Blocked

Ugh. I've had horrid Live Journal block lately. Don't get me wrong—I've had plenty to write about. But I recently read an article about how a few bloggers got fired for what they'd posted about their jobs. My paranoia took hold, and I searched every journal entry in Still Wanna Know... and erased all of those that might even remotely get me fired.

And there have been certain people and things in and around my life that I've wanted to write about, but even I'm not that honest. Perhaps I need to start keeping a personal journal. I'm kind of getting tired of being this open book; so honest about my feelings and complexes. Maybe it's why I'm so sensitive...I leave myself open for it. Whatev. Anyway, here's what I have been pondering as of late:

I have exactly 40 pairs of shoes. Girls, count your shoes. How many pairs do you own? Be honest and leave a comment. I want to compare. Forty sounds like a lot, but something tells me that compared with the average female, it's not. Keep in mind, this includes my four pairs of Old Navy flip-flops, in a variety of colors. So don't leave a single pair out.

Sprinkles are only a garnish. I've been addicted to Tasti D-lite lately. Like, it's bad. At least every other day I'm eating it. Apparently they have 200 flavors. I always get a small cup of the goodness with chocolate sprinkles. I was introducing a new friend to the drug recently, and he'd never heard of Tasti. Are you kidding me? When I whispered that it's fat-free with only 40 calories a serving, he claimed it tasted like Carvel frozen frosting, and then challenged that the sprinkles probably contain a few calories. Hel-lo! Sprinkles are merely a garnish or a spice—like salt and pepper added to green beans. And everyone knows that spices don't really have calories. And you better not challenge me on this one. Let me wear my rose-colored glasses when it comes to sprinkles, OK?

What ever happened to Fiona Apple? Courtney and I were listening to her on the way to work this morning. I remember that I used to have her CD, but all of my CDs got stolen at a party back in 1998, along with Fiona's Tidal (think "Shadowboxer" and "Sleep To Dream.") What's happened to her since? Hopefully she's been stuffing her face.

Who Judges the Crazy Ones?

Do you ever wonder if you're just plain crazy? Like loony-bin-strapped-to-the-bed-and-fed-soup-through-a-straw crazy? Like I wonder how Esther in The Bell Jar went crazy. She seemed so normal at first. She was just hangin' out one summer in piss-hot New York. She should've been ecstatic 'cause she was working that summer at the hottest magazine around. Then a few chapters later, she swallows some pills and buries herself in the wall of her cellar. By the end of the book, she's in the loony bin and can't fathom how she got there.

How does someone do that to themselves? How does someone go off the deep end like that? I'm currently reading a memoir about a guy who, at 13, was forced to live with his mom's nutty shrink. This guy spent his teen years living in some squalor with a woman who ate dog food and a man who was convinced that God was speaking to him through his poop. And he didn't go crazy. Interesting.


On a cheerier note, I walked into my favorite coffee shop yesterday, and what did I stumble upon? Why, about five rock stars, of course! Just sittin' around next to their acoustic guitars. I thought I'd walked into heaven. Turns out it's open mic night—every Tuesday! Eye candy, oh boy! But let me tell you, this girl took the "stage," and she was AWESOME. She wrote her own stuff; it was fantastic. I can't wait until I can play. I only know four chords and a finger exercise on my baby. But I glued some nice rhinestones on her, so at least she's stylish.