Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 14:05 Having urges to go to a lake and I don’t even like lakes, unless lake has brownies. #
• 18:40 apparently i said goodbye too sweetly to bob so now tina is talking about the babies that bob and i will soon have together. #
• 19:38 Wonder how Bob feels about the name Ursula for a girl. #
• 19:52 it’s a lovely night for bringing out the butcher knife. #
• 22:16 Blake and his friends call Henry "Abe," but Henry doesn’t know why, other than he’s about Abe Lincoln’s age. #
• 09:22 I’m glad Chooch is watching Labrynth because now I’ll finally be able to threaten him with the Goblin King. #

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I don’t think I’ve missed hitting up the Three Rivers Arts Festival once in the past twelve years, so I dragged Henry, Chooch and Blake downtown to spend a leisurely Saturday evening perusing overpriced beaded jewelry and hopefully tripping over some knife-wielding homeless assholes. The arts festival is kind of like the summer kick-off here in Pittsburgh and I usually wind up spending exorbitant amounts of money on a piece of art that likely only cost $20 to make. Sure looks good on my walls though.

Blake has a pet rat tail now that he keeps tucked under his hat; it’s earned him about 146 scene points. 54 more and he can cash them in for a new white studded belt.*

It was slim-pickins this year though. Cheesy windchimes and generic photography (Pittsburgh in the morning, Pittsburgh at night, Pittsburgh under a cloak of fog, Pittsburgh who-the-fuck-cares) seemed to be the most prevalent wares on display in the rows of tents. Look, if I’m going to buy a photograph of the fucking shit hole I live in, it better depict faux-nuclear warfare and slutty clowns sucking dick atop the Mellon Arena.

There was one artisan that was peddling these amazing pieces of metal eye candy, which I could imagine making a cameo as a murder weapon in a Dario Argento film. Blake and I drooled over the aluminum display for like, three seconds (ADD, holla), but alas — neither of us brought our platinum AmEx cards to bloat with $2,000 purchases.

Blake bought a soft pretzel, though.

My stalking skillz were on the fritz that day. Every time I would covertly snap a shot of someone, the person next to them would send WTF rays right through my skull. I eventually gave up and reluctantly settled on shots of skylines and clouds. You know, like the shit that was being shilled inside all of those tents. But then Blake stepped up as a subject and I was happy again. I tried to get him to stab a cop for the sake of photography, but finally I settled on having him stand casually in front of things.

Like a wall of graffiti in a damp alley.

Seeing us slip suspiciously into an alley probably made the Dad Alarm sound inside Henry’s head. He backtracked a few paces, squinted into the alley, and asked, “What are you doing?

” Don’t worry, Henry! We’re just freebasing, brb.

“Can I be done soon? It’s really hot over here,” Blake asked through gritted teeth.

“That’s because it’s STEAM,” Henry shouted, making me hurry up. I bet Blake’s mom loves it when he’s out with us. I have him loitering in seedy alleys in the middle of downtown Pittsburgh, climbing trains, enjoying natural steam baths: All things that Chooch has to look forward to.

There were two cops standing nearby and I was set off immediately by the fact that they were just STANDING THERE DRINKING GATORADE AND BEING LAZY ASSHOLES. Some ho was probably getting raped in a nearby alley, but at least these assholes are replenishing their flab with ELECTROLYTES.

Fuck, I hate cops.

Of course Henry tripped all over himself to defend them. “THEY’RE HELPING PEOPLE CROSS THE STREET!” he shouted desperately. Helping my ASS. They had their backs to the street-crossing pedestrians!

I kind of feel inspired to take senior portraits. Alternative ones, you know? “Listen here, high school cheerleader– I’m going to fashion a murder scene and you’re going to pretend to picnic off the bodies.” WHO WOULDN’T WANT THAT FOR THEIR SENIOR PICTURE?!

Back in the vicinity of the festival, I spied a set of stairs descending into the bowels of the city. I think it was some kind of utility thing that I know nothing about but I’m sure Henry does. It looked really desolate and cinder-blocky at the botton of the landing, so I urged Blake to walk down so I could take a picture. As soon as his foot left that final step, an ear-splitting siren went off, interspersed with a male computerized voice alerting the world of terrorists. Seriously, it sounded like BWAKBWAK WARNINGDANGERDEATHALERT BWAK BWAK and I almost shit myself.

Blake and I ran like hell and when we caught up with Henry, we tried to play it cool, but he saw right through our scared, blanched faces.

“Congratulations, you’re probably on video,” was all he said.

After leaving a trail of suspicious behavior through the streets of town, we hit up Point Park and made the mistake of giving Crazy Ass Chooch some freedom. Once he was out of his stroller, there was no catching him.

I was grateful that we had Blake with us, because he chased after him while I continued to be a lazy ass and complained about how badly my feet hurt. Cry for me.

Blake and I were walking ahead of Henry and Chooch and apparently some punkass skater bitch looked at Blake and said, “If that was my kid, I’d kick his ass.” Unfortunately for that kid, Henry was close enough behind us to hear that comment and proceeded to flex his muscles and spit poison-tipped darts into that fucker’s neck.

I mean, I suppose that’s what he would have done if his balls weren’t made of cotton candy and butterfly wings. Instead, he whimpered and kept on walking.

We lazed around the wall of the fountain at the Point and ogled a couple whose lips were scandelously fused together. Blake wanted me to take their picture, but the boyfriend busted me and let’s just say it wasn’t the first time in my life that I felt like a sexual deviant.

*I seriously, honest to God-ly love scene kids. Like, I want to hug them all and be their big sister and film a couple After School Specials about those rainbow sex bracelets.

I’m coming down to cut you open. It’ll only take half a second.

The lamest parade passes in front of my house every Memorial Day. For as lame as it is, I haven’t missed a single note from the high school marching bands, a single lopsided cartwheel from the toddler dance troupe,  a single Shriner go-cart in the eight years I’ve lived here. And then afterward, I heartily bitch about how lame it all was. I know, I know, some towns don’t have parades, so I should be grateful, blah blah blah.

I spent the majority of the parade hissing every time a patrol car passed by. Fuckin’ pigs.

Chooch is at that age where he could give a shit about waving congressmen, the Kennywood trolley, and Boy Scouts carrying tall flags; it was a feat to keep him from running away until he discovered that sometimes, people passing by might toss a little candy his way. He turned back toward the street with a crazed hunger in his eyes, interest mounted. He recruited two of the neighbors to be his candy-gathering bitches and quickly built up an impressive mound of treats. Eventually, he would just point at people until they personally handed him suckers and mini Snickers, then he’d run to the porch and proudly show me his bounty and I would steal the good stuff when he wasn’t looking.

The downside to that is that now every time we go outside, he starts spastically chanting, "Candy! Candy!" like he expects it to be a common occurance. Really not as cute as you’d think.

Our neighbor Chris watched the parade from his porch, and if I’m not mistaken, I do believe I picked up on several covert glances exchanged between him and Henry. Probably there is some sexual tension there now since they fixed a mower together on Saturday. You know how weird dudes get after they fix something together, like two chicks sharing a tampon or some shit.

My other neighbor Robin was out and about with her ragtag children and their spawn. Alarmingly, she was hooked up to an oxygen tank, yet still the perpetual cigarette dangles ever so delicately from her fingers.

Later, it rained and the Pens got slaughtered in game 2 of the Stanley Cup finals. Happy fucking Memorial Day.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 16:52 Eleanore shared her creamer with me so I guess I’m not a stupid cracker anymore. #
• 19:52 I haven’t forgotten you, Romania. #
• 22:29 Great now I’m hearing scissors when there are no scissors. #
• 23:24 YES. Tina’s talking about when she was in basic training. #
• 23:30 This calls for a juice box. #
• 08:17 Christina brought Chooch and me a huge box of candy and had the nerve to tell Henry to ration us. #
• 10:27 Squealing over Ride the Wings of Pestilence video never gets old, not even after 4 yrs. #

Nice shot.

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:56 Freaking out b/c Tina just announced she might be coming back to night shift, scabs and all. #
• 16:05 Tina’s shift switch hasn’t even been approved yet and I’m already clenching my jaw. BTW, my crown STILL hurts. #
• 20:18 currently experiencing the pap smear of all crushes. #
• 23:09 when traveling for a show i prefer to spend less on lodging, more on merch. evidently my bro isn’t down w/ a cheap motel room. owellz0rz #

Urgent. Will die without reading.

• 15:48 At our "hotel" which is really just a place where ppl come to have sex. #
• 15:49 Corey said it looks like a concentration camp. #
• 16:17 Domestic dispute in hotel parking lot. #
• 16:43 New jersey sucks. #
• 17:02 We’re eating at Pats Pizzeria: proudly boasting a satisfactory sanitary inspection. #
• 17:10 All that’s in this town are liquor stores, strip clubs and Pats Pizzeria. Usually would be happy but not in mood! #
• 18:12 Oh, aging goths. #
• 18:15 Coreys keeping a tally of how many dirty looks we’re getting standing in line at arena. #
• 18:44 In our seats laffing at ppl. Interpol is blaring over speakers, what a cliche choice for them. #
• 19:06 One minute into 65daysofstatic and I’m crying. #
• 19:20 Quite possibly oldest Cure fan in world just sat down in front of me. #
• 19:51 Spent so much $ already, might need to turn some tricks to finance the trip home. #
• 21:33 Some men should never dance #
• 23:47 Corey and I just realized that we probably look more suspicious than anyone else in the motel lot. #
• 00:53 Corey: thankfully this pillow has a clean side. #
• 08:32 There’s a massage parlour in this town called Back to Front. I don’t like it. #

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Enjoy a ‘movie’ Corey and I made back in 2001, when he was eleven and I was awesome. The pictures were taken with a Polaroid i-Pix and then Henry, whom I had just started dating and was trying always to impress me because I was so awesome remember and he was just dumb and old, was all, "I’m going to take over now and make it into something splendid because I have a new program that I want to play with." It’s very archaic.

Corey and I had to ask my mom to take some of the pictures and I remember she was all bent out of shape about it. "Can’t you see I’m playing spades?" I never thought I’d say this, but I yearn for those days now that she’s been swept up in the tide that is MySpace and YouTube.

Aside from that stupid photo shoot I did with him recently at my grandma’s, we really haven’t engaged in any antics in a long time. I think he got too cool for that or something, I don’t know. But I’m hoping at the very least this weekend we run into a creature of the night offering bananas.

Or at least a goth offering some cloves.

Currently, I am feeling very jaded on the friend tip. I’ve realized recently that holy shit, I have a lot of selfish assholes in my life.

Currently, I am feeling frustrated at work and I think my boss has picked up on that because she asked me if I want to order Thai tomorrow. It’s my favorite and I always get vetoed. What’s up, Kim? SCARED?

Currently, I do nothing but listen to Pierce the Veil and shiver.

Currently, one of the people who replied to my Craigslist ad about the photo shoot will not back the fuck up off me. I get three emails from him a day and he’s essentially trying to take charge. This was supposed to be a fun and laid back thing and he’s turning it into a Hustler spread.

Currently, the only thing keeping me from hanging myself (this week) is the Chiodos show on Sunday. Ok fine, and my kid. God.

Currently, I’m probably the oldest person trying to do this.

Currently, I’m disenchanted with life, but excited because I finally realized what I want to do about it. Except that currently, I have no motivation.

Currently, my hair looks really great and really, isn’t that all life’s about anyway? 

I have three Brightkite invites if anyone’s interested.

FOR YOU. Another mixtape thing.

Unicorns make good dildos.

Made a mixtape for ya’ll, I did.

HELL DOESN’T GIVE OUT FREE WATER.

This week, I’m obsessed with flax seeds. I made Henry buy me a nice plump bag the other night, even though he was yelling things like, "You don’t even know if you’ll like it! You won’t eat it! Youdon’t even know what it’s supposed to do!"

I know that Britney Spears sprinkles it on her yogurt, and I know that it helps prevent prostate cancer, and I know that it’s chockful of that omega shit, and that’s enough for me.

Turns out I’m now addicted to flax seeds. I throw five leaves of lettuce in a bowl and douse it with flax seeds, stir and enjoy. I love how nutty they taste, nutty like peanuts. Nutty like me-nuts.

Today, I was supervising Henry while he worked like a busy little bee in the kitchen, diligently preparing my dinner. He was sauteeing some sort of rice mixture in a skillet and when I leaned in real close, close enough to burn my face off, I didn’t see any flax seeds. You better believe I pointed this out to Henry.

"You don’t have to put flax seeds on EVERYTHING," he sighed. But he still retrieved the jar that used to hold dumb shit like pretzels but now encases my beloved seeds of flax, and sprinkled not nearly enough of it atop the rice.

I was halfway to work when I realized that I left my dinner at home. And it was vegetarian stuffed peppers! WITH FLAX SEEDS! I only had 43 servings of flax seeds today. How will I get through the night?

My brother Corey is ten years younger than me. When he was little, he was very close to me, preferring to hang out with me and my friends rather than kids his own age. Even once I moved out into my own place, I’d invite him to all of my parties and he’d dress up in my boots and skirts and twirl around for all of my friends to either laugh uproariously or gawk in horror.

He came to my twenty-fifth birthday party, which was really just a small gathering around a platter of Jello shots. Unbeknownst to me, Corey was slipping shots up his sleeve and sneaking off to have his own private spiked gelatin feast. He ended up crashing at my place and when my mom picked him up the next morning, she called me and yelled, "Corey threw up in the car on the way home. It must be all that vegetarian shit you feed him!"

Corey and I had the kind of symbiotic relationship that make us choose the same obscure answers during riveting rounds of Scattergories.

But then in high school he became too popular with the girls to bother with his big sister and her stupid life. He has his own friends, his own parties to attend, his own car to drive.

Having Chooch pulled us even further apart. It took Corey a long time to warm up to him. He used to hold him like he was a ticking bomb and he didn’t come to his first birthday party.

A few months ago, Corey started texting me regularly. He attended my last two game nights (and even brought a girl to the last one!) and admitted to developing a taste for the Cure.

Initially, Christina was supposed to go see the Cure with me next month in Philadelphia, but Corey expressed interest. Christina was understanding when I asked her if Corey could go in her place, and Corey was thrilled. I’m going to tell my mom we’re sleeping in the car at a truck stop, maybe scare her into securing us a hotel room.

Corey and I have never road-tripped together. In fact, we haven’t spent more than a few hours together at a time since I moved out ten years ago. I’m really hoping it will be one of those bonding experiences that people make movies about (hopefully no one will die though) and that he won’t be too embarrassed when I act like an asshole, because it’s like Tourette’s: I just can’t help it. I haven’t told him yet about the car-jackings and kidney-thieving I have lined up for that weekend, though.

Then last night, he texted me and asked me to help him decorate for his graduation party and that I can invite some of my friends, too. To me, this means: Even though I still think you’re a crazy assed weirdo, I am not as embarrassed of you as I once was; besides, I really need help draping streamers.

I drive through the urban shopping district every day on my way to work. I don’t have to go that way, but I enjoy taking in the sights — where else can I see three wig shops in one block and a man who sells bags of peanuts and screams through your car window when you say no?

Today, the flow of traffic was moving slowly. I glanced out the window and noticed a small crowd of teens, maybe early twenties at the oldest, loitering on the sidewalk. One of the girls was jumping up and down, and I thought to myself, "Aw, it’s nice to see kids excited with life."

Then I realized that she was jumping up and down in rage, and before I knew it, she grabbed another girl and shoved her into the street, in the middle of traffic, and it was ON. Fists were swinging, braids were flying, their friends were screaming. It was intense girl-on-girl street fighting. None of that sissy gun-slinging like the boys do.

A cop who looked to be in his fifties came running into the street in an attempt to break it up. By this point, everyone was idling in their cars, ignoring the green light, and people had emerged cautiously from the surrounding shops to get a peek at the action. A grandmother walked down the sidewalk and shielded her young grandson’s eyes.

The cop had to hook his arm around the one girl’s neck, the one who started it, and then dragged her off the other girl. A guy in a quilted parka came from the other side of the street and restrained her opponent. Once the cop released the first girl, she and her friend stormed off, pounding the pavement viciously with their feet and continuing to snap their fingers and emit battle cries.

Cop cars bleated in the distance, but with the girls on separate sidewalks, the drama appeared to be squelched. I didn’t want it to be over so soon! Not at least until I got to see some slurpy eviceration-action, maybe an eyeball plucked and spinning on finger tip, knife in the vagina. AT LEAST A BLOODY LIP.

I wish all of my work commutes were that action-packed.