets are lined with cash again, I can go back to the nightlife and clowning on fools that try to step to me. I've missed that. Emotional garbage screwing up my good times. My head is on straight again, so nothing but the lighthearted sharp tongued Kitty Power that some have grown to love. I promise.

You know who's getting the gasface right now (besides the obvious choice): Mr. Daddy. All summer, he's been on a "*bitch, bitch* You know I don't know why you just didn't do the teacher thing, you're not going to find a job that pays that well. You should go inquire, especially since you're not doing anything else. *bitch, bitch*" Now, I've been explaining every time to him that a) I don't want to be a teacher b) I have sub zero interest in being a teacher right now c) Teaching is not in my career goals -- and yes, despite how he tries to play me out like I'm stupid, I do have some. d) Even if I had considered the teaching thing (which I -- again -- did not), missing the necessary summer training with "hey guys, I have some slave labor to finish up at school. Can I get back to you in a couple of months?" would not have flown. Sheesh. Every fucking time I talk to him, we have to go over and over this. And then he gets mad because though he likes to treat me like a dimwit child, I'm an adult loud-mouthed bitch. Drives me totally apeshit.

In a way, I wonder why I'm letting this whole thing with him bother me. I mean, there's more fish in the sea, I probably fucked up, shit happens, all those things. That doesn't change the fact that there were warning signs going off a mile a minute. I didn't mean what I said how it came out, but I was inherently saying "where this is headed with you, I don't like it and I'd rather just nip it before it spins out of control." Maybe that's not how it was on his end, but I know me and I was beginning to see "Goner" written on my forehead in blood.

Strange dream I had: Edward Norton and I were old friends and he was staying at the house where I grew up in Brooklyn. We had this unspoken sexual tension making things awkward between us. Then came in a member from the Leaders of The New School who was trying to kick it to me, but one of my cousins reminded him I was in the "Scenario" video (I wasn't) as a little kid and to try to get with me all these years later was making him a retroactive child molester. How bizarre on too many levels to count.

I'm taking a break from the emotional garbage to break into why I've got the strangest luck of anyone I know. This morning, I was off to be a good girl and you know, get my slacker ass working by heading to my interview at a temp agency. I was looking all spiffy though, damn, 9am looks like hell on me. I get to the place and I go through my "yeah, I'm looking for publishing and PR, but mostly whatever" shpiel and all is going well. The lady throws something out about a contract job for a month starting tomorrow and I'm all "that sounds great." (Jumping up and down on the inside, natch) But, then she's all "what are you up to for the rest of the afternoon?" I say "nothing," because what is there really but soaps and the net at home with the cats in my sweats on a weekday? She sends me off to go work at Gawker's favorite publishing corporation, where I basically delivered crap and rode around in the company car. Totally sweet. And I even saw that supposed Prada wearing devil herself with her death-ray eyes. I don't think magazine work is for me really. Every boss seems to be a "I wanted it done like an hour ago" high strung type and the chicks are all strutting around in some serious (yet gorgeous) stillettos. But, I like the fashion business casual thing. I could rock that. Maybe I'll go back tomorrow, maybe not. 'Twas interesting. And I even made a friend that reminded me of someone I know (school folks: think our favorite Wes party starter boy). But personally, the best part was the making money. I hope they keep calling me with shit to do because next Thursday is the "Candice has officially let go of school and gotten on with her life" get-together, funded by yours truly after her shopping spree buying a new burner for Helga. My poor baby can't deal.

Red, red wine Goes to my head Make me forget that i Still need her so

Red, red wine
It`s up to you
All I can do, i`ve done
But mem`ries won`t go
No, mem`ries won`t go

I'd have thought
That with time
Thoughts of her
Would leave my head
I was wrong
And I find
Just one thing makes me forget

Red, red wine
Stay close to me
Don`t let me be alone
It's tearin' apart
My blue, blue heart

And no, I'm not still wallowing. Who doesn't love "Red Red Wine?" That song is the shit. But, with this crap ass weather, who would blame me? How the hell did it jump from August to October? It's cold as hell.

In other news, I did what I was thinking about. It takes some of the pressure off. I am all about no pressure after all...except when I lose my cool and end up looking like a stupid stupid kid! *ahem* Random was reading the blog and said that I've got a "Seinfeldian" thing going here. Yes indeed, I'm a New Yorker and neurotic as fuck, but neither a man nor Jewish, so I can be a black Elaine. I'm short (though not that short really, about average height) with mostly crazy hair and nice breasts -- or so I was told the other day, but that point's up for debate. Since I'm oversharing, I noticed that his profile thingy is currently changed to "Just Here to Help." Hmm. I really need to shut up about this shit. I'm making myself look worse. Plus he reads it like everyone else I know. Candice is a jackass, la la la.

In a break from lame ass no-longer-a-teen melodrama (because in the long run, it's really not that serious. I've got the tools to hold it down all over and 2003 is all about stopping trouble before it starts, you know?), I've added a new link to the sidebar because who am I to deny a request? :)

Song for the new week:

We got just one shot of life, let's take it while we're still not afraid.
Because life is so brief and time is a thief when you're undecided.
And like a fistful of sand, it can slip right through your hands.

I've been on a 80s kick since Sunday afternoon. The cats got a kick of me dancing around to "Party All The Time." I love that song. Did you ever see the Mad TV skit where they dramatized the writing sessions for that with Eddie Murphy (Aries Spears) and Rick James (Phil LaMarr)? Hilarious. Beyond, just beyond.

For a minute, I actually wondered why Sixteen Candles was one of my favorite movies. And then I remembered that when I watched it when I was a high schooler, I wholly identified because I was a spazz and always hoped I would be lucky enough to have some super cool guy see beyond that. Years later, I'm still a fucking spazz and I'm beginning to think I have a better chance being struck by lightning than making something work. Just an inkling of a fuzzy and I'm all "oh shit, was that a feeling?! Self-destruct mode, on. Deny, deny, deny! Spazz, spazz, spazz! Run, run, run! Start the annihilation process." I'm a stupid jerk.

Sex makes me stupid. Lack of sex makes me stupid. Guys make me stupid. But I was just stupid from the start. I'm just gonna find a hole and hope it caves in. Pity party, table for one.

ETA: This why I don't date (or not, as the case may be) even put out myself out there. Fucking melodramatic nature rearing its ugly head. Who has time for this shit?

An exchange that in no way reflects the esteem with which we regard felines:

Moi: I'm gonna go, but you should feed your cats before they riot.
Him: Ah fuck 'em.

These past couple of days has involved me getting pissed off by the subway system -- or rather, having the misfortune of living somewhere that makes getting a lot of places mad fucking inconvienent. Well on the weekends, getting everywhere is inconvienent. Stupid MTA...yeah, it's totally a great idea to have 25 of 30whatever lines all fucked up to work on them all at once. I should be a bureaucrat. I can make dumb ass decisions and get paid for it easily. I was supposed meet Mr. Daddy up in Inwood and midway I just gave up because not only was I still a half hour from where I had to be, but my head felt like it was about to explode from the frustration. I was heated. Imagine his surprise when I called and he was gearing up to yell at me for being late and I was all "screw it. I'm going home. Leave. I don't care." Shut him up quick. Hehe.